Afternoon Tea for Agha Bozorg

It was afternoon, and my mother said, “Take this tea and the sugar bowl out to Agha Bozorg in the courtyard.” I went out and looked around for him. He was sitting by the flowerbed, a cigarette at the corner of his mouth, changing the soil in his flowerpots. I walked over. “Agha Bozorg, you’ve been working hard. I brought you tea.” He looked at me and laughed. “Why are you laughing?” I looked down at myself in case there was something funny about my clothes. He said nothing. He was still smiling, but there were tears in his eyes. “Agha Bozorg? Are you all right?” “How am I? This one sentence says it all: even my laughter hurts.” I stared at him, at a loss. “Are you missing someone, Agha Bozorg?” “My boy, do you see these pots? Look how beautiful the flowers are.” “Yes.” “Remember, if you don’t change their soil, it goes bad and they die. You have to change the soil in your heart now and then, too. You have to renew your spirit before sorrow rots it away. “Let it all out,” he said. “Forgive. Not for anyone or anything else. Forgive so you can change the soil in your heart.” Today the soil of my heart, my homeland, my life has gone rotten with grief and darkness. If I don’t clean that soil today, my spirit, your spirit, all our spirits will die. Come. Give me your hand. Stand with me and let’s wash this soil clean, until no one’s laughter hurts anymore. Long live Iran. Long live the Shah.