The woman vomited, leaving white and orange spots on the mosaic floor. Kneeling, she continued to throw up, her dyed hair sticking to her forehead, her face covered in sweat. Several women hastily moved away, frowning. I approached her and she raised her head in fear and embarrassment as she noticed my attendant’s blue boots. Her chador lay spread out on the ground. I took her hand and wiped her mouth with the corner of her headscarf, then lifted her and guided her to the small pool, turning on the water for her to wash her face.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Yes, I am pregnant. I couldn’t have a child for ten years. Last year, I made a vow and came for a pilgrimage. And this year I’m returning with a baby in my womb.”

A weak smile spread across her face and her eyes sparkled. I adjusted her headscarf and went to the long hose attached to the wall.

Unwinding the loops, I told the women, “Ladies, please clear this area so I can clean it.” Her eyes again filling with tears, the woman reached to take the hose from me.

“Let me clean it myself.”

Still holding the hose, I hugged her and kissed her face, tasting the water droplets on her cheeks.

“Don’t think of it. You’re a pilgrim, a guest. We’re here to serve this place and the guests of this shrine.”

She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders trembling.

I opened the valve and with the water and a short-handled broom directed the viscous, sticky vomit from the mosaic floor toward the drain, then washed the floor once more. I turned off the water, wound the hose around my hand, and put it back on the wall. Then I took the long-handled squeegee and pushed the water on the floor toward the narrow drain around the pool.

The young woman had left. Suddenly, pain shot from my shoulder down to my lower back. I removed my gloves, my palms itching. Sitting down, I straightened my back a little and looked at the large clock on the column opposite me. Tomorrow at noon, my husband, Iqbal, would be discharged from the mental health center, where I took him every now and then when he became unmanageable. I wished I could keep him there forever, but I couldn’t. It would cost too much.

One of the toilet cubicles was locked. I got up and knocked on the door, but no one answered. I opened it. The area around the toilet bowl was very dirty. Pulling my mask above my nose and putting my gloves back on, I bent down and started cleaning. When I was done, I pulled the hose back and leaned it against the wall. Then I opened the door and went outside, checking every empty cubicle. They had to be completely open while they were being cleaned.

I was on the night shift this week, which I liked, and so did my daughters. When I arrived home in the morning, we’d have breakfast with my mother, eating hot sangak bread. Afterwards, I’d sleep until noon.

It was past midnight. The large blades of the ventilation fans continued to spin, filling the space with a faint breeze. I dipped the long-bristled broom into the small water basin and leaned it against the edge. Water dripped from the bristles. I pressed them against the floor to remove the excess water. Then I bent over and the pain in my shoulder ran all the way down my back again. I started sweeping the broom across the mosaic floor on the other side, near the ablution water taps. I could hear the call to prayer. The mosaics became whiter and shinier. I squirted some green hand-washing liquid onto the floor and wiped it with a white cloth. I looked around the hall, at the pool, the mirrors that shone clean and bright, and the toilet cubicles with all their doors open.

I headed to the small room in the corner of the hall. I took off my boots and gloves and put on my slippers. Iffat had already arrived. She was here to take over the day shift and had come earlier than usual today. I removed my work uniform and changed into my own clothes. Iffat went to check my work. At the end of each shift, each person had to leave the place clean for the next one. There was always more cleaning during the day than at night. I didn’t like the day shift because of that hustle and bustle. I put on my headscarf; my shoulder ached again, the pain stinging my waist badly this time.

Iffat leaned her large frame against the door. “Didn’t you go to Haj Agha’s office?”

I slung the bag over my shoulder, “No, I waited for you so we could go together; is he there?”

We went up the stairs.

“How is your husband? Are you bringing him home today?”

I replied, “Thanks to God, he’s better now.”

Whenever I took Iqbal to the mental health center, my daughters were very happy. That’s when they liked to have guests over or go to a party together.

As soon as we reached the brown door of the office, I saw Haj Agha through the glass. Iffat knocked gently. The door was open.

Without lifting his head, Haj Agha replied, “Please come in.”

Leather chairs were arranged on either side of the table. The pleasant scent of rosewater filled the air. We sat down.

Iffat said, “Good morning. We were at the second service when they called us.”

Haj Agha lifted his head, looked at us through the bottom of his glasses, and nodded. I stared at the patterns on the carpet laid out across the office floor.

Haj Agha was about fifty, but his beard had already turned white. He was in charge of managing the male and female sanitary servants at this shrine. As we sat there, he began to flip through a large notebook. With a pen, he seemed to be searching for our names.

“Thanks to God, despite the heat and a large number of pilgrims this season, recently we have been receiving a high volume of honorary applicants for sanitary servants, especially in the restroom sector.”

Haj Agha was right to be pleased. Although it was morning, the weather was already very warm. However, at least the air conditioner in his office made this room pleasantly cool. But there was no such cooling mechanism in the toilets, only fans to remove unpleasant odors.

Haj Agha lifted his head and said enthusiastically, “They all have high levels of education and are very respectable people.”

I bit my lower lip. I knew who Haj Agha meant. Our department occasionally had one or two honorary servants holding the hose and spraying water at the toilet doors as if they were watering flowerpots. After washing one or two cubicles with our help, they would leave, saying, “Your job is tough. May God reward you.” They just made our job even harder.

