To Arundhati Roy
The news had disturbed everyone when I was playing with my friends in the street. In my childhood, a man knocked on our neighbour’s door, the Aramies house. Aramies disturbance house. Mrs Aramy, chubby and smiling, appeared in front of the man. I could not hear the man. He seemed very upset, but not as upset as Mrs Aramy became in a few seconds.
The news was revealed quietly in a single short sentence, like all bad news, probably. Mrs Aramy was staring at the man. Her decision to choose how to react only took a second. An extremely short second to decide to draw her hands to her neck. She pulled two lapels of the collar of her cotton long dress to opposite sides. Her scream lasted as long as the collar took to be torn from the top to the bottom of the dress. Mr Aramy rushed to the door. Now, his wife was sitting on the ground, crying and weeping. Mr Aramy leaned to the door. Neighbours in their pyjamas and chadors gathered around the mourner, old men and women. Amidst a crowd of legs, I reached my mum’s chador and stuck to her warm thigh. My mum’s body was shaking bit by bit. I raised my head. Her face was wrinkled. She was crying.
Dum Dum.
He was wearing an army uniform and definitely heading to their home. He was on leave. It was the first and the last time that the idea of such ridiculous troublemaking came to my mind. It was noon sharp. I escaped from the nap to press our neighbour’s doorbell and run. The bell of Kamaly’s house, as they did not have any children at my age, so there would not be any fight afterwards. I could not reach the bell. I had not thought of the height of the bell. I found a dry and narrow branch from the flower bed. The man was coming from the end of the street. It was useless. The branch was too short and narrow. The man was behind me. I should not run. Running was planned to happen after ringing.
‘Can’t you reach the ring, darling?’
I turned back. It was Mehran. Mehran was wearing an army uniform and he definitely was heading to their home. He was on leave. His forehead was covered with shining drops of sweat. It was a hot sunny day. Looking at Mehran, I kept my head up. I felt dumb. My neck was aching. Mehran went to the door. His khaki uniform, soaked with sweat, was sticking to his back. I saw his hand which was moving toward the ring. I wished the power would go off so the ring does not sound but the monotonous hum of coolers that came from all yards until the very last moment ensured me that it will not happen. Mehran’s index finger went to the doorbell and pressed the button. The loud ding-dong filled my ears. I threw the branch and ran off.
I could imagine that Mehran had been left open-mouthed and Mr Kamaly with lots of beards had opened the door and faced an open-mouthed soldier, Mehran, who had not any excuse for his troublemaking, especially on such sharp noon. I had left our door open. I rushed into the yard and closed the door. I was panting. What if Mehran directly comes to our place and tells everything to my parents? I pricked up my ears and waited. I heard the unencumbered steps of Mehran’s combat boots that stopped at their door. Then the ding-dong of their doorbell. Once. Ding dong. Twice. The sound of their hall entrance. The sound of Mrs Aramy wearing her sandals and shuffling along the yard to the door.
‘Who is it?’
The door was opened. I could hear Mrs Aramy’s scream of joy and the smack of her lips kissing Mehran.
‘Welcome my dearest. You didn’t tell me that you have days off. I would give my life for you my beloved Mehran,’ she said.
The astonished voice of Mehran said, ‘Mum, Mr Kamaly’s daughter has grown up!’
And without any reason, I thought when I reached the age of Mr Kamaly’s daughter I would get engaged to an astonished soldier who rang our doorbell without any excuse and then apologized and headed to their house.
Dum Dum.
Mr Kamaly’s daughter, barefoot, ran to the crowd. Everyone stepped aside so that Mrs Aramy and Mr Kamaly’s daughter can hug each other. The chador of the daughter of Mr Kamaly slid and fell on her shoulders. Her hair was black and glossy and without hair claws or clips, flowing to her shoulders. My mum’s weeping rose a bit. They were sitting on the ground; Mrs Aramy without any intention to close her torn-up collar and Mr Kamaly’s daughter without any intention to cover her hair from men. Mr Kamaly’s daughter was slapping both sides of her face and repeating: Mehran, Mehran, Mehran, Mehran. And I thought when I reached the age of Mr Kamaly’s daughter I would not get engaged with an astonished soldier who rang our doorbell without any excuse and then apologised and headed to their house. Because without any doubt my fiancé will sink, be a martyr and finally die. Mehran sank, was martyred and finally died in the Arvand river.
Dum Dum
That night the street was decorated with colourful lights and Mehran’s photo, with some modifications and prettier than in life, was put on a table in front of their house for his memorial. It seemed that all people of the town were gathered in our street. A mourning song was playing from the loudspeakers. Amidst the crowd, cries, tears and dates. I took myself to the Aramies. I was looking for my mum but the compression of black worn hips did not let me see the faces. Like an ant that can find its way, I took myself to the door of Mehran’s room. The doorknob was too stiff for me. I held it tight in my hands and dangled from it and the door opened. Mehran’s bedroom was the only peaceful place in the house. Six young girls were sitting there, quietly making confetti. Mehran’s sister, who recently was married, was among the girls tearing silently and cutting the colourful papers. I was afraid of being asked to leave the room but none of the girls cared about me. I sat mutely beside the door and watched them cutting the shining paper, unaware that on this sad occasion these happy colourful ornaments would increase the weeping and sorrow. They will remind everyone of the never-happened wedding of Mehran and Mr Kamaly’s daughter.
The day after, it was almost noon when I woke up. No one was around. I could hear a hum from outside. I opened the front door. There was pandemonium. Women and men were standing in the street. In a circle they awaited the beginning of an event. I could not get to the centre of the people through the legs. Suddenly someone grabbed me by the armpit and picked me up. It was a young man who I knew. A relative of my dad. He sat me on his shoulders.
‘Can you see darling?’
I trembled when I heard the word darling.
Can’t you reach the ring, darling?
I could see. Young boys made the innermost ring of the crowd. Some instruments like drums were hung from their necks. Everyone was wearing black. A man who was standing at the centre of the circle was holding a long stick at the top of which a large red flag hung. Everyone was silent. The man roared: Ya Husayn! The crowd answered: Ya Ali!
The man waved the flag above the crowd and the ritual began. The silk cloth slid softly in the air, waving and snuggling around the stick. Then with the next move it separated from the stick and passed over our heads. Flags were going and coming back and forth in the sky over my head; red, blue, red, blue, red.
Dum dum
dum dum
D d dum dum
The drums emitted a loud bass sound. One stroke, two strokes, gradually the rhythm developed. The drummers were moving their heads with every stroke. It was like a bitter dance. Then the clang of small cymbals raised; Chi Chi
D d dum dadum dum dum
chi chi
cha cha chack cha chack
chi chi
ta ta tam tatam dam dam
cha cha chack cha chack
dum dum
cha cha chack cha chack
chi chi
ta ta tam tatam dam dam
Dum dum
I could see that the faces of the boys were wrinkled. They were crying and playing.
Cha cha chack cha chack
Dum dum
With the dramatic gestures of the man who had said Ya Husayn, gradually, the strokes slackened. Now, only one person was tapping on his drum. Mehran’s brother. A lone brother with a serious but sad face. The man who had said Ya Husayn shouted: Ya Ali. And the veins on his forehead and neck bulged. His face became blue. Mehran’s brother left the drum and almost fainted. There was dead silence. The silence whistled in my head, in my ears and my mind was still repeating the sound of drums and cymbals.
Almost two months later, Mr Kamaly’s daughter got married. Silently. To Mehran’s brother. Serious but sad. Serious but happy.
Cha cha chack cha chack
D d dum dadum drum
Dum dum.
19 October, 2022
