My father sits cross-legged on the carpet, his usual spot, as if it’s his throne. On the table, there’s nothing but his glasses and a worn notebook, its pages crowded with scribbled thoughts and half-finished poetry. He leans back, his gaze traveling up to the ceiling, as though his next thought is hidden in its shadows.
“I am Bahram Gur,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. “And lice won’t let me sleep.”
I glance at him, confused by the abruptness. “What?”
“It’s from the first Persian poem,” he explains, a sly grin appearing. “Two thousand years ago, a Sasanian prince wrote it as a lament. Lice plagued him so much he couldn’t sleep. It’s earthy, raw, our history at its most human.”
He chuckles, then shakes his head. “Back then, cow urine was perfume. They’d even wash their hands with it.”
I laugh, unsure where he’s leading. His gaze sharpens as he turns toward me.
“Did you know your grandfather never let anything define him? Not religion, not nationalism. He searched for truth but never let it own him. He always stayed open.”
He adjusts his position, his tone softening as he dives into a story. “When I was a boy, your grandfather was strict about discipline. Every morning, before the sun was up, he’d wake me. From six to seven, I had to sit with the grown-ups, listening to lessons on Islamic jurisprudence. By the time school started, my mind was already buzzing with legal texts.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And you were just a kid?”
He smiles faintly. “It wasn’t just that. After school, the adults would gather again in the evenings to record the day’s events and argue about the rulings from the Sharia court. I had no choice but to sit quietly and absorb everything. Those moments taught me discipline and sharpened my thinking.”
He pauses, then his expression shifts to something softer. “But it wasn’t all discipline. Your grandfather had a way of making life simple. Every few weeks, we’d pack into the car and drive out to Nain or the nearby villages. We’d stop on the way to eat bread and yogurt—whatever we could carry. Once, he bought a dozen fresh eggs and insisted they were from that very morning. Your mother doubted it, of course, but the man swore on everything he had that they were fresh.”
I laugh. “And were they?”
“Does it matter? It was the simplicity of it. Life was about trusting small joys.” He leans back, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “He never clung to religion or the nation. He believed in what worked. That’s how he lived. Practical, yet principled.”
He sighs, shifting in his seat. “The day wasn’t just about study and chores, though. Evenings were different. Women in the village had their own gatherings. There was a woman named Roghieh who made Ash soup every summer. Nothing fancy—just herbs and a bit of flour. People would know it was ready by six o’clock and come together to eat and talk. It’s funny how something so small could bring people close.”
I nod, picturing the scene, and he continues. “Men improvised, too. They’d sit on steps, in squares, or anywhere shaded. There was no planned space for socializing, but we made it work. That’s what village life was—adapting to what we had.”
His expression darkens slightly. “But cities were different. In Nain, everyone knew each other, and connections came naturally. In Isfahan, people moved so fast, and nobody cared who you were. I remember how the people in Nain treated us, even when we had to leave. They always said, ‘The Imams’ house will never be empty.’ But when we got to the city, we were just another family. No one even looked at us twice.”
I pause, sensing the weight of his words. “And there was this case… I’ve never forgotten it. A woman remarried, thinking her husband was dead. But he came back. Under the law, she had to return to him, even if she’d had five husbands since. But there was a catch: the man had to prove he was the original husband.”
I frown. “How would he do that?”
“He pleaded in our dialect, ‘Qasim, Qasimo!’ It means, ‘I am Qasim!’ but with a flair unique to Nain, like adding ‘the’ in English. Still, he couldn’t prove it. He left defeated. Justice was different then—not necessarily better, just different.”
I ask, “What about traditions like Chaharshanbe Suri? Were they the same back then?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. The Zoroastrian roots were strong. People would throw coins in jars or light fires on rooftops to ward off evil. It wasn’t about fireworks; it was about community. Even your grandfather believed in its symbolism—eating greens in the last days of the year to stay healthy or pouring water to cleanse the house.”
I pause, considering his stories. “What about the water shortages in Nain? Didn’t it used to be better?”
He sighs again, this time deeply. “It was. The qanats brought water to everyone. Rainfall was predictable, and the springs overflowed. Now, they’re drying up. Even places like Azerbaijan, which were never short of water, are struggling. They say rainfall has dropped 20%, but I’d say it’s closer to 90%. Your grandfather kept meticulous notes on rainfall—every week, every year. Once, he recorded 150 hours of rain in a year. Can you imagine that now?”
I shake my head, feeling the weight of his words. He changes the subject, his voice firmer now. “Did you know Will Durant called Islam one of the harshest religions?”
I hesitate. “What do you think about that?”
He leans forward. “The Quran was revealed for its time. Arabs lived in chaos—constant wars over a goat or a well. Fear and structure were necessary. But if you look closer, the Quran isn’t about brutality—it’s about reflection. It asks, ‘Do you think? Do you understand?’ That’s its miracle—its push for progress.”
He gestures toward his notebook. “Even verses about women were revolutionary. Arabs used to bury their daughters alive out of shame. The Quran compared women to gardens, precious and nurturing. It encouraged kindness and respect in ways those people had never seen.”
I nod, sensing the depth of his conviction. “Would you want your grandson to be Muslim?”
He looks at me, thoughtful. “If religion matters to him, then yes. I’d want him to have a faith that grounds him. Christianity and Judaism served their times, but Islam is timeless. It’s forward-looking, not bound to a single place or people.”
“But,” he adds, “faith isn’t about blind belief. It’s about structure, hope, and accountability. If he finds that elsewhere, then so be it.”
He looks at me, his voice steady. “You’re not my tool, you know. You’re my legacy. You’re supposed to go further than I did.”
The room falls silent. He picks up his notebook, flipping through its pages, seeking refuge in its rhythm. As I watch him, I realize this isn’t just a history lesson. It’s a gift—a map to navigate the chaos of today, drawn with lessons from the past.
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