A Melon - Poem by Nassy Fesharaki
Ahmad took me to vegetables’ market in Esfahan. I was just a kid and he was a well-aware young man. He bought a melon, the Gorgab one, very much known for its taste. He borrowed a knife and the seller knew what he would gain. He was not much concerned with the profit from the sale of course.
Ahmad squatted; his butt hung and touched the back of his folded legs. The soles of his shoes were flat and on the ground. His big hands, comparing to mine, held the long yellow melon like a baby lamb and the knife slit its throat.
He sliced the melon, separated the inner white part from the skin, from one side first, then he stabbed the knife an made equal parallel lines as if his hand and his eyes coordinated the equal size.
He’d already cleaned the seed, partly with knife and partly with his fingers. They sat on the ground and near the seller, his profit, reselling for replanting, growing and a Mary-Go-Round for benefit.
It was a great experience, cheap, tasty and healthy but the story that followed was amusing and carved in my memory, especially in the way he said it.
A man carried some melons in his saddle bag. Near a pond and under a tree, he tied his horse tight so he could relax while the horse would chew on its barley, beetroot and hay.
Ahmad said and went on:
Melon was tasty. The man ate it all. Then he bit the inside of the skin with his teeth to have cleaner and whiter teeth. He ate the skin while whispering: whoever passes by will say: “He must have had guest and animals to eat the melon and its skin.”
And he went on. But soon he felt that everything was tasty, the meat, the inside of the skin and even the skin so he flirted with the seeds and what holds them together.
“The man…” Ahmad said “Whispered: ‘Now no one can recognize that a man has passed from here with or without an animal’”
And this was this part is carved on my mind while the rest are long forgotten.
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