In Qom, beyond the shrine of Masoumeh and the Jamkaran mosque, in search of a pomegranate garden where a dervish was put to rest.
For me, the sprawling holy city of Qom has always meant three things: clean public bathrooms (often the only clean ones to be found on long road trips through Iran), mosques and mystery.

I grew up in a devout Shia household where Ramadan, Ashura, the birthdays of the Prophet and the Imams and the anniversaries of their passing were all strictly observed. As an adult, I do not know what to make of it all. The religious within my family spanned the seven lands of love, as Rumi said of Attar’s spiritual travels, from dervishes to strict, traditional interpreters to zealous revolutionaries, contemptuously called hezbollahi – one of those stereotype-rich labels I hate.

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