In the end, he had no other choice but to break a twig off the haoma plant and stick it up the decrepit demon’s nose. The enormous old demon awoke with a sneeze and then, with sleep-eyelids heavy, he calmly asked the Soothsayer what he wanted. The Soothsayer explained the problem of the dreams and asked the demon to leave his people alone so they could return to a normal life. The Demon of Sleep, unable even to recall which people and which village the Soothsayer was referring to, said, “I’m not the one who goes after people; it is always the people who come after me. Now, go back. This very night they will all have dreams such that they will no longer want to sleep during the day.” No sooner had the demon spoken these words than he fell back into a deep sleep.
After three days and nights when the Soothsayer arrived at the village with a thousand worries that the demon may not have kept his word, he found it more full of activity than it had ever been. The people had no recollection of the days and weeks they had spent in slumber; all they knew was that they had all had a strange, indescribable dream. Each villager would start to recount their dream, then stopping, would hurriedly add, “But that wasn’t it. The feeling was much worse. I can’t describe it.” All of them were in the same dream and though devoid of clear images, they all awoke with headaches and nausea and a sense of unease and distress. Upon realising that those who had died were no longer with them, they suddenly also noticed that the chicken coops had been half-emptied by night-raiding foxes and jackals; that in their search for fresh grass, the cows and sheep had broken stall doors and were wandering in the forests, fields and rice paddies, eating half of the green rice plants; and spiders had spun their webs everywhere; creeping flowers and plants had entered their rooms; and beds smelt of death and sex and nightmare-induced sweat. So, when the First Soothsayer entered the village, happy yet exhausted from his long journey, everyone was so busy catching up on all their work that no one turned to look at him or make the effort to return his greetings.
* * *
1Ecclesiastes 1:14; 1:16.
2Knotting sprouts is an ancient tradition that is practised at the time of Nowruz, the Iranian New Year and first day of spring. The green blades that are grown by each family are tied together and wishes are made. It is believed that if the knot comes untied the wish will come true.
3A table that is laid out for Nowruz, the New Year, with seven symbolic items that all begin with the letter sin.
4A date in the Iranian calendar. The Gregorian equivalent is 03.03.1834.
5In Persian ku, a shortened version of koja, means ‘where’.
6Money that has to be paid by the groom to the wife at the time of marriage.
7A system by which the 28 letters of the Arabic alphabet are assigned numerical values. The name abjad comes from the first four letters in Semitic alphabets (A-B-J-D). One of its uses was in numerology, and magic talismans and amulets.
8A mystical script similar to abjad but where each letter of the Arabic alphabet is replaced by a letter with a vertical line from which varying numbers of perpendicular lines protrude at an angle resembling a tree. Shajara means “tree” in Arabic. Shajara was used like abjad.
9A way of calculating words written in abjad numerals that was sometimes used in talismans and treasure maps, etc.
10The occult science of reviving the dead.
11The occult science of capturing jinns and spirits.
12A plant and its divinity, both of which play a role in Zoroastrian doctrine and Persian mythology. The haoma plant is thought to be a type of ephedra and had ritual applications when it was pressed and drunk.
15
When Hushang turned the old key in the lock on the iron gate and heard the whine of its rusty hinges, he found himself looking at the same large, flower-filled yard, and the same ancient pine and buttonwood trees that had inhabited it since his birth. The dogwood trellis, and under it sat his mother, father and old grandfather, drinking saffron or sour cherry tea as they had every afternoon for as long as he could remember. They smiled over at him as if from an eternal framed photograph. After all the tragic, futile suffering and upheaval, he found himself once again face to face with a little piece of paradise. He was not surprised to see that scene again after so many years. They smiled at him as if from the picture’s eternal script, as though for ages they had been waiting for him to insert his now-rusty key into the lock of their Qajar house, appear before them with dishevelled grey hair, pale face and desperate eyes, and ask, “Is there still room for me in this house?”