Haj Agha picked up the white phone beside him, dialed a number, and said, “Bring three cups of tea to the management office.” Then he put the phone down.

“Mrs. Ahmadi, your education is up to primary level, right?”

Iffat hurriedly replied, “No! I studied up to ninth grade.”

Without him asking me, I added, “I’m also literate up to the fifth grade.”

Haj Agha said, “Yes, I can see that in your file.”

I had written “fifth grade” on my application for this job five years ago. But my father, who had been dead for years, hadn’t actually let me study for more than a year. Instead, he’d made me sit and weave carpets to help with our household expenses. He used to say that as long as you could recite the Alhamdulellah and the Surah verses correctly, it was enough.

Haj Agha continued, “We also have highly educated honorary servants. With the planning meetings we’ve had, we will be able to utilize these precious ones in the brothers’ and sisters’ sections. Therefore, we are dismissing the rest of the sanitary workers and settling their accounts.”

Haj Agha opened the drawer of his desk, took out a bottle of cologne, sprayed it on himself, and returned the bottle to the drawer. He coughed. “God willing, they will receive their spiritual rewards in these few years.”

“Haj Agha, I don’t understand what you mean.” Iffat sank into the chair and turned toward Haj Agha. I stared at him too. His cologne permeated the air in the room, infusing him with a sense of vitality, but Iffat and I bore expressions of worry and fatigue that were even more pronounced than usual.

“Look, Mrs. Ahmadi, why should we avoid the truth? Working in the sanitation sector is genuinely tough for you sisters. Cleaning, washing, and with the follow-ups and attention that the shrine management puts into restroom cleaning, you undoubtedly get exhausted.”

A servant arrived and placed two cups of nicely colored tea on the table, along with a bowl of sugar cubes. He brought a plate with cheese and some walnuts to Haj Agha’s table for his breakfast. Haj Agha’s teacup differed from ours; it was a china cup. A design of small red flowers adorned the plate in front of him, its color matching the carpet. Even the aroma and color of his tea were distinct.

“You have physical strength now, but as you get older, your job will bring you all kinds of leg, back, and bone pain. Am I not right, ma’am?’

Haj Agha was right.

But Iffat hurriedly replied, “I swear, since I’ve been working in the restrooms, my leg and back pain has been relieved. I’ve been favored by the prophet himself.”

“What about you, ma’am?” He was talking to me again.

Iffat seemed to be crying. She wouldn’t let me speak. “Haj Agha, for God’s sake, I need this money. I don’t know how to do any other job and am not well educated. Please don’t dismiss us.”

Upon seeing Iffat crying, I started to cry too. I didn’t know why I couldn’t open my mouth to say something. It seemed like Iffat had spoken my heart.

Iffat was sobbing openly now.

Haj Agha swallowed his saliva and started to spin the pen in his hand quickly.

“Of course, don’t worry. You will help train the new honorary maids in the education section so they learn to properly clean the restrooms according to the rules.”

Iffat spoke in a broken voice, “With a shameless addict husband and five half-grown children, where can I go? I’ve worked hard here for five years—”

Haj Agha removed his glasses and said impatiently, “Why do you keep repeating yourself? Come and look at this list; please pay attention.” He stretched a notebook toward us. “What should I do with all these eager people willing to serve in the shrine without financial reward?”

“Well, Haj Agha, use them in other sections.”

Iffat was still sitting in the same way. I fiddled with the ring on my finger and stared at the two prayer books on Haj Agha’s table.

“It’s not possible. All the sections are saturated. Staff capacity has been reached. The registration office for honorary servants is closed for six months, but they have still put names on the waiting list. Take a look; they call regularly.”

Iffat was sobbing. She lowered her head. I also cried, but more quietly.

Haj Agha stood up and took out two packets from his desk drawer. “This does not please God. Let others also benefit from the grace of service.”

Iffat sniffed and wiped her eyes with the corner of her chador. Haj Agha put the packets of money on the table in front of us.

“This is your two-month salary, and we have added a little extra. God willing, we will still see you until the end of the next month.”

Iffat pushed the packet away with her hand and clutched her bag. My eyes remained on the packet as tears washed my face.

“You are young and strong. Many places need you: restaurants, hotels, hospitals.” Then he gestured for us to take the packets.

I didn’t say anything, not even a thank you.

Choking, Iffat said, “I swear to God, I can’t. It’s been a lifetime—”

Haj Agha interrupted her angrily, “It’s not a lifetime, my sister! Five years is a lifetime? You had the good fortune of serving in the shrine for five years. Now let others benefit from this grace.”

We both got up to leave Haj Agha’s office. He immediately picked up the phone and started talking and laughing with someone as he enjoyed his breakfast. Iffat had already departed without taking her packet. I took both and left the office. Our tea had definitely gone cold.

I followed Iffat. She went toward the toilets, walking very slowly, slower than ever. When I reached her, I pulled a corner of her chador. She looked at me. She saw the envelope in my hand and stopped, hesitating as if she didn’t want to take it. Her eyes were red with tears. I extended the envelope toward her. She took it reluctantly and covered it with her chador, pushed aside the green rubber curtain, and entered the restrooms.

As the curtain fell, a flock of pigeons flew over my head. Pigeons that lived in the shrine courtyard. I felt so hungry. I put the packet in my bag and made my way toward the exit.