MISSING ‘HASAN’

Once upon a time, there was a young man who lived in Tehran, of good family, moderate wealth and intense education. Let us call him ‘Hasan’.

A few years ago when Golden Boy was a fat gurgling baby, during the Iranian new year holidays, ‘Hasan’ went to a restaurant on Valiasr Road, which I heard today on the radio is the longest urban road in the Middle East. ‘Hasan’ was with a large party of close and extended family members (which somehow, bizarrely, included his ex-girlfriend- but this is not that story). It was a lovely night out, as the elders of the family were away (Mashad, I seem to remember), and these young relatives were enjoying the free and uninhibited chatter which comes from the absence of parents. The food was delicious- this particular restaurant was known for its perfect chicken kebabs, and it was with a stab of sorrow that I heard during this current visit that it has been closed.

Anyway, there was ‘Hasan’, sitting with some of the people who were closest to his heart (I don’t mean his ex-girlfriend), laughing, chatting, and eating very very good food. Suddenly, he caught sight of an elderly, or was it a middle-aged man? sitting by himself in the corner of the restaurant, his head bowed over the platter of gleaming golden chicken kebabs. The good food turned to ash in his mouth, and he felt as though the cold hand of death and destiny had squeezed his heart.  He nudged one of his sisters- or perhaps the other one- I can’t remember now. “Look”, he said, “look at that guy over there.” She glanced over at the totally uninteresting elderly? middle-aged? stranger and shrugged. “That’s me”, ‘Hasan’ said in a high paranoid voice. “Do you see him? That’s me, I say! In a few years, that’s gonna be me, all alone during Norouz (new year), sitting by myself in a resto, eating chicken kebab.”

His sisters turned their kohl-lined eyes to him with surprise, and adjusted their scarves for the thousandth time. One of them was wearing a dark green scarf, the other a scarlet one. Both of the scarves had a hand-stamped golden border, as they had been purchased from the same gallery. They looked back at the alone guy, then back to ‘Hasan’. They looked about them, surrounded as they were by all these relatives. Why would he think that? Why would he identify himself with that guy? Besides, as the elder sister pointed out, full of class consciousness and good financial sense as always, he should be lucky to be able afford such a good meal and the leisure to enjoy it, alone or not. Does he know how many babies are starving right now?

***

Today, I strolled into another good Tehran restaurant (there are lots of them), accompanied by a smattering of family- including the Golden Boy, now a prancing boy, and we ordered huge shiny kebabs. But ‘Hasan’ wasn’t with us – he’s living alone in another city somewhere far away. There were several alone men, bent low over their gigantic platters, none of them noticeably old either. Nor did they look particularly unhappy, they had serious, focused expressions, as if the kebabs they were devouring were the most important thing on earth, which at that moment probably was, for them. One did not sense a lack about them.

Oh ‘Hasan’, I was right then, and I’m right now. I wish, I so wish, we still lived in the same city together, and we could go out to restaurants together, as we used to do. I wish you didn’t have to be alone this New Year. As I will be. But really, you know, if you can afford to buy a good kebab, wherever you are, whoever you’re with, lonely or not, well, you haven’t done too badly. We’ll make it through- different cities or not.

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Tags: being alone, families, homesickness, life, life stories, personal, separation