10 Feb

Memorial Day

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I saw Farzin in front of the entrance of the dormitory. He wanted to start chatting when I told him that I didn’t feel like it. He said how foul‐tempered I am. I said I feel like shit. I saw Nazanin in front of Ismail’s store. She rushed out of the entrance to the girls’ dormitory, crossed the street, and came straight up to me. She pressed the palm of her hand on my stomach as if she meant to press something into it. She said why aren’t you in front of the university entrance like everyone else. I lit up my cigarette and stared into her eyes. She and Sahar had been in the same room for three years. I wanted to say whom were you screwing that night when Sahar hanged herself from her scarf. But I didn’t say anything. Her eyes were tear‐soaked. Ismail was standing right next to me and I was aware that he kept raising his eyebrows at Nazanin. I took two drags and blew the smoke in Nazanin’s face. Ismail said Ms. Nazanin you go ahead, I’ll accompany him. Nazanin said what are you staring at her empty room from here for? Sahar’s room is right up there. Directly across the street, behind the fences, third floor. I said I’m not staring. I shouldn’t have said it. Why did I even have to explain myself to Nazanin? She said stop blowing into my face. I took another drag and this time I let all the smoke into my lungs. Nothing came out at all. Ismail kept pushing something cold into my chest. I slapped his hand away and when I heard the breaking noise, I figure out it was a drink. He said don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it. Nazanin said aren’t you going to get going? I said what the hell should I do? She said you mean it doesn’t matter that someone has choked Sahar? I said now that you all have gathered in front of the university gate shows that you care? She had the same look on her face that she did when she lost all her senses. Once she had punched Farzin in the face in the same state. This time she didn’t move. She tightened the knot of her scarf under her neck and said someone had jumped over the fence into the dorm that night. Kamalvand had seen it from the second floor. I said who the shit is Kamalvand? Ismail grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the store. He said Ms. Nazanin you go ahead, the two of us will come later. I said let go of my hand, Ismail. He quickly withdrew his hand. Nazanin said if we make some noise maybe someone will think to find the killer. I said to hell with you and your friendship! Screw you!

Something from Sahar’s room is connected to my head. Like a rope. When I move away, it loosens. It swings around and with it, my head swings as well. Nazanin is walking behind me. I can’t see very well but I can hear the sound of her steps. I say why are you following me? She responds to make sure you don’t do anything to yourself. Why the hell would I do such a thing? How would I even do anything to myself? Now that Sahar is dead, how can I rid myself from this nagging feeling that has taken over my whole being? I remember Farzin. I ask where is Farzin? He catches up and stands in front of me. He takes my hand. I don’t withdraw mine. With my left hand, I take out a cigarette and smoke it, unlit. I say I have to smoke something right now. I have pain. He says let’s go somewhere else. You’ve circled the dormitory three times now! I’m not paying attention. I have to smoke something. I take my hand out of his and go in through the entrance to the boys’ dormitory. I see Nazanin from afar who is standing in front of Ismail’s store. Asghar Kamali looks up from inside his security guard kiosk. He waves his hand and his head droops down again. I want to pass through and go to Farzin, but I can’t seem to go through. I open the door to the security guard’s kiosk. It stinks of cigarettes. Cigarettes and the smell of socks. I say it smells like piss here, Asghar. Wash yourself up with soap. I then quickly step out. I don’t wait to hear his curses at me. He knows that his body smells. And he is sensitive about it. I finally yell what the hell do you even do here? They’ve seen someone jump over the fences into the dormitory. I say all of this as I’m walking. His voice trails off. I pass by buildings eight, six, and five. There is a cafeteria pick–‐up truck parked in front of building four. Two cafeteria workers are placing the large pot for lunch from the back of the pick–‐up truck in front of the door. I ask where are you coming from? They’re dumbfounded as they’re holding the two sides of the big pot. One of them says from the cafeteria. We’re distributing lunch. He has a Kurdish accent. I lift the lid of the pot a little bit. He tells me to stop. I tell them then why aren’t you wearing the restaurant workers’ uniform? They put the pot down. He says what does it look like we’re wearing? It belongs to the restaurant. I say whatever idiot wears one of these green uniforms is from the restaurant? They look at each other. They’re pretty big and look rough. But it doesn’t matter. The same one responds so what should we be wearing for you to approve? I say any bastard can just walk into this courtyard. They have choked some poor girl in the dormitory. Right here. You can see if you look from here. Third floor, toward the street. He says you mean the one who committed suicide? I kick the pot of food hard. The pot sways a little and the lid falls lopsided. The one with the Kurdish accent jumps toward me. But the other one grabs his arm midway. On his thick wrist there are old knife wounds that have healed. He says you are right. She was your classmate. Then he takes out a creased card from his shirt pocket and holds it in front of my face. I see the university insignia on it. He says this is our workers’ ID. From the restaurant.

There are a lot of shoes in front of Farzin’s room. The sound of laughter can be heard from the room. I knock on the door. Someone inside screams. I jiggle the door knob a few times. The bastard has locked the door from the inside. I yell Farzin, open the door! But it’s too crowded. I kick the door with force. A half–‐naked small–‐framed boy pokes his head out from the next room. He looks like a hedgehog. He has hair everywhere on his body. He says what are you doing, buddy? You almost broke the door. He has something in his right hand that he’s hiding behind the door. When Farzin opens the door, the boy goes back inside. For a moment, my eyes survey the room. They are sitting in a circle, playing cards. An old man is also among them, distributing the cards. He must be the father of one of them. I say give me some weed. He pushes his hand against my chest. He must be afraid of the old man to act this way. He says I don’t have any. I raise my voice: give me some weed before I lose it! The old man has placed the cards on the floor and is staring at me. They’ve all shut the hell up. Farzin goes back inside the room, whispers something in the old man’s ear and grabs his coat. He says come, let’s see what the hell is wrong with you. He stands in front of the staircase. He says I don’t have any weed. I say I’m not well Farzin. I have to calm myself down. He says we’ll get some from Abbas. I say I don’t have any money. He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the stairs. Abbas has a computer repair store. Two streets up from the dormitory.

Farzin says you stay behind. Nazanin doesn’t like Farzin but she is still following us. Sahar wasn’t like that though. She used to say that Farzin is crazy and that’s what makes him cool. I feel nauseous. Nazanin is leaning against the cement wall of a house and is looking at me from under her eyes. How is it possible that no one heard anything? There wasn’t even a sound? Dying always makes a sound. It’s not as if you can wrap a scarf several times around your neck and be done with it. Someone must have covered Sahar’s mouth. So as to prevent any noise when she’s dying. Not even a sigh. I didn’t see what Sahar was wearing that night. I had to see the body. By the time I arrived the ambulance had left. I didn’t see how she had tied her hair. I didn’t see the colour of her lips. Farzin bursts out of the store and stuffs two rolled cigarettes into my fist. But his mind is still on the store. As if he has left something behind. He says don’t show up around here. Abbas has really lost it. I lit one of the cigarettes. He says if Abbas sees that he will get nasty. I deeply inhale the smoke. I say let him. He says someone is on Abbas’ case. They’ve figured out that he has drugs. Don’t start any trouble. I start heading toward a side street. When I look back, Farzin isn’t there. Nazanin is standing right behind me. I say do you want to smoke?

