Iranian Journal(Travel Essay)/Bhisma Upreti

 

Travel Essay

 

Iranian Journal

Bhisma Upreti

 

It was January 23, 2002 – the last day of our seminar. Our stay in Iran was almost over by the time we had enjoyed the snow in Tehran, reached into the core of the Iranian way of life, and made the most of the company of friends. The next day, early in the morning, we would have to leave Tehran for our own countries, and part from friends who had grown close during our one week stay, leaving them to the  uncertainty of our ever meeting again.

We did not have a long formal program that day. All schedule programs would come to end before lunch. We then had around half a day to roam free under the Tehran sky. Friends had started planning how they would spend this time. I wanted to obtain some compositions by Iranian poets. I had so far not read any Iranian poetry. I wanted to know what their poems were like, what were the styles of their expressions, how they felt and what depth they invested in their expressions. If I believed that literature is the reflection of society, that time carried literature along, or that literature explores the whole person, how could my Iranian journey be complete without  Iranian poetry? So I asked my Iranian friend Masood Kiyumarthi to direct me to the bookstalls where I could buy literary books, particularly poetry to read to understand the Iranian poetic tradition. Initially, he was amazed to discover the literary interest of an economist from a central bank. However, when I told him that I have written poems too, and wanted to read Iranian poetry, he said, “Tehran University is very near to the south of Hotel Laleh, where you are staying. There are bookstalls around the university. There is a big one called Bazaar-é-kebab,. In that bookstall you can find poetry books.” I thanked him, and noted the name in my note book.

 In Persian, they call a book ‘kebab’ and a shop ‘bazaar’. In Nepali we call a book ‘kebab’ and a group of shops, ‘bazaar’. These words probably came to us from the Persian as guests, and in due course became our own .

The program ended. When the time came to leave, Masood Kiyumarthi, our Iranian friend, gave gifts wrapped in colored paper to some friends. He said, “This is a souvenir – of friendship.” Two days before, I had asked him about music, especially the folk music of Iran. I thought the gift might be a cassette of Iranian songs – the heartbeat of the Iranians. This would give me a great pleasure. I thanked him with a smile, which he accepted readily.

Then we parted after shaking hands and embracing friends from Iran, Bahrain, Kuwait and Azerbaijan. This was the most emotional moment in the whole course of the seminar. I always wish that, whatever the cost, the time for farewells need not come!

**

We had plenty of leisure time now. It was just 2 o’clock in the afternoon. Outside, the sun shone brightly. My mind too was rather restless. I saw no point in remaining confined to a corner in the hotel at such a moment. Moreover, I had to buy anjir and poetry books.

I asked Dr. Shastri, “What’s the plan?”

“Nothing special. Maybe we will walk into town a bit later.” When I heard this, I asked him to inform me too before going out. Knowing that they were not in a mood to go out immediately, I decided to visit Bazaar- é –kebab.

Right in front of the hotel, a road stretched southward. I had been told a half hour walk in that direction would take me to Tehran University. I wanted to look around Tehran city and had some time to pass, so decided not to hire a taxi.

I went out onto the street. A youth was walking toward me. I stopped him to check whether this was the right road for Tehran University. I asked him in many ways, but he could not answer me right, either because he didn’t understand the language, or could not answer me correctly. Poor young man! Language problems arose here too. A woman was walking nearby. She sensed the language barrier between us and stopped. She seemed to want to say something. Reading her signals, I left the youth and turned to her.

“You want to ask something, right?” she asked me in English.

“Yes, I am going to Tehran University. Will this road take me there?”

“It certainly will,” she replied, “If you want to take a taxi, I will call one.”

“Is it very far?” I asked in reply.

“No. It is about twenty minutes’ walk.” I told her that at that distance I would rather walk. She promptly replied, “I am going there too. Come, I will show you the way.”

She turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I felt quite awkward at the thought of walking along with a veiled Iranian woman, but thought that she would know how to act prudently. I thanked her heartily, and we moved forward.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“From Nepal,” I replied, and added, “Have you heard of Nepal?”

“Of course I have!” she replied briefly.

I told her that she spoke fluent English and added that the shopkeepers in the area struggled with the English language. She smiled sweetly and said, “I teach English at Tehran University. I studied in the US.”

I could talk with her freely now, I thought.

