The Patience Stone

by Atiq Rahimi

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Family Life; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

In Persian folklore, Syngue Sabour is a magical stone, a patience stone, that absorbs the plight of those who confide in it. But here, the Syngue Sabour is not a stone, but a man lying brain-dead. His wife sits by his side, resenting him for not resisting the call to arms, for wanting to be a hero, and in the end, for being incapacitated.

Yet she cares, speaking to him, revealing her deepest desires, pains, and secrets. She speaks of her life, not knowing if her husband hears, confessing about sex and love and her anger against a man who never understood her, and who mistreated her. Free of oppression, she leads her story up to a great secret that is unthinkable in a country like Afghanistan.

Rahimi captures with great courage and spare, poetic, prose the reality of everyday life for an intelligent woman under the oppressive weight of the Taliban regime in Afghanistan.

A Blackstone Audio production.

Release date: January 19, 2010

Publisher: Other Press

Print pages: 160

Sample

The room is bare. Bare of decoration. Except on the wall between the two windows, where someone has hung a small khanjar and, above the khanjar, a photo, of a man with a moustache. He is perhaps thirty years old. Curly hair. Square face, bracketed by a pair of neatly tended sideburns. His black eyes shine. They are small, separated by a hawklike nose. The man is not laughing, and yet seems as if he’s holding back a laugh. This gives him a strange expression, that of a man inwardly mocking those who look at him. The photo is in black and white, hand-colored in drab tones. Facing this photo, at the foot of a wall, the same man–older now–is lying on a red mattress on the floor. He has a beard. Pepper and salt. He is thinner. Too thin. Nothing but skin and bones. Pale.Wrinkled. His nose more hawklike than ever. He still isn’t laughing, and still looks strangely mocking. His mouth is half-open. His eyes, even smaller now, have retreated into their sockets. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling, on the exposed, blackened, rotting beams. His arms lie passive along his sides. Beneath the translucent skin, his veins like exhausted worms twine around the jutting bones of his body. On his left wrist he wears a wind-up watch, and on the ring finger a gold wedding band. A catheter drips clear liquid into the crook of his arm from a plastic pouch attached to the wall just above his head. The rest of his body is covered
by a long blue shirt, embroidered at collar and cuffs. His legs, stiff as two stakes, are buried under a white sheet. A dirty sheet. A hand, a woman’s hand, is resting on his chest, over his heart, moving up and down in time with his breath. The woman is seated. Legs pulled up and into her chest. Head bundled between her knees. Her dark hair–very dark, and long–flows over her slumped shoulders, echoing the regular movement of her arm.