I’m sitting on the ground amongst the other students. In front of the university entrance. After I finished the cigarette Nazanin had hit me in the chest, hard. She had said that it’s not fair to Sahar for you to be so callous. I didn’t say anything. I wanted to have something to roll around on my tongue, but all that was left was the bitter taste of hash, and a blue line in the sky, right under the horizon. Then I had followed Nazanin to the university gate. I didn’t like to be there. I should have gone to Ismail’s store, picked up his butcher’s knife and gone after Abbas. It didn’t matter why. Or perhaps it did. He didn’t like me hanging around his damn nest. Farzin was full of it when he said that someone is on Abbas’ case. Abbas didn’t like me. I didn’t want Abbas on my mind. I didn’t like the fact that he throws the five–‐gram stash on the table and stares into my eyes. I should have said I’m paying for it, you son of a bitch. It’s not as if it’s free. I put my hand inside my shirt pocket and the cigarette finds its way in my hand. The person next to me elbowed me in my side. He says are you stupid? Where do you think you are, Amsterdam? I say is there a point? He pulls the cigarette out of my fingers and returns it into my pocket. Then he gently taps his finger two or three times on my pocket. He says, what’s the point of what? I say gathering like a herd here. Then I stand up and look at the students who are sitting row after row in front of the university gates. Nazanin isn’t there. I lost her when we joined the crowd. He says what point? The poor girl was choked to death. I look at him. His hair is long, just like my own. But has it tied in a ponytail. His stomach, just like mine, sticks back to his spine. He says it wasn’t a suicide in my opinion. I sit back down next to him. I say how is it possible that no one has heard anything? In such a large dormitory? He shrugs his shoulders. He reminds me of a ballpoint pen tube when I look at him. His teeth look as if he has rubbed coal on them. I ask how many packs a day do you smoke? He replies two packs. I say does this roll do it for you? He laughs, takes the roll from my hands and puts it back. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his fist. There are two keys and three white pills. He picks up the pills and throws them in my pocket next to the roll. He says I’m trying to quit since yesterday. I’m supposed to play in a movie. I take one of the pills out of my pocket and throw it in the back of my throat. I feel like it has a sour taste. I say so you’re all set. He says I don’t think the director is anything special. He’ll probably screw up the movie. He was just looking for a dipshit like me who wouldn’t ask for any money. But I want to play in his film. Noise rose up from the students. In front, everyone stands up suddenly and as if wind has taken over the crowd, they all swing around. He says it seems as if the head of the university security has arrived. I say do you have the lead role? He says I’m the friend of a dipshit who steals a car to impress his girlfriend. And the girl is also a college student in some hole in Tehran. And I just pray and don’t eat any food until I drop dead. I say so you have a suicide role. Up front, the head of security has unbuttoned his jacket and is pointing his finger at a few students, indicating that they should go inside the university. Someone jumps on the hood of the Iran Khodro Peugeot.. He is tall and his tight jeans catch the eye. He says some things that are inaudible. He says dying from hunger is fucking stupid. In some ways, it’s even religious. I should just stick my head into the gas pipe and end it. Something like that. I feel sleepy and my head spins. I want to stretch my legs on the ground, which is not possible. I push against the back of the students who are seated row after row on the ground. One of them turns around and says what’s your problem? Another one throws his fist in the air, which doesn’t reach anywhere. I say above her left breast there was a burn spot, like a cigarette burn. A fresh wound. He shakes his head and says I don’t think it was a suicide either. Dying this way is fucking stupid. I say I have to say two rak’at of prayer.1 Then I stand up and dust off the back of my pants. He says only two rak’ats at noon? He laughs and stretches his body. I say let’s go to the mosque. We’ll do two rak’at, to get close to God.

I lean my head against the mosque wall and push the container of prayer stones forward a little bit with my feet. Then I take out the pills from my pocket and swallow the two. I close my eyes to sleep a little. Even for just ten minutes. But it’s not possible. The mosque is too crowded and the air is stuffy. All these people have crammed like chickens in this tiny space. The pen tube is nowhere to be seen. He left the mosque without saying his prayers. As if he was running away from someone. I look at the others, the people who have entered at noon. There was a lot of them. I picked up a small prayer rug and wiped my sweat off. Someone said the murderer is roaming around freely and these people don’t care. I said someone jumped over the fences into the girls’ dormitory. One said I talked to the students myself. It wasn’t like that. A few people stood up in front and walked outside. They were huge and bearded. One of them who had a long snout like a stork’s said no one chokes herself with a scarf. Especially her own scarf. The one who had talked to the students stood up from the front row and said how do you even hear that this is what happened? He had shaved his head like soldiers do and blinked rapidly when he talked. I say everyone in the dorm knows how she died. What do you have to say? The other one took his prayer stone and gently put it in the box of stones. He said, that poor soul has passed away now, but there are more than a few rumours behind her back. I say loudly what rumours are behind her back? My whole body feels hot. A red shadow has fallen in the sky that makes the air hot. He says what I mean is, it’s not like we can just say that someone has jumped inside the dorm. The sound reverberates in my head. I yell how fucking dare you spread rumours? Someone’s voice says don’t use profanity in the house of God. The red shadow becomes more red. It turns black and covers under my eyelid. I yell this son of a bitch is overstepping his fucking boundaries. Someone grabs my elbow and pulls it down. He says you’re in a mosque right now. It’s sinful. I say what about that poor soul who’s six feet under? He says who are you anyway? Do you have a student ID? I say 1 Rak’at refers to a cycle of Muslim prayer which consists of certain movements and words. It is customary to pray after someone dies. Who the hell are you? He pulls my hand toward the door. I say let me go. He nods his head at someone behind me whom I can’t see. I pull my hand away. This time he hangs on to my wrist. Someone says what do you want with him? When he squeezes my wrist harder, I instinctively punch him in the chest. He lets out a sigh and falls from behind on top of the stork and those sitting around him. My head spins and my shoulders are suddenly on fire. Someone has hit me hard from behind. So much so that my whole body turns, and between the air and the ground, my face rubs against the wall of the mosque. Pain spreads in my stomach. My head sticks to my legs and the taste of blood finds its way under my teeth.

We should both play together. I’ll kill myself with gas and you don’t eat any food until you die. You said he’s going to screw up the movie. I didn’t say it. It doesn’t matter. This is all for later. Now what should we do?

When I open my eyes I see his large shadow over me. I also see his boots that has some dust settled on it. From his stomach up everything is black. I see feet that surround him. Then his boots scurry around quickly on the prayer rugs. I drag my hand on the ground and the box of prayer stones finds its way i my hands. I pick up the box quickly and throw all the stones on the prayer rugs. Heavy, clay prayer stones. I pick up the corners of the prayer rug in my fists and stand up. All that remains is just me and him. In the heat. With all of these black lines that have filled my eyes. With Sahar’s scarf that has nailed her head to her bed.

The moment he turns his head, I pummel him in the face. In one moment, everyone moves away from him. I see the blood splashing in the air of the mosque. His body sways around on the prayer rugs and spins the blood around everyone.

It’s nighttime and I am still sitting behind Ismail’s fridge. Ismail has pulled down the blinds of the store and is making something to eat. I said I’m not eating. He says you really messed up that guy. They’re looking for you now. Then the sound of something being fried rose up from the pan. He says you got away tonight. They’ll find you tomorrow. I stand up and go around the fridge. I pull the blinds and light splashes into the street. He says stay here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go to the police station. I say someone was seen jumping across the university fences into the girls’ dormitory. That night. He says why do you have that prayer mat stuck to your chest? Leave it here. The clay prayer stones weigh heavily in the mat. I have only just felt their weight. The street is empty. Dark and desolate. And silent. A few lights from the dorm are on here and there and cast a slight brightness on the street. But there is no sound. I go into the street and pull the blinds from behind. I take a few steps forward in the street and look at the darkness of Sahar’s empty room. My head spins a little but I feel good. A cool breeze rests upon my skin and the wound on my face stops burning. I lean against the wall to soothe the pain in my shoulders. One of the lights in the girls’ dormitory blinks and quickly turns off. Three rooms down from Sahar’s room. Once I turn around, I see Nazanin who is leaning against a tree two or three meters away. I say why are you still out? In the dark? She says the police came to the dorm, looking for you. I tell her you should go back. I’ll go to the station with Ismail tomorrow morning. She takes a few steps forward and holds my hand. She says why did you start a fight in the mosque? She squeezes my hand. She comes closer and gently places the palm of her hand on my chest. I say he was talking behind Sahar’s back. Her body has a nice smell. Her body or the smell of her clothes. Her eyes are large. Larger than what I had always thought. She says Sahar is dead now. She’s not here. What difference does it make? I say why doesn’t this street have any lights? She distances herself a little bit but doesn’t let go of my hand. Her scarf has loosened and her hair has fallen across her face from underneath it. She grabs the wrinkled prayer mat with her other hand and pulls it from my grip. The prayer stones fall to the ground and roll under our feet. In the dark where I cannot see. I say Sahar and I used to sleep together. It had been about a year. I look at her face. I know that she has realized everything. It’s been a long time since she has realized everything. I say the night before there was a burn on her chest. Shaped like the end of a cigarette. Right here. She didn’t want me to see it. Her lips open up to speak. But she doesn’t say anything. Her teeth are white and straight. The corner of her lip trembles and then she closes her lips. She says it doesn’t matter. Then she gently pulls my hand toward her. She steps onto the sidewalk and her body disappears in the darkness. In the dense darkness of the trees. I then feel her skin. Skin that is warm and her breast that softly moves up and down under my fingers. Her breathing quickens and she places her lips gently on my neck. I feel like I’m naked and the wind rests lightly on my bare skin.

Author Bio

Peyman Esmaeili was born in 1977 in Tehran. He studied electronics engineering at Iran University of Science & Technology, meanwhile he was a member of the university’s poetry club and manager of the founding board of Nationwide Students Literary Society. He is a published writer with two short story collections Snow and Cloud Symphony (winner of Mehregan, Golshiri and Press Critics & Awards) and Reach Your Raincoat Pockets (praiseworthy finalist of Isfahan Literary Award), and a novel titled The Guard (2014, 2nd). Siamak, The Guard‘s protagonist, commits murder and is consequently drawn to an incandescent white limbo in the South of Iran where he has to shoulder the weight of guilt and remorse. The magic setting of the novel – ripe with a sense of horror and fear, amalgamated with a narrative in-cold-blood – recently won him the first  “40 Literary Award” (an award annually granted to the under-forty Iranian writers with a future).

