Finally, I dare to write about my parent’s love story, as I once announced my intention on it. I said, “to dare” because I never could be fully aware of it; I was a little kid those days, and in those seven years of my beginning to know my environment and so long I have experienced my Dad, and there are vague remembrances in my memories.
As I’m digging in my dusty uncertainty, I can see some pictures of my Dad and Mam in some romantic ways, as I was just in my 5th year aged, told them they should lie down on the ground beside each other, and I pushed their faces towards one another so that their lips met… (what a child!!) And, of course, I can still hear his steps, walking to and fro, up there on the second floor; in these moments, we are commanded to keep silent because he was writing. He had his territory on the second floor, a big office room with books all around on the shelves on the walls, and when he got there, we couldn’t have any claim on our father; mother was rigorous there about. I understood it afterwards when My brother and I got living alone. He was in the same image as a father, though he’s never agreed with this.
And also, I can remember how Dad came downstairs with his belt when we, as children, were not quiet enough, and there was my brother Al, who got the most beatings. But also I remember, when he came down as I was sick and my mother called the doctor to come and give me an injection, and you can swear that I called all gods to help me keep this unfortunate doctor away from me. And yes, there was no chance for my Dad to come downstairs and look for these yellings and chase the doctor out of the house; his heart was, in this very moment, more full of love towards me than for my health or he just wanted to finish this tumult! In any case, he almost had thrown the doc out of the house and kissed me in protection; I will never forget his wonderful smiling face as I lay in fever in bed as his beautiful face came towards mine.
And just a little more: I see him (Dad) sitting on the sofa, wearing his socks in an agitated and furious way and shouting to mother, who was in the kitchen, “So, then I get outdoor.” I hear mother shouting back, “GO!” I’m sitting in front of him on the carpet, asking; where are you going, father? Nowhere he backed!
So, talked enough, now let’s get to the love story; as I do not know all about the story but heard and read about it, my mother had to get married very young, as in those days it was usual in the 1930’th. But her husband was a general and, as it meant to be, a man of brutality. He loved mother but in his way, kissing and beating! They were not longer than about three or four years together and got an offspring; Soroosh, till my mother got enough and decided to escape.
She was surely not able to do it as easy as possible today. Therefore, she got a connection to her sister Rakhshandeh (Khalle Rakhshy). Of course, she was one of,,, let me count; eighth of her sisters but also, she was one of the pioneers of the fighter on the woman’s rights those days.
Although this picture is later of that time, I had seen a pic of her in those days; the picture showed a laughing girl, dressed in white, and I tell you; dressed very generously in compare of that time, she was working as a nurse in one of the vast and famous hospitals in the big town: Mashhad, a city in far eastern Iran, and as my Mom told us once; she had a life as the girls in the Woodstock time! She was a woman of life; nobody could get somehow near to her, she was, of course, married at the time, but her husband was a wonderful progressed man who had nothing against it.
Anyway, in this picture, as you see, she looks in another way; that is because, as I heard, she had got versions, she got a meeting with the prophets! And I tell you, I had believed her because she always knew something happened before it happened! She had the might of the divine.
Anyway, she had rescued our mother, she got her into her house, a big old home, and as I heard once, there lived a snake in the attic, lived for many years and protected the house. To put it bluntly, I was often there, every year in the summer but never met this snake, though; I had heard some creeping noise on the roof now and then when I stayed there.
So, my aunt got the divorce for Mom as she knew how to make it those days, and now she had mentioned how sensitive her sister was and found out why; her love for one of the most famous writers of that time; my Dad.
Also, she was clever enough to arrange to let them meet each other, and she was sure it’d work out; yes, my father was a very famous writer at that time and almost in the forties, and my mother was just about twenty’s. In any case, she planned a meeting; she’d heard that my father was just for a short stay in the town and she lured him into the house and as he belts the ring; my aunt pushed my mother to open the door, and there it happened; Mother was in love with the father through his books, and my father was amazed at the beauty of my Mom when she just opened the door. Then they got married.
Of course, it’s begun a challenge of love and hate! I think it is a known story of every artist’s life in every century’s world history. But stunningly, my mother took the patient side; I think she just argued; the man is a beloved famous writer, and many women love him, as I (my Mom) do love him. Therefore, everybody must endure the pain!
There, the story of unforgiven love began; my Dad was famous enough to be invited all time to travel not only in all-around Persian cities but also in foreign countries. It wasn’t enough for my Mom; there was also another problem; Dad was typical against the man; He was against Shah’s regime, and he was against Mullah’s existence; he was a Muslim believer but in divine form. He had been even hatred by clergy Muslim propaganda.
Let the politic by the side, he’s been loved by many young girls, therefore. after his ageing and I’d understand it, not get so many ideas to write, my mother in her true love decided to write him anonym love letters; so she’d encouraged him to write more stories.
I must mention that my father had to supply all of us, but he could just write but nothing else. He was as some artists might be, a man of arts and not of money! that was not an easy life, I promise, as in the end; I might say a lasted ten years love story got its end, as our parents came home after a marriage party and in the middle of the night my father got a brain attack and left us little kids and a young inexperienced beloved wife with owing much!
Wow! I didn’t think that it would get so long! Anyhow, thank you for your patience, and I think you will need it more if you like; because, after this, I have many to tell about our life; it goes more dramatically 🙂 Have a wonderful weekend ❤