Agha Bozorg’s Old Radio

One day, when I came home from school, I found Agha Bozorg sitting in his chair at the edge of the courtyard. His old radio was beside him, and he was listening to music. He sometimes sat there smoking and drinking tea, but this time something was different. There were two cups of tea beside him. A cigarette rested at the corner of his mouth, and another, already lit, lay in the ashtray. “Is someone coming, Agha Bozorg?” I asked. “Are we having a guest?” He smiled, his voice thick with emotion. “No. He was here, but he’s gone.” “Who? Are you missing Khanom Joon?” “Yes, of course I miss her, very much. But no, I mean my friend.” “Which friend?” “My best friend. My lifelong companion, the one who always shared a drink with me and stood by me.” Then he said, “Myself. I miss myself. No friend shares your joy and sorrow the way you do. No friend understands you the way you understand yourself. “Son, live so that you never have to miss yourself. “If you stay true to yourself and don’t hide behind a mask for other people, you’ll always be a good friend to yourself.” These days I miss myself terribly. We have hidden behind masks and anonymous accounts. We can’t be ourselves. Today we fight to bring that friend back to ourselves, so we no longer have to miss the best of who we are. Long live Iran. Long live the Shah.