Nobody asked questions. Not his mother, Gordafarid, nor his father, Jamshid, and not even his grandfather, Manuchehr. They let him drift for days from room to room, from terrace to sitting room, from living room to storage room, from library to basement. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. He opened cupboard doors and stood staring at their contents, feeling them just like a curious and aimless little boy, or staring at their mysterious emptiness. He went to the attic and basement, opening the locks on ancient suitcases and chests and spending hours fiddling with the old, dusty objects within. He gazed at them as if they were speaking to him beyond language and history, telling him tales of their fate in his absence. He touched old statues, Qajar paintings, paintings by Kamaleddin Behzad,1 and calligraphy by Mir Emad.2 He moved handwoven silk carpets aside, and remembering the silkworms he raised in Razan, carefully inspected their corners and knots.
He spent hours locked in the library without reading a single page; he flipped through books, smelt them. He examined notes written in the margins and tried to guess or remember which handwriting was his own, which was Khosro’s, and which belonged to his father and grandfather. He looked at the book stamps, at the large notebook with an alphabetic catalogue by subject of all the books, at their classification written years ago in his and Khosro’s hand. Every book he touched was more than a book. It was a memory. His entire destiny. It was nostalgia.
He recalled how years ago—so long ago he couldn’t even remember what he looked like at the time—he and Khosro had spent days arranging all five thousand seven hundred and thirty-two books in alphabetical order, and classified them according to subject. Oh, how they had enjoyed this! He remembered how they first thought it would only take them a week to finish, but by the end of that first day they realised how wrong they were. As if it were possible to pick up a book and simply write the classification numbers and letters on its cover and then send it off to a bookshelf! Once they had a book in hand, who knew when they would put it down again? They skimmed through them, allowing passages to catch them like fishing nets and carry them down into the depths of their sea. They would read sections aloud and discuss them. Then suddenly they would realise that hours had passed and all the books were still strewn around them on the floor; the dinner their mother, Gordafarid, had brought had gone cold, and they were still sunk in books they had picked up that morning. Even after his father and grandfather came to help them, the situation didn’t much improve, the only difference being that now four people were lost in reading. They discussed books they had in hand, argued, wrote notes in the margins, and then had no choice but to temporarily abandon them to continue the classification.
A faint smile played on his lips as he turned and smelt pages in the uncensored family library, recalling that that hadn’t even been the half of it. As they worked on the classification, each of them also went—as was tradition—to buy books once a week from the bookstores on Nasser Khosro, and later Enghelab Street; and if it hadn’t been for Gordafarid’s timely scolding, who knows when the work would have been completed. But four months later, the library was organised in a way befitting of it. A desk was placed along each of the four walls, and a six-person Italian furniture set sat upon Qajar-era carpets from Kashan so there would be a place to rest. Yes, it is true, the first and last of the family’s hereditary manias, was a mania for reading.
Now after all these years, as he wandered back and forth enraptured by memories of his youth, Dad missed Khosro more
than ever. Even though they hadn’t lived together for years, so much of their happy childhood, youth and young adulthood was spent exchanging thoughts and experiences, that nobody would have imagined that life would subsequently keep them so far apart.
Continuing with an almost childlike curiosity, Dad went to the kitchen, examined the old ceramic dishes and copper pots, then used them to make himself a fried egg. He stood for hours behind the stained-glass windows watching the tiny flecks of dust suspended mid-air in the coloured shafts of sunlight. Who knew … perhaps he was looking for his childhood, or years lost and forgotten spent in that multi- storied, eighteen-bedroom house with its vestibules, pointed barrel vaults and coloured sash windows. Perhaps he was still following the mysterious fragrance of his beloved Roza’s body and the memory of the very first time her presence graced its corridors.
After days of a kind of malaise, he finally made a decision, and found his centre of gravity: a place that had remained as untouched as all the house’s walls and carpets and coloured windows. A place that had remained safe from the invasion of savage forces outside: the library; the large, old, uncensored library.