Translator: Shima Houshyari

Translation provided by ASSOCIATION FOR THE STUDY OF PERSIAN LITERATURE PERSIAN

17 May

War and Silence

Eight years have passed since the war ended but mom still wears black. Standing in front of the tall mirror, Sadjad is styling his hair and eyeing mom’s image in the mirror; she is chopping up a sugar cone. Zaynab would comb her hair in front of this same mirror. He places the brush on the shelf and runs his palms through his face. Mom has placed the ironed shirt and pants on the poshti[1] against the wall.

Mom tells him not to forget the money envelope. Sadjad gets changed in the bedroom, returns to the living room and grabs the envelope between the pages of the Quran. Mom reminds him not to fold it. She wonders if it isn’t too early to go.

“No, we are supposed to show up early to help them with the guests,” Sadjad replies.

Mom goes into the kitchen and comes back with a sugar cone wrapped in silver paper and hands it to Sadjad. He knits his brows. “The money is enough. What the cone for?”

Mom says it is auspicious.

“It’s embarrassing in front of my friends.”

Mom says why embarrassing? She wants him to give it to Ali’s mom, with regards.

Still in the sulk, Sadjad says nothing.

The alley and the yard’s entrance are decorated with light strings. Standing at the door is Ali, chitchatting with his friends. He has a plain white shirt on, with coal-black serge pants. He has rolled up his sleeves and is wearing the watch with the metal band that his father brought back from Mecca. This is the first time he is not wearing sneakers. They have been friends since childhood, before Zaynab left.

Tables have been set up in the yard for the men. The sound of music and women’s clapping and singing can be heard from inside the house. In small groups, the men are either sitting at the tables or standing all around the yard, talking. There are trays of fruit and pastry on each table, but no sign of tea or sherbet. Ali’s father is asking for him. One of the light bulbs is out and needs to be replaced before dark. Ali and Sadjad offer to go to the small grocery store at the end of the alley. Ali’s father asks them to get a few spare bulbs too, just in case.

When they return, the decorated wedding car is parked at the front and there is no one around. Ali is irked, “Ah, dang it! We just went away for a minute!” Sadjad knows how badly Ali wanted to see the moment her sister stepped out of the car in the white gown. He would feel the same if it was Zaynab’s wedding.

They enter the yard. The bride and the groom have gone inside. The cheering of the women can be heard; the air is filled with the smell of wild rue incense. They join Ali’s father, who is pouring tea and putting the teacups on the trays. Ali lifts a filled tray to take to the guests, but he and his father are called inside to take pictures with the bride and the groom. He passes the tray to Sadjad and goes away.

 

Sadjad is preparing the second round of tea when the men burst into cheers and applaud. The bridegroom must have come out. He turns his head to see him. The pot wavers and the tea spills on his hand. He puts down the pot hastily to blow at his hand. He turns to look again, but the groom is so surrounded that Sadjad can’t see him. He dries the spilled tea from the tray with a rag and hands the tray to Ali’s cousin. Ali calls him: “Where are you?”

“I’m here, pouring tea.”

“Come on,” and pulls his arm. “This is Agha Hesam, our dear son-in-law, and this is my friend Sadjad.” His voice is filled with pride and joy.

The groom smiles and shakes hands with Sadjad amicably and turns back to his conversation with his friends. Sadjad is still standing in front of the groom, numbly gazing at him. He was acting normally. Is it possible that he has not recognized him? How could he? He is not the frail kid he was eight years ago. He is tall and grown now, and his voice has deepened. Of course he won’t recognize him. But Sadjad remembers him vividly. His face is just like then, except the passing of eight years has left its mark.

Sadjad does not recall the details: suddenly all he saw was red, the asphalt, Saleh’s blue shirt and Sadeq’s white T-shirt. It all happened so quickly that he could not choose between seeing and not seeing. For eight years, he has relived that instant time and again. And then he ran. Was it for minutes or perhaps hours, he cannot tell. All he remembers is he could not run anymore, and before he could think, he saw himself on the ground. The sun was down. He got up. His head was aching. All around him was wheat plants and the suburban houses in the remote horizon. How big the town had appeared to him then! The thought of walking to the town’s main square would make him cry. Later, when he learned in geography class that his town had a population of eighty thousand people, he felt proud. Eighty thousand!

It was dark when he got home. The yard entrance was open, but there was no coming and going, nor a sound. Father, Saleh and Sadegh were not home (and he did not know of their whereabouts until a few days later), a few of the neighbors’ kids were sitting with his cousins Zahra and Majid, all watching TV on mute. They peeked at Sadjad when he entered. At the living room corner, aunt Sakineh had mom in her arms. Mom’s shoulders where jolting. Aunt Roqayeh had a glass in her hand which she was incessantly stirring. Except for the neighbor’s wife, who glanced at him, no one noticed his entrance, or if they did, they did not acknowledge him.

“Sadjad, have you had your pastry?” Ali asks him, his voice almost lost in the loud.

Sadjad doesn’t say anything.

“Do you want me to bring you some ice-cream?”

Sadjad only watches him.

***

“Buy me the ice-cream first,” Sadjad said.

“Don’t be a nuisance. First take this, then we’ll go for ice-cream,” Zaynab replied.

“Ice-cream first.”

“I said no.”

“I’ll tell everyone, then.”

Annoyed, Zaynab started towards the store.

“Alright, give me the books. I’ll take them.”

“What a sweet little brother you are.”

Zaynab did not enter the alley. She gave the books to Sadjad and waited in the mosque on the corner. An acquaintance could turn up any moment and see her stalling. She went to the washroom and shook the dirt off her chador and tidied her headscarf. She went back out, not looking at the building across from the street, and slowly sauntered down the way. Sadjad was standing on the main street with a book in his hand. Zaynab snatched the book from him and shoved it into her purse and held on to her chador more tightly.

“Alright, here’s the money. I’ll wait here, you go get it quickly.”

“But this is too much.”

“I know. Keep the change and get another ice-cream tomorrow.”

Sadjad ran off happy as a clam, and bumped into an old man at the store entrance. Zaynab hid her laugh behind her chador.

A little further from where they got off the cab, Sadegh was sitting by the wall with some of his friends. Zaynab pretended that she had not noticed him.

“You did not lose the change, did you?” she asked Sadjad.

“No, it’s in my pocket.”

Sadegh walked towards them and asked with knitted eyebrows, “Where were you?”

“Hi” said Zaynab with apprehension. “Hi. I said where you were?”

Sadjad said “I had ice-cream,” grinning cheerfully.

“You forgot to say something.”

Sadjad stopped smiling “oh, hi.”

“I went to get my book back from a friend,” Zaynab explained.

“Which friend?”

“Atefeh.”

“Don’t you see her at school?”

“Yesterday she forgot to bring me the book and it would have been too late by Saturday[2].”

“You went to her house?”

“No, she brought it to Al-Mahdi mosque.”

“So where is it?”

“What?”

“Atefeh! The book, obviously!”

“Oh, in my purse.” She stalled for a moment, and then unzipped the purse to take out the book, but Sadegh said “Go home quickly, mom needs a hand.” She walked away, feeling relieved.

Zaynab entered the house, hung the chador on the hanger on the corner of the living room, and said “Hi mom. You should have left the vegetables to me to rinse.”

Mom asked why she was late.

“It only took me half an hour, is that late?”

Mom had said she should get home before Saleh and Sadegh. Sadegh has been looking for her.

“I saw him.” Before getting changed and going into the kitchen to wash the vegetables, she hid her purse under the bed. She couldn’t wait to read the letter and open the small present hidden inside the book.

 ***

Ali’s father tells Sadjad: “Thank you son, I hope that was not too much trouble.” He wants to say that Ali would help out with his sister’s wedding in return, but swallows his words with a fatherly sorrow and looks at the new guests and smiles.

Dad has not smiled for a long time. When he gets home in the evening, he sits on his cushion and plays with the fringe of the carpet, drinks his tea, and counts his beads. Without diverting his gaze from the carpet, he sighs from time to time and thanks God. It has been several years since mom stopped asking dad how business is going; she does not tell him about her day either. She just brings tea, opens the supper spread and closes it. She sews, keeps herself busy and stays out of dad’s sight as much as she can. From sundown, when dad gets home, to bedtime, life is passed in quiet; Sadjad has gotten used to this silence and has learned to respect it.

His eyes catch Ali’s father’s. He smiles and looks down. Ali’s father comes forward. One of the neighbours enters the yard and is welcomed by greetings of the people. His name is Kazem. Ali’s father hands the tray of pastries to Sadjad and goes towards Kazem. They kiss each other on the cheek; after greetings, Ali’s father looks over Kazem’s shoulder, “So where is your noble son?”

