GRANDER CHANDELIERS

My grandmother's kitchen wall.

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"Y'Allah! ... Y'Allah!?", I enquire in a deep mock-Arabic tone while stood looking at my toes as they skirt the door frame. "Y'Allah!? ... can I come in?", I ask, "yes, yes, come in Daveed", replies my auntie as she hops out from the pokey wash-room connected to the kitchen and tightens the headscarf she'd just had to grab. "How are you? How are things? Where have you been these last days?", she asks as she makes her way to the fridge to prepare me a diluted fruit-juice with ice. "Salam Daveed, how are you?", greets my grandmother as she comes in the door behind, "salam grandmother, how are you?", I ask her in Turk, mustering my finest mimic of her tonguey-tone. As I sit to my diluted fruit-juice I observe the questions as they branch off in there usual fashion, to which I unavoidably answer my way through them.

As the summer goes on I've been playing host; to some degree, with the various relatives arriving from abroad. Among these, I've just recently had the pleasure of my young brother's company; and, I should reluctantly add, that of his mother's. Sadly, too much of this precious time has been consumed with bickering: "he's got; she's got; we've got", and the gatherings; few though they have been, have been preoccupied with slagging matches. In an effort to avoid premature heart-attacks and give my father a break from the petty demands, I've tried to keep the conversations to contrived anecdotes.

"Take a look around grandmother's house; go in each room", I joked while sat to varying summer fruits and tea with the step-mother, father and my brother. "Look at each clock: the kitchen, 30-minutes fast; the hallway, 10-minutes slow; the front room, 1-hour behind; the guest room, stuck on 5". "They live in varying time zones", I point out, "but it goes beyond the clocks: they eat dinner any time around 11pm to 1am; lunch maybe 4pm and breakfast not too long before that". I then explain further, "If I stay there, I struggle to sleep while they* chat, argue or watch TV till 3am; and then during the night my grandmother scuffles past me; checking I'm comfortable; adjusting doors; putting blankets on me; fiddling with mosquito deterrents". We chuckle in recognition, "then, just before the traffic begins outside; say 5am, 'Daveed, are you not late? Daveed, are you not late for work?' - 'it's the weekend', I remind her - voy!".

The place has not changed in 30-years; same fridge, cooker, tables, chair, curtains, gas lamps, and the same damn clocks", and then I remember, "new seat covers though; 30-year old design however"

While relaying the alternative time observations of my family I realised that it's not just hours that are distorted there. "Just recently they bought new rugs; a change of colour, yet I went back the next day and they'd changed them again: new versions of the old ones". It was coming to me, "take a handful of mod-cons out and the place has not changed in 30-years; same fridge, cooker, tables, chair, curtains, gas lamps, and the same damn clocks", and then I remember, "new seat covers though; 30-year old design however". I wasn't complaining, nor suggesting unnecessary changes, it was just interesting: a conscious lack of change.

The off-spring and in-laws battle for grander chandeliers, I've seen them; they kiss when greeting, but their eyes calculate curtain prices as they go left; right; left. Maybe they even calculate bulb quantities; I have; my uncle and aunty's "museum" – as another uncle coined it – has 48 bulbs in the front room alone! Their clock is stuck on 6.15 though - it's a change I guess.

*My grandmother lives in a 3-story apartment owned by her but cohabits (between floors) with her youngest son and his family who pretty much look after her in her senior years.

BAH BAH

My grandmother sorting out the meat.

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"Bah! Bah! Bah!", right cheek; left cheek; right cheek, followed by a hug. "Bah! Bah! Baaaaah!", right; left; right; another hug and a pat on the back. "Bah! BAAAAH!", right; left; right; centre; centre; centre. So many men and so much kissing; a ring of them, bursting from the exit of Tehran's undersized airport. I joined in, "Bah! Bah! Bah! Dear uncle, welcome back", I warmly greeted him; cautious of him going central. With the embraces done, our visitor stood circled; trapped by the airport crowd and ringed by gleaming faces. Again it came; round two: "Bah! Bah!", in an emotive, pirouette finale.

Before the airport exodus I'd dashed round to grandmother's to bum a lift with another uncle; "your eyes are bright", I exclaimed to my grandmother, stating a common phrase for such occasions - "your eyes are bright", she reply with an amused smile. She was sat at the dining table, labeling numerous lumps of meat spread across it, "Are you coming with us?", I asked; more out of politeness, as I already knew the answer, "no... I'm an old woman", she sought to remind me, as she incrementally slapped squares of paper on the fleshy mounds. "So you sacrificed a sheep for the occasion?", I added; stating the obvious, as I waited for the eventual, "Shall we go?", from my uncle who was now ready. "Your eyes are bright", I answered, "your eyes are bright", he responded with an amused smile.

Around a year and a half ago my uncle returned to America from Iran, concluding his lengthy stint back here. This was a sad occasion for me, especially considering I'd freshly arrived to live here. I gravitated towards him more than my other three uncles, simply because my weakness in Farsi, and his strength in English; yet there was more. Like me, he'd matured in a Western environment – mostly – and thus he became an important bridge for me to unite cultures. Of course, my father also performs this role, yet the objectivity, and dare I say; increased intellect, was a valuable thing to me. It was interesting for me to see that our common ground had increased, as my uncle – bless him – battled jet-lag and fatigue while we caught-up into the early hours of that first night.

