Maman Bozorg
MAMAN BOZORG
Under the careful instruction of , Shirin’s mother lays out an assortment of food, some especially bought for Shirin’s arrival. Various shirini are spread out, many with crushed pistachios sprinkled on the top. Shirin’s favorite of these is ghotab—an almond-and-walnut-filled crescent coated with powdered sugar. The outer shell is hard and the inner nutty and soft. Also brought out is freshly baked barbari with honey, tart jam, butter, and boiled eggs. It is a welcome sight.
Her grandmother lives more traditionally than Shirin’s other relatives. And so for each meal they lay down a sofreh and sit cross-legged around it to eat. asks Shirin to sit down next to her. “I’ve missed you,” she says. She often speaks a mixture of Farsi and Turkish, which gives her voice a shrill quality that is home to Shirin. It makes her instantly smile.
“What’s new?” Shirin asks.
shakes her head. “Not a lot.” Shirin raises her eyebrow. “Your mother told you then,” she says, waving her hand before giving Shirin’s mum daggers. “It’s… it’s okay, it’s life, these things happen. I’m tough. Pass me some honey, joonam?”
Shirin hands her grandma the jar and a spoon. Her grandmother drizzles the honey over her bread before breaking off a piece and placing it in her mouth. She sits with her back rested against a poshti, one leg tucked under her, the other out in front of her. has arthritis and diabetes, which is why she needs a carer, though her mind is the sharpest of anyone Shirin knows; it’s just her body that needs a little help. In fact it’s a running joke in the family that is psychic. She often senses things before they happen, correctly guessing the sex of her children’s babies before they were born, even predicting that her own daughter would marry a man who looked like Tom Selleck—whom Shirin’s dad in his younger years uncannily resembled.
The flat has no Wi-Fi, and Shirin is bereft at not having checked her messages since she was in Heathrow, a day ago now. That said, this break in her routine—in her constant doomscrolling—is refreshing, even if it’s hard. She already feels different from how she did in London.
The telephone rings, and Shirin’s mother goes to answer it. She leaves the room with the wireless headset. Shirin is about to question who it is when her maman bozorg puts her hand lightly onto her leg. “Azizam, when are you going to get married?” she asks, because she is an Iranian grandmother with a single granddaughter in her twenties—how can she not?
Shirin rolls her eyes, takes a ghotab, and plays with it in her hand. “I’ll marry when I’m ready. It’s not all about marriage.”
“I know,” she says. “But you look a bit different on this trip—more tired, excited. What are you excited about, joonam?”
Shirin’s heart jumps at the questioning she was not expecting. It is too early for this, especially in combination with her jet lag and the difficulties of sleeping in the same bedroom as her mother.
“I’m not excited about anything,” she replies slowly. She takes a tentative bite of the ghotab. This is more delicately than she would normally eat it; if she were not being accosted, she would pop the entire thing into her mouth.
Her grandma smiles, her bright blue eyes crinkle. Her skin is so pale now, a result of staying in most days, which only makes the color of her eyes more pronounced. Her hair is cut short into a bob and she has let it remain gray, a recent change. Now she says there is no shame in gray hair, that aging is no bad thing, it is something to be celebrated instead.
“Tell the truth,” she says. “I won’t tell your mother.” Her smile is genuine, cheeky even. Shirin’s mouth is open, though she does not say anything. “As long as he makes you happy,” continues. “That’s all we want.”
Shirin nods in acknowledgment, but she wants to say that that isn’t what everyone wants. There is so much focus on marriage—romantic relationships overall—and how that will fix a person. No one notices how lost she is in herself, and how a partner can’t solve that problem. She is tired. Both physically and mentally. But her maman bozorg isn’t right about her being excited about someone—because if she were, it would be Kian, and he is unattainable, thus filling her with the opposite of excitement.
When her mother returns, she says it was Zahreh—Shirin’s aunt—and that she is coming to visit later. is distracted by this news, thrilled at further visitors. The topic of Shirin’s love life is not returned to.
The next day Shirin stays at home with while her mother is grocery shopping. She is waiting for the samovar to boil the tea. There are patterns imprinted into the antique copper frame. Making chai this way requires more effort, but the tea is smoother, crisper, thus worth the additional time. When the water is hot enough, Shirin pours tea into two clear glasses. Making her way into the living room, she sets the two black teas in front of her grandmother. She sits on the armchair next to , leaning against the hard chair. It is uncomfortable, though her grandmother says it’s good for her back.
“Merci, Shirin jan,” says, taking a glass of chai with one hand and using the other to pop a sugar cube into her mouth. She takes a sip, sucking on the sugar cube as she drinks. “There’s sweets in the top cupboard. Why don’t you get them for us to eat with our chai?”
“Your diabetes—” Shirin begins.
waves her hand in the air dismissively. “We’re all going to die anyway, why not enjoy ourselves while we’re still here?”
This is where Shirin gets her lack of restraint when it comes to food. She is usually of the same opinion as her grandmother, that there is often so little joy in life that it is hard to restrict food that gives such instant pleasure. Her appetite is slowly returning since being here. She retrieves the box of pastries and sets it in front of . While her grandmother is making her selection, Shirin gets out the diabetes tablets and leaves them on the coffee table for her to take afterward.
“You look after me,” coos before taking a bite out of a piece of zaban. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” she says.
“Do you remember, Shirin jan, when you were very little and it was just me, you, and your baba bozorg?”
“A little. Less memories, but more how I felt.” She, too, picks up a zaban. It’s been so long since she’s had one. It is a puff pastry that is sweet and crunchy on the outside but soft on the inside. She is not sure she loves the taste, but it reminds her of being young and hopeful.
