Too Much Noise

The new university term had begun, and I had taken on several difficult courses. Some evenings I went to Agha Bozorg’s house. It was quieter there, so I could study better, and he had someone to keep him company. I had a project I couldn’t get right, no matter what I tried. One of my professors was giving me a hard time, too. On top of that, a friend from university had just received his visa and was preparing to leave the country. My mind was in a thousand places. I sat at my laptop, tapping my foot in frustration and muttering, “Why won’t this damn thing work?” Agha Bozorg heard me and came into the room. “What’s all this huffing and puffing about?” I rushed through the whole story and ended with, “I’m fed up.” He went to his desk, took a small piece of paper from a drawer, wrote something on it and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned to me. “Come on. Take me to a friend’s house. The fresh air will do you good.” “But Agha Bozorg, I need to finish this project.” As he draped his plain brown scarf over his shoulders, he said, “Don’t forget to close the window, son.” He wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I shut my laptop, picked up the keys to his old Cadillac, closed the door and window, and we left. Once we were in the car, he pulled the paper from his pocket. “Take me here.” We drove through the streets of Ahvaz, listening to music more than talking. When a song by Hayedeh came on, Agha Bozorg turned up the radio. He loved that song. We reached the neighbourhood on the note, but I couldn’t find the street. I turned down the radio and drove more slowly until I spotted the lane. Then I couldn’t find the house number. The numbers weren’t even in any sensible order. “Are you sure you wrote down the right address?” I asked. “Yes, son. It’s right.” I switched off the radio and went back to the start of the lane. After we crossed an intersection, I finally found the house. It had no number of its own; I worked it out from the number next door. I stopped the car. “Was it difficult?” Agha Bozorg asked. “Yes. The house didn’t even have a number.” “Then how did you find it?” “From the number next door.” A faint smile crossed his face. “Ah. I thought you’d heard it.” “Heard it?” I asked, puzzled. “Well, I saw you turn off the radio.” “No. It was too loud. I couldn’t concentrate.” He was quiet for a moment. “So once you turned off the noise, you could see it.” I looked at him, still unsure what he meant. “Sometimes what you’re looking for is right in front of you, but all the noise around you keeps you from finding it. You start thinking about what one person said, where another has gone, what tomorrow might bring… and before long, you forget what you were looking for in the first place.” He glanced at the paper in his hand. “You don’t have to listen to every voice, son. Some of them you have to turn off to see your own way forward.” When Agha Bozorg got out of the car that night, my project still wasn’t fixed. But at least I knew where to begin when I got back. My fellow countryman, my dear friend, a part of my own heart… We have a great purpose. Let’s not allow stray voices and distractions to pull our attention away from it. Perhaps we can’t yet see the number on the house called Victory. Perhaps it’s only a few steps ahead. Long live Iran. #JavidShah