Agha Bozorg and the Hundred Steps

I remember that when school closed for the summer, my mother enrolled me in all kinds of classes: languages, swimming, photography, wood marquetry. I liked them, though sometimes there were so many that I was busier than I’d been at school. Of all of them, I liked marquetry best. The smell of wood gave me a special kind of energy. But for some reason I couldn’t hold the fret saw properly, and its blade kept breaking. Our own house was small. Agha Bozorg’s had a room under the stairs that my father had put in order, and we’d turned it into a workshop for my woodwork and Agha Bozorg’s painting. One day I grew so frustrated with my sawing that I threw the saw. It struck a pane of glass and broke it. Agha Bozorg heard the crash and came downstairs. “What happened, son? Are you all right?” “I’m all right, but I can’t do woodwork. I’m no good at this. I can’t even saw properly. My hands aren’t strong enough.” He looked at me and smiled. “That’s all right. What matters is that you’re trying. Change your clothes and come with me to the glazier so we can replace this pane. We’ll get an ice cream on the way.” I was surprised. I’d expected him to scold me for breaking the glass. On the way we came to a long flight of outdoor steps with houses on either side. “We need to go up here,” he said. “All those steps? Isn’t there another way? Couldn’t you call Dad and ask him to pick it up on his way?” “There is another way, but this way passes the ice cream shop.” I looked up the steps. I wanted ice cream, but there were so many of them. “Forget it, Agha Bozorg. The ice cream doesn’t matter.” “Do the steps look hard?” “There are too many.” “Climb one.” I did. “Was that hard?” “No, but...” He interrupted me. “Let’s play a game. At every step, tell me something you wish for. Anything at all.” On the first step: “I want a good bicycle.” On the second: “A remote-control car.” A few steps higher: “I want money so I can travel a lot.” I grew excited, calling out my wishes as I climbed. Another step: “I want my uncle’s family to come back from Australia so I can play with my cousin.” Higher: “I want to be smarter so school won’t be so hard.” Another: “I want to know all my lessons.” Higher still: “I wish Khanom Bozorg could come back.” On the next: “I want Agha Bozorg to always be with me and stay healthy.” And on the next: “I wish the Shah’s time had never ended and he hadn’t gone away. I know Agha Bozorg was happier then, so we could have been happier too.” I looked up and the steps were gone. I’d reached the top. Agha Bozorg was coming slowly behind me. When he caught up, he asked, “Well? Was it hard?” “What was?” “The steps.” “I’d forgotten about them. I got so caught up in my wishes I didn’t notice when I reached the top.” “That’s how life works,” he said. “Between you and anything you long for are a hundred steps. Each one brings you closer to the beautiful thing you want.” My compatriot, my friend, a part of my own flesh: we’ve already climbed many steps. One by one, our small wishes have made us strong enough for the next. The first step: the hope of breathing freely. The second: dignity and respect for women. Next: freedom of speech, thought, and language. Then work, leisure, and social welfare. Higher still: dignity and standing for Iranians. And on, and on. There are still steps between us and our destination, Iran’s freedom and the return of the Pahlavi monarchy. But we’ve come this far, and we now believe we can climb the rest. Together, we’ll take them one at a time. Long live Iran. Long live the Shah.