“How did you feel then?” asks.
“Loved.”
Her grandmother smiles at this. “We were happy, weren’t we?” There is sadness in her eyes that Shirin hasn’t noticed before.
“I really am sorry about what happened to you, with the carer.”
She frowns. “No one believed me,” she says, her voice suddenly forlorn. ’s moods change so drastically—you often know exactly how she’s feeling when looking at her, when hearing her speak. It is something Shirin once thought would be a curse, but she now thinks must be nice. There is no pretending.
“We’re all stupid. We should have. Everyone will believe you now.” Shirin puts her hand over her maman bozorg’s—the one that isn’t holding her tea. Shirin’s hand is small in comparison, but she hopes it has the strength to comfort her, like her grandmother has comforted her all her life.
It is like can read her mind because she turns to her and says, “Why are you upset, azizam?”
“I’m sad that you’re sad,” she says, a part-truth.
“Tell the truth. What’s going on?”
“Well… I feel unhappy, even though I’ve got the life I always wanted,” she begins, testing the words out loud. “I’m not sure I want this life anymore. And it’s hard to explain, but I feel like the things I’ve been trying to forget about in my past are coming back to haunt me. Like I can’t escape them anymore, and it’s only making me more miserable. I think I’m less myself lately, and it worries me. I don’t know if it’s normal.” It’s freeing saying the words aloud, like she can breathe easier now she has.
“Oh, Shirin, your maman should be there for you, instead of hiding here.” There is derision in her voice. “Always hiding, leaving her only daughter in England all alone.”
“I have my dad,” Shirin lies.
“I know that man, he’s as useless as her.” Shirin laughs at this. “I’m sorry, my azizam. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, though, it’s that you shouldn’t dwell on your past if you want to be happy in this life. Each hardship molds us into who we are today; each thing that happens to us was meant to be, Allah willed it. Look forward instead, to what you want your life to look like now, not what you wanted it to look like. You’re young, you have time to do anything you want.”
Shirin knows the words are wise and true but she struggles to internalize them. It is so much easier said than done. She thinks her grandmother knows she is thinking this, for she continues.
“I am so proud of my granddaughter.” She places her hand on top of Shirin’s. “I know you will find your way.” She points to a patterned box on the mantelpiece and asks Shirin to bring it over. Next to it are school pictures of Shirin, when she had thick, dark hair, with the tops of her ears poking out and an awkward half smile on her face. When Shirin returns with the box, she gives it to , who opens it carefully. Inside are various pieces of gold jewelry: earrings, necklaces, and bangles. She digs inside, takes out a small scarlet cloth case, and gives it to Shirin.
Shirin pulls the drawstring apart and feels inside. Within is a delicate gold oval locket. The front is striped with white gold and yellow gold, the back shiny and smooth.
“Open it,” she says.
When she does as her maman bozorg asks, Shirin sees inside the locket are two mini photographs. On the left side is a picture of and Shirin when she was a baby. She is wearing a sailor’s outfit and is seated on her grandmother’s lap. Her grandmother is much younger in the picture, her face freer of wrinkles, her blue eyes bright as always. On the other side is Baba Bozorg when he was in the army—his stoic face unsmiling, though proud.
Her baba bozorg was in the army in his younger years, but in his older age he worked as a cleric. He continued to wear a freshly pressed suit, and everything he did was controlled, neat. He was so different from , who slept in most days, rushed cooking dinner because she was distracted by the soaps she was watching or hot gossip she had heard from her neighbors. This difference complemented their relationship, gave it a depth and texture they needed in order to be married over forty years and not want to leave each other. They bickered, of course, but not for a moment would they consider a life without each other. Neither of them had relished the thought, as Shirin’s parents had. She was twelve when Baba Bozorg died. She took a week off school to go to Tehran with her mum and dad. The trip is a blur to her now, but she distinctly remembers her mother’s wails in the graveyard, the women around them dressed in black chadors, which makes the scene even more distorted in her memories.
“This is beautiful,” Shirin says now.
“It’s yours, azizam. I want you to keep this, and whenever you feel lonely or uncertain of yourself, remember I’m here for you, no matter how far away I am. And Baba Bozorg. He’s looking down on you. He loved you so much, Shirin. We all do. Your maman and baba too, but they’re stupid, not as wise as you and I.”
Shirin feels her eyes filling up but laughs at ’s final dig. “Thank you,” she says.
Her grandmother puts her hand over Shirin’s again now. Her hand is large and covers Shirin’s easily. The weight and warmth of it is comforting, like Shirin is no longer expected to carry the burden anymore, like everything in England is so small when she is around so much love.
“Don’t ever let anyone bother you. We’re Iranian, Shirin jan, we don’t let people bother us,” says.
“I didn’t say anyone was,” Shirin says slowly.
“I know these things. I know what you’re feeling. You need to stand up for yourself. I’m not there to do it for you in England, so you have to promise me that you’ll stand up for yourself, okay?”
She rolls her eyes lightheartedly, but tells her to promise, and Shirin finally relents—because she thinks: Actually, yes, I’d like to make this promise. She wants to stand up for herself, to no longer cower away from things that bother her. Because her maman bozorg is right: if Shirin doesn’t back herself, no one will.
And even though she doesn’t say exactly what is bothering her, the intricacies of it all, she feels supported by . Supported in an unconditional way, when before it felt like all the love around her was conditional. It is the respite she didn’t know she urgently needed.
She spends the rest of the day sitting next to watching Iranian soaps, listening to her grandmother’s commentary, eating shirini, and drinking chai. There is no urge to check her work emails or Twitter, where publishing news and hot takes are so often rampant and overwhelming. She is content and present. This is the love she has desperately needed.