About Me
My Elegy..
I come from the heart of a family who lives in awelcoming house in an old parish, with water streamsflowing in its small alleys, watering the trees to keepmy childhood memories green-forever. This is my belovedland, which is surrounded by high mountains. Beyond themountains towards the sun is the forest and beyond theforest is the Caspian Sea; a never-ending blue. Towardsthe south sits the desert, spreading out its feverishsolidness, so wide, with a burning breeze that turns andtwists to repeat my cradle lullabies for eternity.
I want to breathe in the air of the old market thatonce got ruined by flood. My memories are buried there;washed out. I have walked there with my grandmother whenher arms were the only shelter. Our footprints are stillthere, somewhere unseen, beneath the visible traces ofthe crowd who has just walked and passed there. The aromaof the warm, fresh baked bread blends with the holy soundof the evening prayer coming from the old shrine that hadthe oldest Plane tree.
That is when I want my hands topour millet for the pigeons; they fly toward me-prrrrrrrrrrr...........
I die to hear that sound onemore time...
On the way back home, there is a waitingline for the cab. I can even walk; it wont take more than10 minutes to get home. I would have walked if I werethere now. I long to touch the moist, cracked walls ofthe huge gardens in our street. Those gardens are full oflilacs, Judas trees, roses, pearl flowers, vine trees andjasmines. Our house was where the fragrance of the lilacsweaved in to the aroma of saffron and the cracked wallstransformed to the big, blue stones of a wall surroundinga small, white, wooden door, waiting to welcome us home.
Inside our four bedroom house, a kerosene heater withits curved smoke-stack connecting to the wall was in thecorner of a large sitting area filled with comfortable,burgundy chairs where my father used to read Hafiz andRumi's poetry to me. In the winter time, on top of thehot heater there was always some sour oranges cut inhalf, each one holding a sugar cube in the middle tosooth our throats and to sweet-smelling the house. Alarge balcony faced our beautiful garden. In the middleof the garden, there was a small pool that had a fountainand some fish. Among our plants and trees I loved ourpurple lilacs the most. They smelled like heaven.
A setof white chairs and large pots of Jasmine, which iscalled Yaas in Farsi, were the decorations on thebalcony. My grandmother used to pick fresh Jasmines everymorning and pour them in a crystal bowl, half filled withwater to put on the breakfast table. She used to make achain of Yaas, putting the stem of one flower inside thecenter of another one. When it was long enough she wouldcoil it around my thin neck in to the most beautifulnecklace I have ever seen; and would hang a couple oftwin, red cherries from my ears to also give me thesweetest earrings in the world-that was the meaning ofhappiness to me.
I used to go to sleep on mygrandmothers feet while she was singing me my favoritelullaby:
Lalalala....
Go to sleep my darling...
You aremy white flower
I wont ever leave you...
I will sitbeside your cradle forever.
Don't look for yourdad...
Close your eyes.....
Your dad is gone to the war..
He will come back assoon as you sleep...
Close your big, browneyes..
Close your eyes....
Lala lalalalalala............
Those days are just memories now.
My grandmother isgone-no jasmines.....
Even those walls don't have cracksanymore. Flood has washed out the old market. The shrineis rebuilt and the old plane tree-like me-is not thereanymore.
I want to go back to my city, to my people. Our rootsare tied to each other; we have something in common. Evenwith the beggar who is sitting on the ground with anartificial leg and a note to beg for money, in front ofan empty bowl. The money I might not give away to feedhim, but buy an ice cream for my daughter with, instead,so cruel; even then, we have something in common. Thereare no borders between our mentalities, even if I liveacross the borderline.
There........ that is my land,on the other side of the ocean, and my home, right behindthe desert. I want to pass through the burning sands andgo back towards the Sun. I want to go back to the shorethat its soil I adore.
I want to go back to Tehran....