Three sheep, I thought to myself; I was out of the country for 25 years, and the only thing killed for me was my curiosity

The following day I was privy to a second round of greetings; joining my uncle on a visit to Karaj. We arrived at the entrance of the family business where a crowd had gathered in anticipation; eager faces lowered to get a glimpse in the car as we rolled in. Among the crowd were some special guests; two sheep being held between labourer's legs – I think I tutted: can we not just buy icecreams? Three sheep, I thought to myself; I was out of the country for 25-years, and the only thing killed for me was my curiosity.

Another kiss ring ensued as hoofs flapped around in the background, "come and see, come and see!", my young brother yelped; taking our younger cousins by the hand. They met with a pool of blood coming just as fast in their direction, before decided to go do something else. As the kisses turned to questions, melon and tea arrived; blood was washed away and skin turned inside out - my eyes were still bright.

ON TAXIS

Sometimes the views can be good from inside the taxi.

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"...And then we pulled away, only to stop a few metres ahead whereby another person had gotten in with us!", I often retell, as if a great punch line is about to be dropped, "in horror I turn to my Dad who's nonchalantly looking at nothing in particular – 'Dad, what's going on, why did they get in our taxi?', I whisper...", and so goes another anecdote of my first Iranian experiences. My sister came to Iran for some of the same, and in my efforts to prepare her for the Iranian oddities I'd deliberately left off the shared taxi part. I'd looked forward to seeing her face with this moment, like a child in wait of some lame prank – I'd set my bucket above the door and now I just needed to wait for her to open it. She did open the door and without a flinch she sat beside another person and just like my father she glanced straight ahead – why didn't the bucket fall!? She later informed me that she'd traveled to Bolivia where share taxis are also usual practice – damn my ignorance.

Shared taxis are now too much of a feature in my daily life yet I still amuse myself when thinking of the tacit rules, the variables and the knack one needs to utilise this national nightmare of a transport system. I thought I'd take it upon myself to add another entry for a possible guide thingy, I've done money and now here is one on taxis.

GETTING SEEN
Being anywhere near a road invites the sound of a car horn as taxi drivers anticipate customers, the more lost you look and the less you move the more the horn will sound. This will continue with car after car until you get in or get away. A single toot will announce the taxis' presence followed by a toot-toot - "where you going?". Then there's the 'approach' as the driver aims for your legs to pull to the side. This can take a few forms – eye contact is made as both parties lean in, the driver won't commit to a stop unless you are going on his route yet the distance and noise leaves a small period where one's lips pucker for a location name. "Straight ahead", I yelp, shuffling my feet back, yet I'll often get the Iranian 'tut' – a slow lift of the head – "where the fuck else is he going", is normally what I mumble to myself as the I gear up for another approach. Occasionally hand gestures can aid the approach but one must know the layout and assume the driver does too. A circular stirring index finger gets you to the next roundabout, four fingers gets you the next cross roads and three gets you the next intersection and I imagine two or one get you run over. Mostly I give the point and wag - 'straight ahead' – but this more often than not needs a stated location.

basically they don't sit in the middle-back, unless there is another female beside or the knight is defending a bishop and the king might slip into check. Ok, basically, if the piece is black do what you can to not touch it

GETTING IN
Once the driver gives you a lowered head – "yes" – you must then prepare for a little seating rearrangement, this can take two forms. Firstly there is the location rearrangement whereby by passengers will get out, thus putting you deeper to the left – assuming you get the back three seats – this of course means they will alight sooner. This is a 50/50 may-or-may-not happen scenario whereby other variables will effect the decision: mostly ease-of-arrival-shuffle or predicted ease-of-departure-shuffle, mostly to traffic. The front seat is also subject to seating rearrangement whereby passengers will naturally free the space in the rear when possible – yet not always. The second rearrangement come with the positioning of females – a minority passenger but respected one. If possible women sit beside women and if not, by a door or in front, basically they don't sit in the middle-back, unless there is another female beside or the knight is defending a bishop and the king might slip into check. Ok, basically, if the piece is black do what you can to not touch it.

GETTING SCREWED
At this point if you don't know your route then you've made a mistake – know your route and it's corresponding price, or, ask in advance! You will be safe in numbers or on short runs but if you are alone and not certain then don't be surprised if you get into an argument as you pay upon arrival. It should be noted that you are hugely advantaged in an argument if you have smaller denominations of money and also profess to only have on you the money that you think is fair for the journey. As a rule, keep smaller denominations, it does everyone a favor - I once had amounted four unopened packets of chewing gum in my pocket (bought quicker than I can chew) to get change in anticipation of taxi troubles. Now I think about it there was a series of experiments regarding this Iran taxi payment dilemma. OK, ultimately you can walk off without paying but if you've given a large denominator and are sitting waiting for change then your loosing and if you've exited the car to wait for it – you've lost.

GETTING OUT
A series of computations will be needed for alighting. One must simultaneously judge the speed of the moving taxi, foresee the traffic and times one things by another, divide something else, do a square route thing and then calmly say, "may your hands not be tired", to which you will get, "are you getting out?", from the driver. If you get the computations correct you will stop just where you wanted, which would normally involve cutting up a few cars before a possible reverse seat rearrangement. Excuse mes and thank yous are said and then as you walk away, wait for it – toot, toot toot.