“Your humble servant–He should have come, but I am afraid he has his university entrance exam to study for this year.”

***

When they cleaned up after lunch, Zaynab was still talking about the exam. She said even the class geek was not happy with the questions. “Oh and Mr. Yousefi’s daughter was there too, by the way.”

Mom said that she had gotten married two years ago and had a child last year.

“Yes, that’s her. The husband came to pick her up after the test with the baby in his arms.”

Mom said she did not understand what the Yousefis’ daughter was going to university for. She should stay home and tend to her life.

Sadjad said “So if you go to university, you will go away, to another city?”

“You just pray I get admitted. I’ll visit you every week, I promise”

Mom put her chador on and before leaving said that she should not keep mentioning it in front of Sadegh and Saleh. They will think of something if she gets admitted.

“You mean if I get admission I should not go just because they say so?”

Mom said she was going to a funeral with aunt Sakineh. She said her brothers would be home in an hour and she should have their tea ready and warm their lunch.

“Sure,” said Zaynab.

Without raising his head, Sadjad noticed her picking up the phone and, after a few deep breaths, starting to dial. “Will you get me a glass of water? Please, my dear? Not too cold.” He knew who she was calling. Zaynab had shown him the present; it was a silver chain with a locket, like a winged man.

***

On the last night, Zaynab put her arms around him. Her eyes were wet. She put his head to her chest and caressed his short, coarse hair and said “Remember I will always love you.” Sadjad said “I love you too. Sadegh and Saleh yell at me all the time – ”

Zaynab put her hand on his mouth “hold up your hand.”

Sadjad loved doing this, he opened his palm and closed his eyes. Something cold fell in his hand. He opened his eyes—The chain with the winged man.

“Yours now. But you should promise you won’t lose it.”

“Thanks. I won’t.” Zaynab hugged him again and whispered she will always love him no matter what.

***

Zaynab had only confided her plan to her friend Atefeh, who had failed to dissuade her from going. After a four-hour ride, the bus arrived in a huge transit center, incomparable with the small bus terminal of their town. She got off the bus. She did not dare raise her head and look around. All the way, she pulled the chador into her face lest someone might recognize her. She exited the terminal. The cab drivers accosted the passengers. Taxi? Taxi? Where are you headed ma’am? She did not reply, but pulled on the chador and hid more. Once she was far enough from the terminal, her eyes began to probe, but she did her best to avoid eye contact with the people. A few blocks farther, there was a phone booth. She entered and closed the door. A man and a woman turned around and eyed her but could not see her face. She picked up the receiver and took out a coin from her pocket. The edges were black with germs. She put the coin in the slot. She knew the number by heart, but dialed the area code out of nervousness. The busy tone made her realize; she hit the hook and dialed again. She prayed it would be busy, so that she could hang up and, for one more time, go over the words she had prepared in her mind. It was ringing. Her mouth was dry. It rang three times. She gulped her saliva down and tapped on the window with her left index finger. She was about to hang up after the fifth ring that his sleepy, hoarse voice on the line said “hello?”

“Hi”

“Hi. Yes? –Zaynab? It’s you? Let me call you.”

“I’m not calling from home.”

“Someone might see you.”

“Nobody knows me in this city except you.”

“What do you mean? –You came here? What for? Are you out of your mind? Do you realize what’s going to happen if your brothers find out?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Couldn’t you do it from there? How did you come here?”

“I took the bus. I need to see you. There is a problem.”

“Couldn’t it wait a few weeks until I get back?”

“It’d be too late by then. It might be already too late.”

“Alright, you’re scaring me now. What happened?”

“My cousin Habib – They have arranged the marriage for this weekend.”

“Marriage? What do you mean marriage? Bastard! — … That bastard! Wait a second! They arranged it? What were you doing? Sitting there saying nothing?”

“I did but no one listened. Dad agreed when they came over two years ago.”

“What? And you? You agree too, don’t you? Are you—Are you calling to say goodbye?”

“No, I just wanted to say …” She stalled, she was waiting for the voice on the other side to encourage her to speak, to ask what is it that she wants to tell. “Wanted to say that – If you want me, the time is now ———.”

There was no words from the other side, just heavy breathing. Zaynab prayed he would say he will come this very week with his family. She promised herself to offer 500 tomans to Zeyd-Ibn-Ali shrine.

“I want you, but I am not in a position right now. I am still a student and I have the military service to do. Even my father won’t agree like this, let alone yours. Go home. Please go home before they find out.”

“They have found out by now”, her eyes were wet.

“Maybe not yet. Say you went over to Atefeh’s. You’ll think of something. Are you crying? Crying won’t help. You’ll just put yourself down with this childish behavior, and me too.”

“Please Hesam; just come talk to my dad.”

There was silence.

***

Sadjad ran after his father and Saleh and Sadegh. They were mad with fury. They did not notice Sadjad; he was invisible to everyone. His cousin Habib was also with them. They went towards the terminal. Earlier, Sadjad had tried to stop Sadegh who had said “I will cut the shameless whore to pieces”, but Sadegh had bashed him into the wall.

The bus came to a halt. The chauffeur’s assistant opened the door and jumped off; “Take care everyone!” He noticed Sadegh “Hey Sadegh, how’s it going?” Sadegh did not answer. He got on the bus. Saleh was waiting by the bus, dad and Habib were on the sidewalk. He burst out hollering. He was swearing. Then he appeared at the door. He was pulling on her chador and kicking her.

Sadjad ran out from behind the pillar to tell them to let go of her, to leave her alone; wanted to say “Zaynab” that everything became red.

***

A few boys his age and younger are dancing with the music in the yard. The groom is strewing money at them. Sadjad’s head is spinning. He is thirsting for a chilled glass of water. He can feel the sweat drops on his back. His temples throb with a sharp pain. He feels being suffocated. He puts his hand on his neck, and holds the silver necklace chain between his two fingers with the Farvahar locket hanging from it.

Sadjad walks toward the groom and looks into his eyes. Without reciprocating his smile, he takes the necklace off and puts it in Hesam’s hand and walks out.


  • Written by Elli Dehnavi, translated by Kara Abdolmaleki
  • Artwork by Amad Khalili, teaouse exhibition, Iran Artists Forum (2007)

[1]. Large sturdy cushions placed against walls as backrest in West Asia.

[2]. First day of the week in the Iranian calendar.

Author Bio

Dehnavi-elliBorn in 1980 in Mashhad, Elli Dehnavi is a writer, editor, and literary translator who also does academic research on Middle Eastern cinema and literature. She studied English Literature, and started writing stories and translating works of fiction and critical theory in her early twenties. She is the author of Burnt Papers (Kaqazhaye Sookhteh), a collection of short stories that was published in 2011 in Tehran. She was the editor of Inquire: Journal of Comparative Literature for two issues, one on Literature and Identity, and the other on the Literature, Culture, and Cinema of Afghanistan, Iran, and Turkey. At the moment, she is preparing a second collection of short stories. Parsagon asked her about her favourite works of literature and cinema by women. 

Translator: Kara Abdolmaleki
is a doctoral candidate in the Comparative Literature program at the University of Alberta. He received his Bachelor’s degree in English from the University of Kurdistan and his Master’s degree in English Literature from the University of Tehran, both with distinction. He has worked with several journals and magazines including the London-based Cine-Eye Magazine and Inquire: Journal of Comparative Literature at the University of Alberta. His research interests include Modernity and Modernism, Psychoanalysis, the Frankfurt School, Film Studies and Iranian Literature.
07 Jan

Reza Baraheni on Nima Youshij

Nima in Afsaneh [The Legend] was definitely a romantic, influenced by the mid-nineteenth century’s poetry, but Nima in She’r-e-man [My Poetry] moved from Romanticism towards “symbolism”, as if he had travelled from France in the mid-nineteenth century to the late-nineteenth century and had had the honor of Mallarme’s company. However, there are principal differences between Nima – the symbolist of this time and age – and Mallarme – the founder of symbolism. The first difference among all is that Mallarme, more often, makes use of allusions and suggestions by means of which he interlaces the warps and wefts of a certain object and this is far from the spirit of descriptive realism in poetry. However, Nima does not merely use symbols, but wherever he feels the need, he provides descriptions of objects – not abstract but concrete ones – and thus adds the spirit of descriptive realism to the symbolism of his time.

Some have accused Nima of composing poetry based on western criteria as a result of which, they believe, his poems seem so alien within the context of Persian poetry. This is by no means acceptable, since compared to the criteria of westerners and in the context of western poetry, Nima’s poetry seems as fresh and alien as a Chinese poet’s does in France or Britain. I have seen several western poets and critics who, after reading some translated poems of Nima, find them original and even strange and have always requested for explanations as much as they need explanations while reading Hafez’s poetry. I have also seen Iranians who have lived in foreign countries and come back to Iran with a haversack full of Baudelaire, Verlaine and Apollinaire’s works, yet reading a poem such as Rira has made them flabbergasted. This is because Nima’s poetry is neither close to western poetry – except in an exalted level which is shared among all the poems – nor to eastern – as it regards life and nature through a kind of logic different from any others. Moreover, that is because Nima’s poetry is not made for blank, lazy, atrabilious or sentimental minds.

