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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