Iranisztika

Abolhasan Tahaminejad and Omid Behbahani on Simin Behbahani

A sip of dream - A true dream of Omid Behbahani depicted by Tahmas Ray

When I parted her for Australia, to teach in Australian National University, my mother at the age of 87 had lost lots of her physical strength. She had become very frail and fragile, but had kept her strict authority in the house, looking after her first born son, and of course, in turn, my brother looked after her. Her inner pride as the most prominent living Iranian poet, backed by extreme modesty and self - sacrifice, had not been diminished; but her formidable photographic memory was showing signs of deterioration.  In a space of four months I had to make three trips to Iran, to see and comfort her. But in the last one she parted with me for good in a journey of no return to eternity. The shock and distress for losing such a mother cannot be expressed by words, but, the intensity of my sadness eased by a flood of condolence messages, and the participation of more than 10,000 people in her funeral. It was as if all Iran was in grief. I Returned to Australia, and resumed my work, only with the support of her memories.  

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I come back home tired of a long day work. My heart is filled with sorrow, pressed and gripped by tons of grief. I want to see her, speak with her, hear her sweet voice, and smell her fragrance. I take one of her books and sit in the balcony on an armchair; I read a poem and a stream of tears fall on my cheeks and wet my face. When I sit back for a while and close my eyes, the tiredness of a whole day work goes away gradually, and her vivid memories continue to pour on me like a heavy shower, as the burst of a torrent.  Suddenly she appears in front of me, smiling and even talking to me. It is as if she is paying a visit to me. As if after three months of losing her we have come together again, like a mother and a daughter that we were for more than five decades. She comes closer and closer to me and I can take her fragrance.    I see her now in three dimensions, like always.  And she is not ailing and frail as she was before passing away so sadly. She is in good health.  For a moment I doubt seeing her, and I want to close my eyes. She stares at me, and my mind goes blocked, I cannot resort to logic to deny her presence.   She smiles at me. Goes around and inspects my apartment in suburban Canberra. She looks at her own big picture beside the T.V. set. Picks up her complete volume of poems from the book shelf, opens it, reads some verses and puts it back.  She walks calmly toward the balcony. Opens the fly screen steps on it, and looks at the surrounding view from the 9^th floor: the houses down below looking like being crushed under their steep tiled roofs, the highway hiding under the foliage of shadow casting trees, the hills covered with eucalypti trees. I am amazed with disbelief; I put a smile on my face, but tears still streaming out.  She frowns at me and wipes my tears, and stretches her right arm towards me, expecting me to take her hand. But, I resist.  

Her sweet voice fills my ears; she talks to me and urges me to take her hand. But I resist. She comes nearer with a smile and takes my hand and pulls me toward herself.  I want to resist, and in doing so half of my body obeys me but the other half obeys her.  The other half gets separated from me like an autumn leaf separating from a branch in a breeze, like the rising smoke from a chimney, like a piece of fog blown away in slow motion from a rocky hill.  I watch in bewilderment and see my own self going away from me. Neither I can help it nor believe it; I want to scream and call my other part come back to me, but no voice goes out of my mouth. An icy sweat covers me, while the other half of me slips on the thin air with her.

   A calm breeze has filled our long skirts and we have become like two bells on the blue sky, walking on pieces of white clouds. Suddenly the clouds whirl, and whirl, and whirl to form a never ending stair case, the steps start to roll up, like escalators, and taking us up, and up, and the earth below becomes smaller, and smaller. When the earth becomes like a tiny bright dot in a corner of the sky we reach the house of Venus; the shining star of morning sky, symbolized by the most beautiful woman in Iran’s and Greek’s mythology; symbol of beauty. But she is in a form that my mom has depicted her in her poems: lightly tanned, with gold long silken hair, honey coloured eyes, Roman- Greek nose and lips, and with a harp in her arms. Yes, because she is the harp player of the stars. Venus, or Zohreh, comes forward, washes my mom’s feet in a crystal bowl, dries them with her long hair and thanks her for the fantastic sonnets she has composed for her.