Nima’s poetry is the language of objects and birds, the language of animals, forests and the sea. He provides us with images of these in a way that no Persian poet before him has ever done. He knows these objects perfectly well and uses words to which he is strangely accustomed – words such as “touka” and “makh ola” which show his old familiarity with his childhood environment. No poet in Persian literature has ever provided the descriptions which Nima provided about the sea. Regarding the forest the case is the same. Furthermore, Nima speaks through the words concerned with the sea and forest; however in the previous Persian poems the sea and the forest were viewed from a general perspective. Nima’s ideology is a highly visual one. Most of all, he employs metaphors and symbols. Nima has such power of elision no other poet has ever had. For example, in a simile you may say “the flower” added to “the sun” equals “the flower of the sun”. Nima says ‘one thing added to something that is not said equals my purpose’; “the sun” added to the thing which is unsaid equals “freedom”. So the concept of  “freedom” is obtained through a combination of above-mentioned elements and in the context of poetic language this is called “myth”. Within these combinations there may be up to forty elisions by means of which Nima reaches a specific kind of brevity. Nima is one of the most significant mythmakers in the world and Morgh-e-Amin [Bird of Amen] is a good example of his approach.

Nima-YoushijExcerpt from the book Nima Youshij: Modern Persian Poetry, published by Candle & Fog, 2014 

Collected and Translated by Somaye Talebi, Leila Rasouli | Edited by Babak Bouban |

(c) Published under permission of copyright holders.

Translator(s): Leila Rasouli, Babak Bouban
Leila Rasouli holds an MA degree in Translation Studies from SBU and works as translator at Mahoor Institute of Culture and Arts
11 Aug

Bombay Rain, Part II

Denver Quarterly-dWritten by Payam Yazdanjoo |
Translated by: Poupeh Missaghi | Edited by: Adam Seth | Header Photo by Matteo Vegetti
(c) “Bombay Rain” was first published in Denver Quarterly, Vol 48, No3, 2014, and it is being republished here by permission of copyright holders
 
 
 

The bell rang. Marcel was still busy watching television. Chandra came out of the kitchen and went to open the door. No one was there. Perhaps he had mistaken the ringing of the bell of the Rajabai Clock Tower for the doorbell. He turned around, but before heading back to the kitchen, he stood in the middle of the living room, looked at us, and said something in Marathi, the language of the people of Maharashtra. Though clear and articulate, what he said was not comprehensible to me. Marcel’s Marathi was no good either but he was more used to hearing it.

‘He is saying something about Rama Krishna, Krishna’s father,’ he explained to me.

I turned to Chandra and said in Hindi, ‘Say it again. Say it in Hindi.’

Chandra barely knew Hindi but managed to say a few words. Among his words I picked up khudkushi, suicide. In his Chandra language, Chandra was insisting that we not mention anything about the incident. We were not going to. Neither Marcel nor I had met Krishna’s father and his self-chosen death had nothing to do with us.

An hour later, the old boy greeted us from the threshold, with a withered bouquet in hand, a musical instrument on his back, and Surya in his arms. The black cat was a gift from a merchant from Benares to Krishna and on Krishna’s suggestion was named Surya by Rama Krishna. It leapt down from Krishna’s arms and walked to its spot on the windowsill. Krishna looked tired. We had expected him to be extremely pleased to see us. He was not. He simply welcomed us with a line from Khayyam, whose Rubaiyat I later realized he had read so much that he almost knew it by heart. He took his sitar out of his sack and put it on the armoire.

‘Has the boy taken care of you?’ he asked.

Krishna called the fifty-three-year-old Chandra the boy because, at almost the same age as himself, the servant too was still a bachelor. We thanked him for his hospitality. He sat down next to us and started chattering. First about how he regretted not having had read Khayyam until that age, then about quitting professional acting after the ‘demise’ of his father and now only playing music for himself and for the shadow of Rama Krishna who, not having reached moksha or the ‘final salvation,’ continued to hover around. I took his words as part of his eclectic beliefs, his desire to turn anything material into some transcendental concept, his habit of lecturing any atheist about polytheism. He picked his sitar up, played for a minute or two, and put it back on the armoire. He announced he was soon off to Benares to spread his father’s ashes in the Ganges to both put his father’s soul to rest and bring himself peace from his father’s shadow.

Marcel lay down in front of the television.

‘So tell me about Khayyam!’ Krishna told me.

‘You already know about Khayyam. Marcel and I have actually come to talk to you about Hedayat. Surely you remember Hedayat?’ I replied.

Krishna stood up, opened one of the armoires and brought out the folder of notes and pictures from two or three years ago. He had written on the backs of almost all the pictures and underlined many of his notes. He recited the first few lines of The Blind Owl and said, ‘I have read it three times so far. I need to read it two or three more times.’

Marcel stood up and joined us. ‘Tomorrow we will take a camera and find a suitable spot close-by to shoot. Some ruins or an abandoned house or somewhere similar. It’s a one-day job. You read from the book, we converse with you, and shoot the whole thing. The rest we’ll take care of later,’ Marcel explained.

‘Tomorrow?’ Krishna asked as if he was still an actor with a busy schedule, with no hours to spare.

‘Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. We don’t intend anymore to make you up to look like Hedayat. I have brought some of my grandfather’s clothes, a hat and a vest and a raincoat. You just put those on. You don’t need to become Hedayat himself. You just need to become a shadow, or a ghost, giving the illusion of Hedayat.’

Krishna nodded for a minute, whispering, ‘You realize I’m not the Krishna of three years ago. Even if I wanted, I could no longer play the role of the young Hedayat.’

I jumped in, ‘Marcel suggests that we make a short film, only ten minutes long, go look for a producer, and only then begin to go all the way to the end.’

‘It seems you didn’t understand me. I’m now more fit to play the bent old man, not Hedayat or the narrator.’

‘We only need your shadow, not you yourself.’

‘I have not yet digested the novel well. I told you, I need to read it two or three times more.’

‘Right now it’s not about digesting the novel. It’s about shooting the film. Please don’t say no.’

Marcel went back to the television and did not go on. He turned it off and picked a magazine to browse. Having lost the desire to talk, Krishna took up his sitar again. His music was more depressing than desperate: heavy, short, and intermittent. The rain continued to pour and the lights went out. Surya silently reclined at the window, not taking its eyes, even for a second, off of Krishna. In the dark cloudy evening, its eyes were the only source of light, making the tar black of its fur look bright.

Krishna began to talk again, ‘Do you believe in reincarnation?’

‘Believe?’

‘Okay. Don’t start again. I remember our conversations about your belief in disbelieving. Let’s forget about beliefs. Do you think reincarnation is practically possible?’

‘No,’ I said, lying there on the couch, looking up at the ceiling.

‘Let me explain what I mean. When I talk of reincarnation, I am not talking of consecutive destinies but of shared destinies,’ he said, immediately continuing to expand his point.

‘Stop it, Krishna! Your father died by his own choice. This doesn’t mean you need to follow in his footsteps,’ interrupted Marcel.

I brought down my eyes. Krishna was not there. I saw Chandra, standing at the kitchen door, giving me a reprimanding look.

Chandra did not understand English. I gestured to ask about Krishna. Without responding, he went back into the kitchen.

‘Where did Krishna go?’ I asked Marcel.

‘Krishna?’ Marcel asked.

I did not answer him and he went back to reading his magazine. A few minutes later Krishna showed up again. He had walked in from outside and was soaking wet. He had a flower in hand and a sack over his shoulder. The sack was bloody and wet.

‘Where did you disappear?’ I asked him.

He laughed briskly. ‘In search of my father’s shadow,’ he said and rapidly swallowed his laughter. The Rajabai Clock bell rang again. Krishna, assuming it was the doorbell, stood up to go open the door.

‘Sit down,’ I said.

He went to the door, opened it and after a few seconds closed it, and came back again.

‘The old boy has got you too delusional,’ I said, pointing to Chandra who was back at the door of the kitchen, not taking his hostile eyes away from me.

‘I went out. I saw a Muslim who threw stones at the chameleon.’

‘Chameleon?’

‘It was sitting right here on the branches, hiding under the banyan leaves.’

‘Was it afraid of the Muslim?’

‘It had taken refuge from the rain.’

‘Was it waiting for the rain to stop?’

Krishna did not reply and I did not follow up. Two minutes later he continued, ‘Its skin will lose its quality if it gets wet. You know that, don’t you?’

I called out to Marcel. He was not there. ‘Did you see Marcel?’

