The Little Girl, the Tickles, and Agha Bozorg

My sister was about twelve and had grown very quiet. When she came home from school, she went straight to her room and occupied herself with her lessons. I remember my mother proudly telling her sister when the family visited, “My girl always has her head in her books. She’s responsible. I’m sure she’ll succeed.” Meanwhile, because of the financial strain after the war, my father worked constantly. From morning until afternoon he was at the oil company, and from then until late at night he drove my uncle’s Paykan for a taxi service. Unless we got up late, breakfast was about the only time we saw him. Everyone said how studious my sister was, but that wasn’t what I saw. Sometimes, through the crack in her door, I saw her sitting in a corner staring into space. Sometimes I heard her quiet crying from under the blanket. No, this wasn’t stress about schoolwork. I told Agha Bozorg. He said to ask my mother to make a pot of ash, a thick Persian soup, for the anniversary of Khanom Bozorg’s death and invite the relatives who were in Ahvaz. A few days later, the house was full of people and activity. My youngest aunt came with her lovely one-year-old daughter, Delaram. Agha Bozorg was sitting in the yard with my father and me. He called Delaram over, sat her on his lap, and tickled her. She laughed and laughed, and then he stopped. After a little while she looked at him expectantly. He tickled her again, and she dissolved into giggles. After a few rounds he got up, walked around, and came back. Delaram returned to his side and said, “A-gain,” in her little child’s voice. More tickles, more giggles. There were other children there, but Delaram stayed with Agha Bozorg and never took her eyes off him. When he talked with another guest, worry crossed her face. The instant he smiled at her, her own smile came back. My father took a liking to her and tried to pick her up. She pushed him away and hid behind Agha Bozorg. Agha Bozorg looked at my father. “What smile have you given her that makes you expect affection in return? Do you think she stays beside me because I tickled her, or because I stayed with her, saw her, gave her attention and love?” Then he said, “Son, when did you last talk to your daughter? When did you ask if everything was all right, if anything was troubling her? When did you last tell her you had her back? When was the last time you were a father? “There will always be work and rushing about, always things to chase and reach or fail to reach. But what about the moments when these precious children are growing up? Can you say you’ve laughed with them to your heart’s content? “Damn it, son, your poor innocent daughter needs you. She needs your arms around her, not the turmoil you bring home.” My father said nothing. He looked shaken, as though he might cry. Agha Bozorg patted his shoulder. “Cry. Let it out. You need to make room for your children’s smiles.” My compatriot, my friend, my dear one and a part of my own flesh: things around us won’t always be here. Your family is waiting for you, for your presence and your smile, not for a few tickles. I know you’re fighting without pause for our Iran. I know you’ve sacrificed work, daily life, sleep, and meals to see an Iran without the Islamic Republic. But your family shouldn’t have to yearn for one cup of tea with you. Long live my homeland, Iran: an Iran where every home is warmed by presence, kindness, and closeness. Long live the Shah.