after days； sometimes after months； as with old men who go blind naturally。
I’d caught sight of it while passing into the next room； I stood and looked；
yes； there it was： an ivory mirror with a twisted handle and thick ebony frame；
its length nicely embellished with script。 I sat down again and gazed at my
own eyes。 How beautifully the flame of the candle danced in my pupils—
which had witnessed my hand paint for sixty years。
“How had Master Bihzad done it？” I asked myself once more。
Never once taking my eyes off the mirror； with the practiced movements of
a woman applying kohl to her eyelids； my hand found the needle on its own。
Without hesitation； as if making a hole at the end of an ostrich egg soon to be
embellished； I bravely； calmly and firmly pressed the needle into the pupil of
my right eye。 My innards sank； not because I felt what I was doing； but because
I saw what I was doing。 I pushed the needle into my eye to the depth of a
quarter the length of a finger； then removed it。
In the couplet worked into the frame of the mirror； the poet had wished
the observer eternal beauty and wisdom—and eternal life to the mirror itself。
Smiling； I did the same to my other eye。
For a long while I didn’t move。 I stared at the world—at everything。
As I’d surmised； the colors of the world did