“Now, girls, pay attention!” Mrs. Vafai tapped twice on the whiteboard with her forefinger knuckle, protruding and plump in her long carbon cotton glove that ebbed into her soot-colored manteau sleeves. “When you get married, you are wedded to the entire family. Remember, the man you love today may be educated in Europe, but his mother, his sister, could be the ruin of you at some point. Even an intellectuel man is an instinctive being. So, get that certificate before anything, even if the groom’s family doesn’t demand it. Get it. Fold it or frame it. Trust me, it will do you a lot of good.”
It was one of those early morning sessions, 7:30 sharp to 9. No one should have to put up with such an upbeat timbre and witness the innards the instructor squiggled on the board before letting caffeine settle into one’s veins and the day...