Despite this and even with all of his silence, Dad’s return to his father’s house brought with it a sense of youthful excitement. Those who became youthful were Gordafarid, Jamshid, and Manuchehr. They got up before dawn. Jamshid went to the bakery, Manuchehr put on a record of Badi’zade, opened the windows, and sprayed water on the courtyard, while Gordafarid started getting things ready for breakfast. When the fragrance of tea and fresh sangak bread3 was wafting through the house, they woke the young one in their midst—though now an old man with grey hair—and let the sound of Badi’zade penetrate the fibres of his being. They spread the tablecloth on the floor, on the Qajar-era carpets or on the platform in the courtyard, and by the time they were all seated and had sweetened their tea, the sounds of their soft “Good mornings” spread a sense of gaiety throughout the house and garden. Enchanted by the scent of jasmine and four o’clock flowers, Hushang began to talk, to forget the few happy days he had spent in Razan. He spoke about the nice weather, about the changes he saw in Tehran, about concerns with losing the family home to the mayor. But not about Razan, no! Not about Roza, or Beeta, Sohrab or me. Never!
Grandma and Granddad explained that the mayor had personally come to their house and garden under various pretexts to express his interest in purchasing it, but eventually gave up trying to bribe them, which was when the intimidation began. First, they threw Khosro into prison for his mystical beliefs. But even though he knew what it was really all about, Khosro refused to meet with the mayor to tell him to cease his games. It was thus that the mayor found himself again without ammunition. He didn’t give up, however, instead seeking revenge by at least having the house demolished. He proceeded by approving a proposal for a new highway and sent a demolition order for their home; so, for months, the bulldozers have been ready to come and flatten the trees and that beautiful Qajar house, out of spite. The thing is, despite such huge threats, neither Grandma or Granddad were angry or depressed, nor was Great-Granddad Manuchehr, who had lived longer than even the trees in the courtyard. When Dad asked them anxiously what they were going to do, Granddad simply replied, “I don’t care what he does, we’re not budging,” finishing the sweetened tea he was drinking in a single gulp.
And it was thus that Dad gradually found his place in the house. He had such a thirst for reading that he didn’t care if it was Sophocles or Bertrand Russell. The only thing that mattered was that he connected with the world’s thinkers and thus ensured his distance from the contemporary world of intellectual midgets that had overrun the country. He wanted to elevate his mind again. Over time, he structured his studies. For a while he read ancient plays, then Iranian and Mesopotamian mythology, then tomes on ancient religions. Later, he read political theory, sociology and ideological thought; and the role of religions in war, and human beings’ intellectual rigidity. He read books about the Arab invasion of Iran and the reasons for the collapse of the Sassanian Empire, and compared them with the reasons for the fall of the Shah and the foundation of the Islamic Republic. He remembered many things he had known and read before his books were burned, but which seemed themselves to have fallen victim to fire. It was then he realised that sorrow brings oblivion.
Eventually, Hushang reached contemporary Iranian history; the place where all his questions turned into bottomless chasms. He bought the newspaper every day, and though he knew that much of it was devoid of truth, he wanted to know what had become of the rest of the population while he had been away—after the war, after the mass executions, after the flight of the educated and wealthy from the country. He still didn’t have the courage to leave the house, to walk among people in the streets who, either through their silence or their ignorance, had practically killed others to take their places. He still couldn’t forgive: not others, and not himself.
When Nietzsche was writing Beyond Good and Evil, I’m sure the last thing he thought was that one day it would result in the spiritual reconciliation of two brothers. Perhaps if Hushang hadn’t picked up the book that day, he would never have had the chance to take Khosro into his arms and relive his childhood with him. Khosro appeared in the room muttering to himself, “There’s not a single person who knows what is good and what is evil!” Standing there, his body now half transparent so great was his spiritual ascent, puffing on his hand-rolled bidi cigarette and blowing its fragrant smoke into the air, he said firmly, “The line between the two has always been clear”.
