I come from the heart of a family who lives in a welcoming house in an old parish, with water streams flowing in its small alleys, watering the trees to keep my childhood memories green--forever. This is my beloved land, which is surrounded by high mountains. Beyond the mountains towards the sun is the forest and beyond the forest is the Caspian Sea; a never-ending blue. Towards the south sits the desert, spreading out its feverish solidness, so wide, with a burning breeze that turns and twists to repeat my cradle lullabies for eternity.
I want to breathe in the air of the old market that once got ruined by flood. My memories are buried there; washed out. I have walked there with my grandmother when her arms were the only shelter. Our footprints are still there, somewhere unseen, beneath the visible traces of the crowd who has just walked and passed there. The aroma of the warm, fresh baked bread blends with the holy sound of the evening prayer coming from the old shrine that had the oldest Plane tree. That is when I want my hands to pour millet for the pigeons; they fly toward me--prrrrrrrrrrr... I die to hear that sound one more time. On the way back home, there is a waiting line for the cab. I can even walk; it won’t take more than 10 minutes to get home. I would have walked if I were there now. I long to touch the moist, cracked walls of the huge gardens in our street. Those gardens are full of lilacs, Judas trees, roses, pearl flowers, vine trees and jasmines... Our house was where the fragrance of the lilacs weaved into the aroma of saffron and the cracked walls transformed into the big, blue stones of a wall surrounding a small, white, wooden door, waiting to welcome us home. Inside our four bedroom house, a kerosene heater with its curved smoke-stack connecting to the wall was in the corner of a large sitting area filled with comfortable burgundy chairs where my father used to read Hafiz and Rumi’s poetry to me. In the winter time, on top of the hot heater there were always some sour oranges cut in half, each one holding a sugar cube in the middle to soothe our throats and to sweet-smelling the house. A large balcony faced our beautiful garden. In the middle of the garden, there was a small pool that had a fountain and some fish. Among our plants and trees I loved our purple lilacs the most. They smelled like heaven. A set of white chairs and large pots of Jasmine, which is called “Yaas” in Farsi, were the decorations on the balcony. My grandmother used to pick fresh Jasmines every morning and place them in a crystal bowl, half filled with water to put on the breakfast table. She used to make a chain of Yaas, putting the stem of one flower into the center of another one. When the strand was long enough, she would coil it around my thin neck into the most beautiful necklace I have ever seen. Then she would hang a couple of twin red cherries from my ears to give me the sweetest earrings in the world, and that was the meaning of happiness to me. I used to go to sleep on my grandmother’s feet while she was singing me my favorite lullaby: Lalalala, Go to sleep my darling You are my white flower I won’t ever leave you I will sit beside your cradle forever. Don’t look for your dad Close your eyes Your dad is gone to the war He will come back as soon as you sleep. Close your big, brown eyes Close your eyes Lala lalalala lala. Those days are just memories now. My grandmother is gone; no jasmines. Even those walls don’t have cracks anymore. Flood has washed out the old market. The shrine is rebuilt and the old plane tree—like me—is not there anymore. I want to go back to my city, to my people. Our roots are tied to each other; we have something in common. Even with the beggar who is sitting on the ground with an artificial leg and a note to beg for money, in front of an empty bowl. The money I might not give away to feed him, but buy an ice cream for my daughter with, instead, so cruel; even then, we have something in common. There are no borders between our mentalities, even if I live across the borderline. There... that is my land, on the other side of the ocean, and my home, right behind the desert. I want to pass through the burning sands and go back towards the Sun. I want to go back to the shore that its soil I adore. I want to go back to Tehran. |
Scheherazade sat in the balcony, holding a cigarette in between her delicate fingers, listened to an old Italian love-song, looked at the sky and thought to herself:
No matter what, I'm not going to tell anymore stories…. |
I am the breaker of the innocence. The very first seduction.
I wonder when would the innocence arise to lose its virginity if he never knew me. For a long time it was only me and him. He only watched me. I made him think. My skin shimmered under the happy rays of the sun. I danced and knew he watched me. There was only one question then; it was a simple world after all: To go for desire or To wait for a promise? One day he came closer. Mesmerized by the pink of my skin, he stared. I was still wet from the early morning rain... The drops of water, absorbing the light, sparkled through his innocent eyes.... I let him smell my fresh scent. He held me. Touched my skin... The aroma of the sweet juice of my being drove him insane. He did not want any promise anymore. Heaven was in his hands. Pleasure melted inside his mouth...... I seduced the first, innocent man on the earth. He fell in love. Thousands of years later.... I still remind the mankind of the very first sin-that I was. Life is not as simple as those days anymore. I am not the only one glowing. There is not only one man. Innocence is long gone. Portraits of me on the galleries' walls or drawn by the small hands of a five year old boy, the perfume is lost, but the muse inside narrates my story and his. Sculptures being me that cost a fortune, or the plastic ones at the Pottery Barn worth few dollars per bag, they are all me. First ones are innocent; the plastic ones are the real sin. The apple. |
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I remember you |
I remember...
I remember you... I remember always waiting for you... I remember sitting at the breakfast table with Mama... She'd make me Lavash rolls—feta cheese and butter... Tea and sugar. I loved stirring my sweet tea with the silver, small tea-spoon and making a wet tornado inside my glass......watching the circles going down, deeper and deeper, getting smaller and smaller, until the last small circle, as tiny as a point, met the big, thick, clear one—the bottom of my glass... and I was waiting for you to wake up and look at the lonely girl that I drew for you last night who got lost in so many circles, she drew with the tiny point of her dark grey pencil point... It was around the afternoon that you'd usually wake up... Hearing the groan of the hinge of the wooden door of your room, would make my stomach feel funny.....feeling tremor in my heart... You were finally awake. Thank God! You'd take a shower—I'd count the drops... I can not remember how many drops of water you needed to wash the sleep off... But I can remember the count of the tear drops, rolling down on my face, and my hopeless stare, after you did not have time to look at my lost girl......the lost, little girl, I was generously displaying... maybe you'd want to find and bring back home... Standing in front of the white wooden door—waving hands... Good-bye! Your car leaves... I go in... Waiting for you. Late in the night... I'd close my eyes... Wishing in my heart, you'd stay with me tomorrow... I'd fall asleep... Waking up... Good morning! Mama and I... Tea and sugar... Another wet tornado... Another lost girl. I wait for you. I remember, I remember you... |