‘Marcel?’

I stood up to go look for him, tell him to forget about shooting tomorrow.

‘He might have gone to bed,’ Krishna shouted after me.

I did not find him in the bedroom. I came back to the living room. ‘I couldn’t find him. He wasn’t there.’

Krishna was lying down on the floor, wrapped in a sheet. It was not nighttime yet and no sane person would sleep so early in the evening. I pushed the sheet aside. Krishna had buried his face in the pillow. He raised his head.

‘I am the boy, the old boy,’ he said, in English.

His face was Chandra’s face. The bell rang. It was not the Clock’s. I went and opened the door. Nobody was there. A few steps away, a shadow was thrown on the floor. It could be Rama Krishna’s shadow. It was totally still. Its outline was exactly what one would expect from the pictures of Rama Krishna on the walls. I returned. The lights were on again. As I was closing the door, I noticed Surya. It leapt, throwing itself into the hallway. I closed the door. I walked to the kitchen, took a beer from the fridge, and walked back to the living room. Surya followed me around. Chandra stood up, collected his bed, and went back to the kitchen, his haven. Surya tottered towards the windowsill. The Clock bell rang nineteen times.

With no real intentions, I went back to the door. The rain kept pouring, not seeming to want to stop. Krishna was at the door. He had gone out to shop for dinner. He had seen Marcel going to the Clock Tower under the rain.

‘You didn’t say why the Muslim threw stones at the chameleon,’ I said.

‘Did you see my father’s shadow?’ Krishna replied.

‘I saw him but he had no head,’ I said and laughed.

Krishna ran to the sack he had put on the armoire, took it, and threw it out of the open window.

‘Bastards! They finally did what they were hoping for! They took revenge at last,’ he said angrily.

‘Revenge?’

‘The Muslim hated chameleons. It was a chameleon that had betrayed the Muslim prophet who had gone into hiding in a cave. Changing colors, it had showed the way to the infidels. The prophet had cursed the chameleon, demanding his followers to kill the innocent creature wherever they saw it.’

‘So?’

‘The chameleon was my mother’s passion, my father’s love and mine. The Muslim had no right to kill it. He killed the poor animal and I killed him. I beheaded him and brought in the head. Perhaps he has taken revenge by beheading my father’s ghost. I hope he finds his head soon and gives back my father’s.’

I told Krishna to sit down. I brought him a beer. I opened the bottle for him.

‘Do you remember our first meeting? We were sitting on this very couch and I was talking about the differences between religions, and you kept repeating an irritating refrain: There is no difference. There is no difference. Meaning that Allah is Krishna and Krishna is Rama and Rama is Buddha and Buddha is Jesus and . . .’

‘I’m still of the same opinion: There is no difference. But what does that have to do with this?’

‘You keep talking about reincarnation. The Muslim has a superstition of his own,’ I said.

Krishna took a gulp of beer. ‘They are a world apart, reincarnation and this superstition.’

‘So in the end there is a difference.’ He took another gulp. ‘I still say what I have always said: There is no difference. This is a different matter. The chameleon hadn’t harmed anyone. I loved it, like I loved my mother, my father. It was dear to me, like the old boy, like Surya. What is the difference? There is no difference. No difference!’

The lights, which had gone out again, came back on. Chandra was now sitting next to me on the couch. I walked to the kitchen. I saw Krishna, squatting on the floor. He was playing his sitar but no sound rose from it. He himself was the one crying, nodding and reciting Khayyam. I walked back to the living room. Krishna was lying down on the couch, quiet, calm, holding on to his sitar. Chandra rose from the kitchen floor, shook himself clean, walked to the door, said something about the Rajabai Clock Tower, and pointed to the pictures on the wall, gesturing to me once again not to ask the son anything about the death of the father.

It was almost eight o’clock and Marcel was not yet back. Krishna turned to me and asked, ‘Did you understand what the boy was saying? My father threw himself down the Rajabai Clock Tower. Surya was the one showing him the secret path.’

‘Are you sure you saw Marcel?’ I asked.

‘Let’s go to Marcel,’ said Krishna.

The Clock bell started to ring again. It was to ring twenty times. Krishna rose halfway. I firmly held on to his arm and did not let him stand. He let out a dry laugh.

‘Don’t panic. I’m not going to go to the Tower. It’s useless with the rain. The moon should be up in the sky.’

I let go of his arm. He stood up and went to open the door. He came back with Rama Krishna’s shadow. It was still headless. Father and son sat down next to one another. The father was silent for a few minutes, then called out to Krishna. Chandra stood up from next to the shadow and walked to the kitchen. Krishna came out of the kitchen. With his white cuffs he wiped his face and came and sat down at his father’s feet. He started playing his sitar.

The Clock bell rang nineteen times. I rose to head out. Surya was not on the windowsill. The father’s shadow was not there. The son was not there.

‘I’m sorry. I know you won’t be coming back. So give my regards to Marcel,’ said Krishna.

I walked out. The rain kept pouring, not seeming to want to stop. At the door of the house, I came face to face with the Muslim. He was throwing stones at Surya. Surya leapt away. The stone hit the window of Krishna’s house. A headless shadow appeared at the window. There was not much of a distance between the house and the Rajabai Clock Tower. Ten minutes later, Marcel and I were standing in front of the Tower under the summer rain, with not much to say to one another. I looked up. Surya was fast ascending the back stairs of the Tower, lighting the secret path for the son.

29 Jul

Bombay Rain, Part I

Denver Quarterly-dWritten by Payam Yazdanjoo |
Translated by: Poupeh Missaghi | Edited by: Adam Seth
(c) “Bombay Rain” was first published in Denver Quarterly, Vol 48, No3, 2014, and it is being republished here by permission of copyright holders  | Header Artwork by Javad Alizadeh

Marcel too knew that Hedayat[i] had published The Blind Owl in India, right here in Bombay. The first thing I had done right after we met was to encourage him to read the book and the history of its local publication. I then told him about my plans for making a movie about Hedayat in India. Marcel showed interest in helping out. We decided that it needed to be a feature film, including recreations of parts of The Blind Owl, with the supposed author as a ‘shadow’ and Marcel and I as interpreters. Three months after our first encounter, Marcel went back to France, and was now back in Bombay after two years. Several photos from Hedayat’s time in Paris, a short interview with an Iranian-American woman who had left flowers at Hedayat’s grave inPère Lachaise, and several white-covered octavo books, French translations of Hedayat’s short stories, were Marcel’s souvenirs from his time in Paris.

I was in charge of the main part of the work, writing the script — which I had not yet done, since the research process had not gone as I had hoped. There was not much information about the author’s visit to India. The total of all Iranian and non-Iranian material on Hedayat did not amount to more than two pages. The whole account of his time in India could be summarized in a few points: Hedayat came to Bombay with the help of a Zoroastrian employee of the Iranian consulate in India, named Shin Partow. Here he met Bahram Anklesaria, learnt Pahlavi language, and translated into Persian some ancient texts including Zand-i Vohuman Yasht and Book of the Deeds by Ardashir son of Babak. Meanwhile, he wrote two short stories in Persian and French. Later on, he came to know Mirza Ismael Shirazi, a minister of Mysore Maharaja, and frequented his court. He traveled a while in India. According to his letters to the Czech Orientalist Jan Rypka, he eventually returned to Iran, disappointed and frustrated. The most important souvenir he took with him from India was of course The Blind Owl. He had written the book before his trip and had published it here in an edition of fifty copies, each containing the note, ‘Publication and Distribution Prohibited in Iran.’

I was not looking for this kind of general information. I was curious to see how coming to India had influenced Hedayat’s writings: were the India and the Indians he had described in the book the same India and Indians he came to know during his trip? If not, did he later make changes and corrections, edits and revisions? I had read The Blind Owl several times. I remembered that Bugam Dasi was a dancer at the Shiva temple and I knew that the ‘Dancer of Lingam Temple’ was probably an Iranian fantasy, but I still decided to visit at least three or four temples of the twelve grand Shiva temples to compare Hedayat’s observations with mine. In three years, I visited three grand Shiva temples in Nasik, Elora, Benares, along with dozens of other temples here and there in India. In none did I find the lingam Hedayat had imagined, in none did anyone have any remembrance of the ethereal dancers. Hedayat’s Shiva temple, lingam, Bugam Dasi, and even the yogis, and Benares all were born of the author’s readings and imagination, not of his objective observations in India.

The discovery put an end to my dream that as an Iranian who had lived in India for four years and made acquaintances with Indians and French I could form an Iranian-Indian-French triangle to reinterpret The Blind Owl. I eventually came to the conclusion that the book could have been written anywhere in the world and there was no need for Hedayat to actually visit the land of Shiva, which was exactly what the author did. He had finished the novel before traveling to India and being here meant nothing to him. Neither did he write a story about India during his stay here, nor did he remember his visit in any of his later writings. He arrived here as if he were never to return to Iran. He left as if he were never to return to India.