Of course, Hushang was not surprised by Khosro’s diminished opacity. These types of things always happened. That was why he began the endless discussion with his brother that would be continued in books beyond his own lifetime. It was a discussion that illustrated how differently they thought, and yet taught them just how close they still were despite the distance and differences, and how much they had missed each other over all these years. By the end of the day after their qorme sabzi got cold twice and was no longer edible, they were still discussing their experiences and thoughts so passionately, that in the end they embraced and kissed, their eyes wet with childlike ecstasy.
The next morning, though, Dad continued studying separately. He still wanted to know how the Iranian culture and civilization, with all its grandeur and creativity, with its belief in good thoughts, good words, and good deeds,4 had collapsed and reached such depths. Uncle Khosro, on the other hand, truly did not want to know anything. He just wanted to float like an innocent being in a stream of cosmic consciousness and utter acceptance, and occasionally appear in a library somewhere in the world to read a book.
At first it angered Dad to see that all Khosro did in the face of the monumental social and familial injustice was to appear and disappear in absolute stillness and serenity from home to library to ancient temple high in the Himalayas; not even caring to watch Iranian television or listen to international radio. Dad thought, Doesn’t he see all the killings, unemployment, depression, the lack of prospects, and the disillusioned people? Put simply, Dad was angry. Angry with himself, angry with society, and with the world; and he dumped all these unanswered questions on his brother. But just as he was about to bombard him with questions, his eyes fell on the soft, clear lines on Khosro’s face as he sat with childlike serenity in meditation under a buttonwood tree in the corner of the courtyard. He thought he should take more time to understand his younger brother; a brother whom he knew all these years, had been a seeker. He knew he’d spent years in India, Tibet and Siberia learning from shamans, mystics and ascetics. He knew his brother could read mysterious ancient scripts, and who had manuscripts, each with the spiritual and material value of an entire museum. He knew Khosro had been through his share of hardships; he had been to prison, and years ago, his wife had cheated on him and fled to France with a wealthy woman where the fight for gay rights had just begun. He knew Khosro’s failure in love had dealt him such a blow that forever after, he�
�d shied away from the ties of a serious relationship, although in India he once fell desperately in love with a female mystic who had devoted herself to a rat temple. He knew he had travelled endlessly; taken unknown, endless roads that led to other unknown, endless roads. He read books and meditated just enough to become astute in human relationships.
Instead of reprimanding his brother, Hushang thought it better to take a look inward and ask himself what he had done all these years. A heady question with a depressing answer. It was thus that he locked himself in his study room away from Khosro and the others, and began to berate himself. What had he done save letting all those catastrophes crumble down upon himself and his family? In moving to Razan then returning to Tehran, hadn’t he just run away from the uncontrollable bitterness of his life? He concluded that much of what influences our lives, happens in our absence. He concluded that if he hadn’t given up and run away to Razan when the Revolution started and I was killed, but instead, had tried to start and guide even a small movement with like-minded people, at least he would have felt better about himself now. Then he thought about Mohammad Mokhtari,5 Parvaneh and Dariush Fravahar,6 and Mohammad Puyande.7 He thought about executed bloggers and social activists who had just appeared in an article or the news, after years of silence. Despite all the strict censorship implemented by the Ministries of Islamic Guidance and Intelligence, you could still find informed critical commentary about the state of Iranian society in some books, and here and there in literary and social science publications. He thought, It seems society is still alive. It’s breathing. It’s reacting to excess. If he’d been like them, if he’d worked and at least formed a music group instead of leaving behind music altogether, would he not have contributed what he could to society? If he had not stayed his fiery tongue, it would surely have cost him his life. What then would have become of Roza? Oh Roza … Roza … Roza … Where are you?!
The Enlightenment of the Greengage Tree Page 19