   We climb some more million steps, and reach the house of Mercury. He is also in a shape which my mom has pictured: he is the scribe of the firmament. Sitting behind an enormous desk covered with books, and scrolls, and pens and inkpots.   He rolls up a long scroll and reads some lines from it to my mom, in a whispering voice, audible only to her, and she laughs, and her laughter echoes in the space, and all the stars put a shining smile. Then, the Mercury opens a gigantic book, dips a beautiful quill in an inkpot and writes my mom’s name in that heavenly book, as a sign of respect and gratitude.  Realizing we have still a fair way to go he summons the Pegasus, and the heavenly winged horse comes galloping and fluttering in the sky. The horse gently lets us on his back. I ask the big horse to take us to the Sun. But, the big horse, knowing the fate of Icarus[1], declines. My mom still concerned of the fate of the greater bear, asks the horse to take us to the bears in the northernmost point of heaven[2]. But he takes us first to the gardens of heaven. We have a pleasant ride on the horse back, and he introduces all the stars, pulsars, black holes and galaxies to us.

  The gardens of heaven are marked by wonderful colours and the most exquisite perfumes. Two big crisscross rainbows are arched above the gardens, with sparkling colours. Before we reach there Pegasus announces: O’ great poets beware, Simin Behbani is in here. And a great number of poets rush to the gates to greet and welcome her. Homer and Ferdowsi clad in their traditional dress stand before all the others. Apparently they have been elected as the joint presidents of the poets. My mom jumps down, rushes to them, kisses the hands of Homer and Ferdowsi, and in reciprocation they kiss her on the forehead. The walking tour in the gardens takes decades as we chat and crack jokes with all the world’s known and unknown poets. Sa’di, Rumi, Hafez, Bahar, Akhavan, Forough, Milton, Tagore and Vergil come forward and kiss my mom warmly.  Every one of them has a palace of their own, made of brilliant words shining like diamonds; some of the palaces are of immeasurable heights, reaching to the far, far galaxies. Amazingly every poet has an angel secretary with an iPad, typing down the poems as the poet is composes them, and when finished they email them to the Almighty immediately. My mom’s palace is a lofty one also; every brick of it is a colourful word shining like gems. Ferdowsi and Homer quietly tell my mom that her palace will be handed to her when she attains immortality.

   Back on the giant horse, and the horse takes us to the corner of the sky where the greater and the lesser bears live.  When we approach the bears, the big one comes forward happily, with a big grin on its face, and with a quick reverence tells my mom that it has found the pearls once lost, and by giving itself a second thought all is well now. Thus, assuring my mum that she shouldn’t be worried about it anymore.