Among dozens of Hedayat’s postcards sent from India, there is one to his father, Etezad ul-Molk Hedayat. The postcard, dated March 3, 1937, reads, ‘With heartfelt greetings to all family members on the occasion of Nowrooz. May all be merry and hearty.’ It is a picture of the Rajabai Clock Tower. A gray picture which shows the black tower in the background, far away, surrounded by a white sky and the tall trees of Fort Campus of the University of Bombay. The real tower, white and ocher, was built by the British architect George Gilbert Scott in the style of London’s Big Ben in Gothic-Venetian fashion. The tower was ordered by Premchand Roychand, founder of Bombay’s stock market, who wanted it to be named after his mother (Premchand’s mother was totally blind and as totally faithful to Jainism. Following the Jain tradition, she was to have supper before sunset. The ringing of the Clock bell helped her do so without depending on others). The construction project started in 1869 and finished in 1878, some sixty years before Hedayat sent his postcard from Bombay’s Victoria Terminus to Tehran’s Khaghani Street. Some seventy years later, Marcel and I stood in front of Rajabai Tower under the summer rain with not much to say to one another. The rainy season started before summer was even over and it was hard to see the Tower through the storm wandering the skies. We could not overcome the lethargy of the rainy afternoon, even for an hour or two, by going up the Tower. It had been closed years before, as it had come to be known as an ideal spot for suicide.

Standing there, Marcel took it upon himself to confess, ‘I agree with you. This won’t go anywhere. I mean it won’t go anywhere anytime soon. But remember this: The only reason I have come back after two years was for this project.’

‘I’ve also spent a lot of time on it.’

‘I know. I just mean I don’t want to go away empty-handed.’

‘Empty-handed? Do you think there is anything we can do?’

‘Well, forget about The Blind Owl. We’ll make a short film about ourselves and somehow relate it to Hedayat.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it! A film about not being able to make a film about Hedayat in India. We’ll make the film of the film that can’t be made.’

A film of a film, a story of a story. The idea was a cliché, but Marcel was not letting go. He expected, insisted, not to go away ‘empty-handed.’ Generally, I did not have good memories of working with friends from that time period. I thought the only good thing about the project not going through was that I did not have to put up with the follies of Marcel’s friends and familiars. Marcel himself was an exception.

‘Just one day, man! You, me, and Krishna Chandra!’ Marcel said.

‘I’m not sure. I don’t know.’

Krishna Chandra had gone out that morning and was not yet back. His father had recently passed away and the house was totally upside down. Marcel and I arrived earlier than Krishna Chandra and spent ten minutes in the rain waiting for Chandra Krishna, the family servant, to open the door for us. It was the tradition in Krishna’s family to choose the master’s son’s first name as the servant’s last name and Chandra was the servant’s own first name. Chandra as usual nodded and went back to his work. By the time we dried ourselves, lunch was ready. We sat down and devoured our lunch forgetting about Chandra who was eating his lunch by himself in the kitchen. According to Krishna, Chandra never went out with anyone, something that seemed self-evident. After lunch, Marcel got busy watching television and I began to go through the dust-covered objects around the house.

Everything was exactly the same as two years ago when I last had visited Krishna, when I came to say that Marcel was back in France but had promised to return so that we could continue with the project. I brought him a copy of Fitzgerald’s translation ofKhayyam’s Rubaiyat, along with a copy of my own translation of Hedayat’s introduction to the Rubaiyat. I brought him the introduction so he could get more in touch with Hedayat. The heavy dust over the mess of the objects around the house was a reminder of Krishna’s father’s death. Chandra was not allowed to touch anything in the house. Krishna’s room bore the melancholy one expected of it. On the windowsill lay a picture of Krishna, while other pictures hung on the walls: two full-length pictures of his mother and father who both now had garlands around their necks, along with pictures of Indian actors and actresses with whom Krishna had once worked. Naturally there were several lovers and girlfriends among them, but one could not know which ones had received that honor. Krishna never talked of the past. It was all gossip out there. I had heard from Marcel that Krishna had been a top student in Delhi University but dropped out before the end of the second year, went to Pune’s Film and Television Institute of India, then wandered, going door to door, eventually returning to the world of cinema celebrities. His life in the movies had been full of ups and downs. Regardless, Krishna Chandra had been the glorious star of all student films made in the Institute and a wandering shadow in a bunch of movies produced in Bollywood, Tollywood, Kollywood, and Whateverwood. The shadow was however not welcomed in the living room. Facing the window loomed a large picture of Rajabai Clock Tower, underneath it a picture of Krishna’s mother dancing under the Clock Tower, and underneath that a small picture of the same Tower, like the one in the postcard Hedayat had sent.

The rest of the household furniture was also left to itself, frozen in time. The antique armoires were filled with books and papers, with plates and jewelry and masks of gods and broken clocks and glass vases and plastic flowers. Everything was as it had been before. Except for the worn-out Rubaiyat, not much had been added to the books: volumes by Nehru, Narayan, and Dickens, Krishna’s father’s favorite author, were still there, still almost as new as before. Next to them stood old romance-murder books, all of whose titles included ‘Bombay’ and had something to do either with day or night: from Night in Bombay by Louis Bromfield and Bombay After Dark by Allen V. Ross to Bombay: The Twilight Zone by Benedict Costa and Bombay by Night by Captain F. D. Colabavalla. The most noteworthy of these were books by M. M. Kaye, Krishna’s favorite author, who had been born in Shimla and had not left India until the British had departed. All his books were here: from his famous books, including Shadow of the Moon and The Far Pavilions, to his detective novels, Death in Andamans, Death in Berlin, Death in Cyprus, Death in Kashmir, Death in Kenya, and Death in Zanzibar; all of which Krishna, according to himself, had bought ‘with much trouble’ and read ‘with much enjoyment.’

The bell rang. Marcel was still busy watching television. Chandra came out of the kitchen and went to open the door. No one was there. Perhaps he had mistaken the ringing of the bell of the Rajabai Clock Tower for the doorbell. He turned around, but before heading back to the kitchen, he stood in the middle of the living room, looked at us, and said something in Marathi, the language of the people of Maharashtra. Though clear and articulate, what he said was not comprehensible to me. Marcel’s Marathi was no good either but he was more used to hearing it.

‘He is saying something about Rama Krishna, Krishna’s father,’ he explained to me.

I turned to Chandra and said in Hindi, ‘Say it again. Say it in Hindi.’

Chandra barely knew Hindi but managed to say a few words. Among his words I picked up khudkushi, suicide. In his Chandra language, Chandra was insisting that we not mention anything about the incident. We were not going to. Neither Marcel nor I had met Krishna’s father and his self-chosen death had nothing to do with us.

An hour later, the old boy greeted us from the threshold, with a withered bouquet in hand, a musical instrument on his back, and Surya in his arms. The black cat was a gift from a merchant from Benares to Krishna and on Krishna’s suggestion was named Surya by Rama Krishna. It leapt down from Krishna’s arms and walked to its spot on the windowsill. Krishna looked tired. We had expected him to be extremely pleased to see us. He was not. He simply welcomed us with a line from Khayyam, whose Rubaiyat I later realized he had read so much that he almost knew it by heart. He took his sitar out of his sack and put it on the armoire.

‘Has the boy taken care of you?’ he asked.

Krishna called the fifty-three-year-old Chandra the boy because, at almost the same age as himself, the servant too was still a bachelor. We thanked him for his hospitality. He sat down next to us and started chattering. First about how he regretted not having had read Khayyam until that age, then about quitting professional acting after the ‘demise’ of his father and now only playing music for himself and for the shadow of Rama Krishna who, not having reached moksha or the ‘final salvation,’ continued to hover around. I took his words as part of his eclectic beliefs, his desire to turn anything material into some transcendental concept, his habit of lecturing any atheist about polytheism. He picked his sitar up, played for a minute or two, and put it back on the armoire. He announced he was soon off to Benares to spread his father’s ashes in the Ganges to both put his father’s soul to rest and bring himself peace from his father’s shadow.

Marcel lay down in front of the television.

‘So tell me about Khayyam!’ Krishna told me.

‘You already know about Khayyam. Marcel and I have actually come to talk to you about Hedayat. Surely you remember Hedayat?’ I replied.

Krishna stood up, opened one of the armoires and brought out the folder of notes and pictures from two or three years ago. He had written on the backs of almost all the pictures and underlined many of his notes. He recited the first few lines of The Blind Owl and said, ‘I have read it three times so far. I need to read it two or three more times.’

Marcel stood up and joined us. ‘Tomorrow we will take a camera and find a suitable spot close-by to shoot. Some ruins or an abandoned house or somewhere similar. It’s a one-day job. You read from the book, we converse with you, and shoot the whole thing. The rest we’ll take care of later,’ Marcel explained.