She asked, “Why did you come to Tehran from Nepal?”

I told her that I was an employee in the Central Bank of Nepal, and had come to Tehran to attend a seminar run by their central bank. She then told me that their currency was weakening, the economy dwindling, unemployment increasing and mass dissatisfaction growing day by day. In addition to all this, I wanted her to tell me about life behind the veil. I broached the subject by mentioning the colorful women’s clothes I had seen the day before in a marketplace. I had been curious to know who the clothes were meant for, as the women all walked around in black veils. She said, “We wear all these clothes! We wear them at home and when we are out. But we cover them with a black veil.”

“What’s the point in covering such expensive dresses with a veil?” my curiosity flowed out strongly.

“It gives our mind peace,” she said, “We at least feel that we have worn them. I too am wearing them, underneath this veil.” She added, “Think about it: what girl on earth would not love to wear attractive dresses of the latest designs and fashion?” The sense of her statement pierced me deeply. I remembered the Nepali girls in my neighborhood who loved to dress in the latest fashions. I gave her a fleeting look. She feigned a smile, though I needed no time to read an untold pain in her, and a deep dissatisfaction in her eyes. Poor Iranian girls!

“Iranian women have hard lives here. See: they cannot wear what they want, work as they wish, eat what they love and roam around as they fancy! Is this a life, after all? How can talent flourish? How can it develop?” Her dissatisfaction with the system and social norms was apparent not only in her words, but also in the color of her face.

I countered, “The women in my country do many things, and can do many more.”

My words could not stop her agitation and revolt. She said again, “Yes, I know, but what can we do? Women have been much oppressed here. It is good that they at least can come out and work within certain limits. Human rights are for us a mere dream.”

“Why did you return from the US when you knew all this?” I asked.

“They refused visas to my husband and children. Otherwise, who would return to such a country? All the Iranians want to go abroad – to America. America is a land of dreams for them, but the Americans don’t give us visas. What can we do?” There was utter frustration in her expression.

This encounter helped me to understand what hopelessness the Iranian women felt. If a university lecturer, grown old now after the passing of colorful youth, is so frustrated, how would girls in the full bloom of youth feel, young girls bearing the full weight of youth? With what hope and confidence would they dream of the future? Alas! Amid such darkness, Sadia alone tries to veil the utter gloom of the women under Islamic rule.

We arrived at the premises of Tehran University. On the way, I had told the woman about my desire to read Iranian poetry. She told me that not all poems had been translated into English, though a few were available. As we reached a square, she pointed her finger toward the opposite side and said, “Those are all bookshops. Have a look there. You might find something. It’s almost time for my class; otherwise I would help you myself.”

 She had shown me the suffocation inside her heart, and that was enough for me. I told her I was happy to meet her, and thanked her for her help. She accepted my thanks with a smile, and turning East, spoke, “My office is in that building – the Department of English. Take care!”

“Bye!” I said, and went my way.

I started going into the bookshops one by one and asking for books. The bookshops were like the ones we have in Nepal. Most of them sold only current books and those pertaining to the curriculum. Perhaps poetry is the least read genre in Iran too. What is available easily is what is most in demand. Moreover, the shopkeepers had difficulty understanding English, and conversation was not easy. My search took me to Bazaar-é-kebab, the shop my Iranian friend had recommended. Surely I would find some books there. Bazaar-é-kebab had many poetry books in Persian. I covetously touched some, and flipped the pages of others, but the language barred me from diving into Iranian feelings. There were no books translated into English. The shopkeeper recommended another shop nearby. 

I entered another shop. A salesman showed me three books – works by the poets Forugh Farrokhzad, Fereydoon Moshiri and Sohrab Sepehri. The books contained both the Persian and English versions of the poems. I flipped the pages of all three books and had a look. I even read a few lines from them. I liked the poems. I bought them, for they were reasonably priced. Happy, the shopkeeper gave me a visiting card. The card would be of no value to me because it was scripted in Persian, but I accepted it and put it into my pocket as a gesture of courtesy, and to please him. 

Outside, Iranian students walked together in groups. Some sat on the lawn and conversed, while some were busy buying things. Their sight made me nostalgic of my college days.

I hurried back to the hotel.

 

**

I found that Dr. Shastri and Anjanelu had left for the market. Since it was already dark, they probably did not wait for me. I was not in a mood to go out. I lazed on the lobby for a while.