The giant horse takes us for the last part of our journey, and we reach a place where a huge purple velvet curtain has blocked our way, and Pegasus cannot go any further. He says beyond the curtain stretches high ways to glory and immortality which passes through past days of your lives, and I cannot carry you there. You have to go it yourself. Beware!  Not to wander in the past for a long time, you might get lost forever.  Bidding farewell to him we jump down, and my mother goes to the curtain and drags it aside. We step in the realm of mirrors. Myriads of big gigantic shining mirrors are hanging on the thin ether. We go in front of a large brilliant one. A huge beautiful cat is reflected in the mirror[3], and breathtaking sceneries are exhibited in its emerald eyes. My mom drags my hand and we enter the mirror. It takes but a short while that we step inside the mirror, but we go through a strange metamorphosis. I am a child, and she is so young and attractive I cannot believe.  All around us we see innumerable walking and smiling tulips. My mom smiles too. By seeing the smile of my mom, a lightening sparks and all the sky blossoms with a big grin. The thunder after that sounds like the Kaiser- walzer, and all the flowers start to waltz. Some big flowers ask me to accompany them in waltz, but I cannot dance. She takes my hand again and teaches me how to waltz. Then there is a shower, and each drop of it is a shining star. I rush picking them up and putting them in my white frock’s small pocket, I wear the Pleiades as a necklace, but Mom frowns at me and I open the necklace, and it flies out of my hand, and joins the other stars in flying back to heaven.  I weep and she promises to give me a better necklace.  And she takes me out of mirror in a hurry and I am not a child any more.   We are in the realm of mirrors again all shining and emitting gracious rainbows. One of the mirrors is rather bleak, and I am attracted to it. I see my own self in it lying on an ivory white bench, and a small star rises from my side, it grows bigger, and bigger till it becomes a shining Sun, but suddenly loses its brightness, becomes dark and disappears. I see myself lamenting and weeping like mad, and she drags me away from that in front of another mirror, and in that I see myself again, putting a seed in the soil, and a flower comes out, it grows taller and taller, and becomes as tall as myself, and all of a sudden it turns to another me, and hugs me. When mom comes to take me to some other place, I am not alone, I am with two girls like myself, and she comes and hugs us all and takes us in front of another mirror and she stretches her hand inside the mirror and takes a book out and gives it to me. I look at the title and read: “The Plains of Arjan”; I put the book on my chest and press it to my heart, giving her a gratifying tearful look, I feel proud as she has titled her last book after my young deceased son .Wiping the tears of my cheeks she says: “It is a better necklace for you, isn’t it?” I don’t know how to react, and she drags us to another mirror in which a great chain of mountains with summits rising to galaxies is reflected. A sudden blow shakes the mountains and the summits start to puff out brilliant ashes of tiny diamonds, and then lavas jump out of them, which turn to colourful magnificent butterflies. Butterflies with adorable wide eyes on the back on their gold and red wings, and when they flutter it is as if they are blinking at us. The rivers of butterflies reach us, and they take us to a tour of the zodiac of hundred colour clouds and shining mirrors. In each mirror we see a page of our lives.  There are good old days I see them again, full of Happiness beside my dear mom.  I see her on the seaside with all the extended family laughing, and joking, looking at the ships on the horizon. I see myself inside a plane going to the south island of Kish; I see her driving me to the university where I teach. I see her sitting beside me in the car, and on top of a winding mountainous road going to the Caspian resort. My daughters cheeringly point to a mirror saying: here is grand ma receiving a big award. And I rush to look at it carefully; and I see her in a big hall. An old gentleman is speaking in English, and I clearly understand him as he pronounces my mom the winner of the Human Rights Watch Hellman-Hammet Grant (1998). A great audience and distinguished guests, and dignitaries have filled all the seats in the big hall, and when my mom steps on the platform to accept the Grant, the audience applauds gently, and we are filled with great joy. The river of the butterflies takes us to another mirror, and in that one we see the ceremony of awarding her the Carl von Ossietzky Medal (1999), for her bravery and humanitarian activities. This ceremony is as moving as the one before, and equally filling us with pride.

Suddenly I feel sitting inside a Jumbo jet besides my mom, reading the latest news on a 2009 paper. The plane lands at Charles de Gaulle airport. We go out of the plane and see a group of elite, and dignitaries waiting to officially welcome her to Paris. She is the representative of Iranian women who want to have equal social rights as men.

In a big famous café the most prominent French writers and the French minister for education are present. It is a warm and exciting ceremony. Photographers are busy with their cameras. Journalists from international news agencies, radios, and televisions are carefully aiming their microphones. My mom standing behind a podium reads a moving speech, wearing a pair of thick glasses, as her eye sight has deteriorated, but her speech is well received, andthe Simone de Beauvoir Prize for Women's Freedom is awarded to her, on behalf of women's rights campaigners in Iran. The merriment and jubilation is extraordinary and I am filled with a sense of pride I have never known.  I start to applaud enthusiastically.  A group of swallows enter the venue twitting and flying round and round fluttering as if they were applauding too.