‘Tomorrow?’ Krishna asked as if he was still an actor with a busy schedule, with no hours to spare.

‘Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. We don’t intend anymore to make you up to look like Hedayat. I have brought some of my grandfather’s clothes, a hat and a vest and a raincoat. You just put those on. You don’t need to become Hedayat himself. You just need to become a shadow, or a ghost, giving the illusion of Hedayat.’

Krishna nodded for a minute, whispering, ‘You realize I’m not the Krishna of three years ago. Even if I wanted, I could no longer play the role of the young Hedayat.’

I jumped in, ‘Marcel suggests that we make a short film, only ten minutes long, go look for a producer, and only then begin to go all the way to the end.’

‘It seems you didn’t understand me. I’m now more fit to play the bent old man, not Hedayat or the narrator.’

‘We only need your shadow, not you yourself.’

‘I have not yet digested the novel well. I told you, I need to read it two or three times more.’

‘Right now it’s not about digesting the novel. It’s about shooting the film. Please don’t say no.’

Marcel went back to the television and did not go on. He turned it off and picked a magazine to browse. Having lost the desire to talk, Krishna took up his sitar again. His music was more depressing than desperate: heavy, short, and intermittent. The rain continued to pour and the lights went out. Surya silently reclined at the window, not taking its eyes, even for a second, off of Krishna. In the dark cloudy evening, its eyes were the only source of light, making the tar black of its fur look bright.

Krishna began to talk again, ‘Do you believe in reincarnation?’

‘Believe?’

‘Okay. Don’t start again. I remember our conversations about your belief in disbelieving. Let’s forget about beliefs. Do you think reincarnation is practically possible?’

‘No,’ I said, lying there on the couch, looking up at the ceiling.

‘Let me explain what I mean. When I talk of reincarnation, I am not talking of consecutive destinies but of shared destinies,’ he said, immediately continuing to expand his point.

‘Stop it, Krishna! Your father died by his own choice. This doesn’t mean you need to follow in his footsteps,’ interrupted Marcel.

I brought down my eyes. Krishna was not there. I saw Chandra, standing at the kitchen door, giving me a reprimanding look.

Chandra did not understand English. I gestured to ask about Krishna. Without responding, he went back into the kitchen.

‘Where did Krishna go?’ I asked Marcel.

‘Krishna?’ Marcel asked.

I did not answer him and he went back to reading his magazine. A few minutes later Krishna showed up again. He had walked in from outside and was soaking wet. He had a flower in hand and a sack over his shoulder. The sack was bloody and wet.

‘Where did you disappear?’ I asked him.

He laughed briskly. ‘In search of my father’s shadow,’ he said and rapidly swallowed his laughter. The Rajabai Clock bell rang again. Krishna, assuming it was the doorbell, stood up to go open the door.

‘Sit down,’ I said.

He went to the door, opened it and after a few seconds closed it, and came back again.

‘The old boy has got you too delusional,’ I said, pointing to Chandra who was back at the door of the kitchen, not taking his hostile eyes away from me.

‘I went out. I saw a Muslim who threw stones at the chameleon.’

‘Chameleon?’

‘It was sitting right here on the branches, hiding under the banyan leaves.’

‘Was it afraid of the Muslim?’

‘It had taken refuge from the rain.’

‘Was it waiting for the rain to stop?’

Krishna did not reply and I did not follow up. Two minutes later he continued, ‘Its skin will lose its quality if it gets wet. You know that, don’t you?’

I called out to Marcel. He was not there. ‘Did you see Marcel?’

‘Marcel?’

I stood up to go look for him, tell him to forget about shooting tomorrow.

‘He might have gone to bed,’ Krishna shouted after me.

I did not find him in the bedroom. I came back to the living room. ‘I couldn’t find him. He wasn’t there.’

Krishna was lying down on the floor, wrapped in a sheet. It was not nighttime yet and no sane person would sleep so early in the evening. I pushed the sheet aside. Krishna had buried his face in the pillow. He raised his head.

‘I am the boy, the old boy,’ he said, in English.

His face was Chandra’s face. The bell rang. It was not the Clock’s. I went and opened the door. Nobody was there. A few steps away, a shadow was thrown on the floor. It could be Rama Krishna’s shadow. It was totally still. Its outline was exactly what one would expect from the pictures of Rama Krishna on the walls. I returned. The lights were on again. As I was closing the door, I noticed Surya. It leapt, throwing itself into the hallway. I closed the door. I walked to the kitchen, took a beer from the fridge, and walked back to the living room. Surya followed me around. Chandra stood up, collected his bed, and went back to the kitchen, his haven. Surya tottered towards the windowsill. The Clock bell rang nineteen times.

With no real intentions, I went back to the door. The rain kept pouring, not seeming to want to stop. Krishna was at the door. He had gone out to shop for dinner. He had seen Marcel going to the Clock Tower under the rain.

‘You didn’t say why the Muslim threw stones at the chameleon,’ I said.

‘Did you see my father’s shadow?’ Krishna replied.

‘I saw him but he had no head,’ I said and laughed.

Krishna ran to the sack he had put on the armoire, took it, and threw it out of the open window.

‘Bastards! They finally did what they were hoping for! They took revenge at last,’ he said angrily.

‘Revenge?’

‘The Muslim hated chameleons. It was a chameleon that had betrayed the Muslim prophet who had gone into hiding in a cave. Changing colors, it had showed the way to the infidels. The prophet had cursed the chameleon, demanding his followers to kill the innocent creature wherever they saw it.’

‘So?’

‘The chameleon was my mother’s passion, my father’s love and mine. The Muslim had no right to kill it. He killed the poor animal and I killed him. I beheaded him and brought in the head. Perhaps he has taken revenge by beheading my father’s ghost. I hope he finds his head soon and gives back my father’s.’

I told Krishna to sit down. I brought him a beer. I opened the bottle for him.

‘Do you remember our first meeting? We were sitting on this very couch and I was talking about the differences between religions, and you kept repeating an irritating refrain: There is no difference. There is no difference. Meaning that Allah is Krishna and Krishna is Rama and Rama is Buddha and Buddha is Jesus and . . .’

‘I’m still of the same opinion: There is no difference. But what does that have to do with this?’

‘You keep talking about reincarnation. The Muslim has a superstition of his own,’ I said.

Krishna took a gulp of beer. ‘They are a world apart, reincarnation and this superstition.’

‘So in the end there is a difference.’ He took another gulp. ‘I still say what I have always said: There is no difference. This is a different matter. The chameleon hadn’t harmed anyone. I loved it, like I loved my mother, my father. It was dear to me, like the old boy, like Surya. What is the difference? There is no difference. No difference!’

The lights, which had gone out again, came back on. Chandra was now sitting next to me on the couch. I walked to the kitchen. I saw Krishna, squatting on the floor. He was playing his sitar but no sound rose from it. He himself was the one crying, nodding and reciting Khayyam. I walked back to the living room. Krishna was lying down on the couch, quiet, calm, holding on to his sitar. Chandra rose from the kitchen floor, shook himself clean, walked to the door, said something about the Rajabai Clock Tower, and pointed to the pictures on the wall, gesturing to me once again not to ask the son anything about the death of the father.

It was almost eight o’clock and Marcel was not yet back. Krishna turned to me and asked, ‘Did you understand what the boy was saying? My father threw himself down the Rajabai Clock Tower. Surya was the one showing him the secret path.’

‘Are you sure you saw Marcel?’ I asked.

‘Let’s go to Marcel,’ said Krishna.

The Clock bell started to ring again. It was to ring twenty times. Krishna rose halfway. I firmly held on to his arm and did not let him stand. He let out a dry laugh.

‘Don’t panic. I’m not going to go to the Tower. It’s useless with the rain. The moon should be up in the sky.’

I let go of his arm. He stood up and went to open the door. He came back with Rama Krishna’s shadow. It was still headless. Father and son sat down next to one another. The father was silent for a few minutes, then called out to Krishna. Chandra stood up from next to the shadow and walked to the kitchen. Krishna came out of the kitchen. With his white cuffs he wiped his face and came and sat down at his father’s feet. He started playing his sitar.

The Clock bell rang nineteen times. I rose to head out. Surya was not on the windowsill. The father’s shadow was not there. The son was not there.

‘I’m sorry. I know you won’t be coming back. So give my regards to Marcel,’ said Krishna.

I walked out. The rain kept pouring, not seeming to want to stop. At the door of the house, I came face to face with the Muslim. He was throwing stones at Surya. Surya leapt away. The stone hit the window of Krishna’s house. A headless shadow appeared at the window. There was not much of a distance between the house and the Rajabai Clock Tower. Ten minutes later, Marcel and I were standing in front of the Tower under the summer rain, with not much to say to one another. I looked up. Surya was fast ascending the back stairs of the Tower, lighting the secret path for the son.