Balbirji had decided to remain in Tehran for two more days, so she was moving to a cheaper hotel. She walked down to the lobby with her suitcase. After living side-by-side for a week, we had grown as close as brother and sister. I felt bad, when she came to take her leave. She said, “If you come to Delhi, you must come to the Reserve Bank. Otherwise I will be upset.”

Her affection soaked me through, and I stood for a moment, overwhelmed. When I had assured that I would not return home without meeting up with her, she waved her hands and walked out.

I did not feel inclined to remain in the lobby and say goodbye to one friend after another, so I went to my room. I too would be leaving early the next morning, so I busied myself getting ready to go.

Someone knocked on the door. I opened and found Sadia standing there.

“Please do come in and sit down” I said courteously.

“No, it’s time for us to check out. Here is my visiting card, and a ten-rupee Pakistani note –  my souvenir to you! Don’t forget to e-mail me!” she said.

I too gave her my visiting card and said, “Is not it tomorrow that you are flying to Pakistan?”

“Yes, but all the Pakistani friends are transferring to a cheaper hotel today. I cannot leave them. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered to move just for one day.” There was sadness in her voice.

She was a very good friend, whose company had warmed the atmosphere throughout the week. Though we had difficulties in breaking the ice initially, she turned out to be an energetic and amicable friend, who would come with a smile to chat and discuss a myriad of topics. Sometimes she would ask me to take her photo; other times she would borrow money. Sometimes, she would even ask me to help her lift the heavy things she had bought at the market. She had made my stay in Iran memorably enjoyable. I had almost forgotten that she was an outsider from a different country, religion and tradition. Her mention of leaving jolted me back to reality.

I told her, “Have a nice journey! I am sure we will meet again, either in Pakistan or in Nepal. The week has been very enjoyable indeed.”

She made an attempt to smile, but I could sense that the sun did not shine brightly in her sky. The glory on her countenance was as gloomy as the veil she wore.

“Aren’t you going to give me a copy of your poetry book?” she said, recollecting that I had casually informed her one day, “I am also a poet from Nepal.”  She had been amazed at this information and had asked, “Poetry and a job in the central bank! How do you reconcile the two?” I had just smiled in response.

“Do you like poems?” I asked her, for I never recite poems to anyone whose attitude to poetry I do not know.

“I do. I will read them. Please give me a copy!”

I gave her my signed collection ‘Samudra ra Anya Kavitaharu’ presented also in English as ‘Sea and other Poems’. She received it happily.

As she walked away, I said “Wait! I will come down to the gate with you.” I did not know why I wanted to see her off from the gate. I helped her carry her suitcase out of the hotel and load it into the taxi. Other Pakistani friends also came over. Ayub Hassan and Aasif Idres had planned to go to Baam,  the sacred city in Iran, the next day. I shook hands with them and wished them happy journey. I wished the same to other friends who were returning to Pakistan the following day. Swamidas, from India, too had now arrived. For some reason he wanted to have his photograph taken with Sadia. I took their picture, thinking that at the civic level, the relation between Pakistani and Indian citizens would remain memorable.

Parting is painful, and to be the last man left is even more torturous. Seeing friends off one by one, waving with faint hopes of reunion, getting emotional for a while and coping with a dejected mind – these are all painful experiences. If parting must be, it seemed best to be the first one to go. At least, one doesn’t need to feel very sad repeatedly. Feel the breaking of heart once, and its over. However, all the wants cannot be fulfilled. Here too, I was seeing everyone off, one after another.

I walked to the counter of the hotel and rang my home in Nepal. My mind calmed a little after a short talk with my wife Induji and daughter Lumana. I asked for my bill and paid. I didn’t want to leave anything until the next morning. I thought: paying in cash for dinner that evening would close all financial transactions with the hotel.

I looked out of the hotel once. The faint, evening sun glowed dimly. I tried to get a reflection of similar dimness in my heart too, and started to look, search for and caress myself in the same deemed light.

Translated by Mahesh Poudyal

——

Bhisma Upreti is a poet, essayist, and novelist. He has published nine books of poetry, nine books of essays/travels, and one novel.  He is a Gold medalist of the National Poetry Festival. Bhisma is currently secretary of PEN Nepal, A Nepalese Center of PEN International.