From the partly open door, one initially sees an oddly-shaped hat beneath which appear large, murky eyes in a sea of black. Then from the smoke, as if not wanting to, appears the full body, waving the skirt of her soot-ridden dress. Her hands are clenched into fists in the pockets of her sleeveless jacket. She approaches reluctantly, taking small steps, ignoring the combination of mud and cow dung. 

I find it hard to guess her age — I think she's probably 70 years old. The most beautiful thing is her name: Shahandukht. The rest is covered under a thick layer of soot, depriving her of feminine delicateness. At some distance, she stops, restlessly shifting her weight from one foot to the other. I ask her to come a little closer, understanding that it's a compulsory habit to keep some distance from people, especially strangers. Plaintive whimpers are heard from the shack. A creature of unknown origin and color with its nose touching the more or less clean part of the sooty window is barking.

"It's my dog," almost not opening her mouth, the words slipping through her teeth, Shahandukht finally speaks. "He might've bit you; that's why I didn't allow him to come outside." We're standing face-to-face and we remain silent. I find it hard to even ask why she's in this state. I am reminded of Tamar from Horom. In making the comparison, I understand that my previous subject has somewhat more of an advantage: she has a sister and brother who attend to her. Nobody seems to care about Shahandukht — she has forgotten even basic communication.

"She has no relatives to take care of her," says my companion. The young woman is my namesake. Las summer, Yeranuhi moved with her family to Gyumri from Akori village in the province of Lori. They work for farmer Albert Nalbandyan. They met Shahandukht there. "I had never come across this sort of 'phenomenon' before," remarks Yeranuhi, pointing to Shahandukht. "She neither washes nor bathes: what basic hygiene? It's all lacking, that's why, dear girl, I didn't allow you to enter the shack — you'll get cholera. Besides, did you see the smoke and soot? If you went inside, you'd have to leave your clothes as a gift to Shahandukht," Yeranuhi laughs. 

Shahandukht's face expresses indifference. No emotion, neither good nor bad. With the docility of a lazy student who didn't do her homework, she waits for when I'll go away and leave her at peace. With great difficulty, I confirm her last name: Mkrtchyan (since she was speaking through her teeth, almost without parting her lips, Mkrtchyan from her mouth sounded like Mikichyan). Asked about her age, she shrugs her shoulders. "I don't know. My sister knew, but she died." Attempts to verify her name with a passport are unsuccessful: the farm owner by his own will had taken her to renew her passport since it had expired in 2010.

Joining us is Yeranuhi's husband, Vazgen. He says, I've seen her passport, she's 54 years old. Now it's my turn to express disbelief: can lifestyle affect a person this drastically? The couple says that Shahandukht's family moved to Gyumri from a village in Aragatsotn, before the earthquake. Shahandukht claims her family came to Gyumri from Georgia, but as for where she was born, she doesn't remember. She had a sister and brother, both of whom have died. 

Before the earthquake she lived in a building on Manushyan Street, then her family received compensation in the form of an apartment in the newly built Ani district. They later sold that apartment. Asked why, Shahandukht says, "For my mother. She was sick, we sold it for her." After losing the apartment, they acquired a shack and moved to the current animal farm, which was once a woodworking shop. 

Shahandukht responds to my questions incoherently, in few words, constructing half-finished sentences, leaving the responsibility of guessing the rest to me. Yeranuhi and Vazgen come to my aid, telling me what they know about Shahandukht and what they've witnessed in the six months they've been working on the farm. They say, we help with what we can, but it would be better if the local authorities paid attention, tried to place the single woman in a nursing home at least. 

Shahandukht receives a monthly pension of 19,000 AMD [about $38 USD], 1,000 drams of which the postal workers give to a taxi driver to take the pension payment to her. The couple was unable to say whether the amount was social assistance or disability support — the only thing that's clear is that Shahandukht has a monthly income of 18,000 AMD. The 54-year-old woman spends the pension or social assistance money on food. 

She buys her groceries from the store at the foot of the highway to Yerevan. Shahandukht is not permitted to go inside: usually she tells the vendor what she wants and waits outside till she brings it to her. "They'll take the money from [her] hand, whatever old product there is, they'll give [her]," says a concerned Yeranuhi. "We don't have that much time to go after her or go to the store with her; I think that sometimes they'll even trick this poor woman. Last month, she got her pension, went and bought 7 sausages, 20 eggs, pasta, and bread. And what she buys lasts two days: she eats with the dogs and cats, and it's finished. I bet the animals eat more than her." 

"The cats know the days the pension [arrives] better than her," jokes Vazgen. "As soon as she comes with the money, they'll run toward her. Until then they'll line up obediently outside the shack. She's a harmless woman; it's just such a pity that she's in this state. At least if they moved her to a nursing home, they at least would dress her neatly there, she wouldn't roam the streets, wouldn't bring things from the garbage dumps. She would eat well, sleep well." 

Hearing talk of a nursing home, Shahandukht, panic-stricken, shakes her hands, and a tear forms in her eye. "No, no, I won't go, I won't go to a nursing home… someone died there. I won't go to a nursing home, my dearest." I say, fine, you don't want to go, don't go, but at least wash yourself, there's a public bathhouse in Gyumri, go take a bath. "If I take a bath, I'll catch a cold," complains Shahandukht. I ask her to remove her hat. The wad of black felt-like hair has not seen a comb in three years. "I say, let me get scissors, shave your head, she doesn't agree," remarks Yeranuhi. 

Shahandukht washed her face and hands the day before. There's a neighboring gas station: one of the employees, Edgar, pities the woman and allows her to wash her face and hands with hot water 2–3 times a month. He also gives her money. My companion tells me when Shahandukht returns from the gas station, she always has a 1,000-dram bill clenched in her hand. 

"One day I saw her sleeping without a blanket. There were workers here before us who left a blanket and a pillow, I came and gave them to Shahan, I said, if their owners come, I'll give them the money. There was a coat I gave her. She collects from the garbage dumps, wears them, then burns them — otherwise, who's going to give her clothes? I found out from the workers here that if January and February pass, then she'll live, because she won't stay here in the summer, she'll walk the entire city by foot, she'll get to Ani district. As for what she does, doesn't do…. she returns only in the evening. The farm owner, Nalbandyan, also helps with what he can. Now that it's cold, she'll get up in the mornings — do you see the round patch on the window, that's a little clean? — she cleans that patch from inside, sits in front of it, watches us, how we water the animal. In warm weather, she sits near the wall, watches the passing cars, and sometimes she sings."

During the conversation, only once does a smile appear on Shahandukht's face: when I ask after the animals with whom she lives. She says, I keep a cat because it catches mice.

She's never been married. Yeranuhi jokes that she had a lover by the name of Sano, but they didn't marry, he chose someone else. The last part of the conversation pushes the limits of Shahandukht's patience. "I haven't had a lover — who's Sano to have loved me? I'm free."