 But, just like the page of a huge book all this excitement and jubilation turns to another page: I feel I am getting elevated heavenward. I flutter my hands like the wings of birds and I fly like them. I look around and see an ocean of red and silver and grey pigeons flying in the sky. They look at me and smile at me, they guide me to the realm of mirrors again where pigeons look upward and bow in reverence; I blink and look upward and see an angel, standing on a white cloud  above and bidding me to follow her. She looks very familiar; she takes me to the real paradise. A cool breeze whirls around me, and refreshes me; I am standing behind a beautiful white balustrade on the bank of Danube, staring at the magnificent Parliament buildings of Hungary. I turn around and I see an old magnificent building.  I step at the department of Iranian Studies in The Eötvös Loránd Universityof Budapest, and the esteemed professor Eva Jeremias Maróth, the head of the department comes to see, and welcome me. She is a smiling angel, looks exactly like the angel I saw before, as if her reflection in a mirror. She points to the garden, and I look the beauty of the garden with lush green trees.  Flocks of red white and green birds fly over the garden and it starts to wither. The deep green foliage begins to yellow, and the orange yellow leaves, like gold coins get airborne by a gust of wind and start raining down on the ground in slow motion. In the shower of gold coins I see my mom frail, and fragile, sitting behind a table, talking with the angel; the angel takes a thick book from my mom’s hand and shows it to another angel standing behind her. By opening the book some streams of fantastic imagery emit from it, and the angels are filled with joy and surprise.  The other angel,   goes near my mom and whispers something in her ears. She blossoms in smile, and the angels smile back.The shower of gold coins comes to an end, and with that goes away the feature of my mom and the angels.  Then silver coins start coming down from the sky and all the trees wear white pajamas, and everywhere gets frozen, and icicles appear beneath thick branches. But when the Sun starts smiling in the sky the trees shake the snowy pajamas off, and wear pink and red and silver blossoms.

At the airport my dear Hungarian friends: Agnes and Kata are in the arrivals hall to receive us. We are treated like the heads of governments, we go to VIP pavilion, and then by a limousine to our hotel on the shore of Balaton lake. In the city of Pécs, a big ceremony is under way. Lots of poets have come from overseas to be present in the event. Hungarian dignitaries are present as well. The president of Hungarian Pen Club, Géza Sőcsgives an emotional speech, I look at his face, and he is the other angel who whispered into my mom’s ear, and made her smile. Then the other angel, the head of department of Iranian Studies, speaks, and glorifies the services my mother has done for the reviving of sonnet writing in Persian. She is the one who recommended my mother to the Pen club of Hungary; and I am so indebted to her.  Her speech is received by enthusiastic applauds of the audience; getting reflected in radios, televisions, newspapers, and the Internet. When the statuette of Yanos Paninos is given to my mom, not only the audience on the ground but, an audience on the clouds are putting their hands together in real joy. Everybody looks above, and sees the poets in heaven, headed by Homer and Ferdowsi applauding Simin Behbahani.  

The great horse of the sky shouts: Simin!  You are immortal now, and your palace is ready to receive you in the heavenly gardens of poets. Homer, Ferdowsi, and the others applaud. Then the big horse comes down to the astonishment of all present, it lets my mom on its back, and flaps and gallops upward. I remain in a shock of disbelief like anyone else, that a big lightning flashes, and a deafening thunder follows. Everybody puts their fingers into their ears. A heavy shower starts to pour down. The shower dissolves the heavenly scene, and makes me angry; I want to watch that wonderful unforgettable event over and over again. But the shower is pouring down on me, and making me dripping wet. A gusty cold wind penetrates my bones, and I start to shake all over. Another loud burst of thunder wakes me up. I am wet all over and am shaking with cold. I pick up the wet book from my lap, and hurry inside.

22/12/2014, Canberra Australia

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