The Fragrant Memories
I lean into my armchair in the bedroom with a luxurious sigh, as I listen to a piece by Chopin on the radio. It is morning. I have a cup of tea by my side. I lift my cup and sip at that delicious brew. It’s my first cup of tea of the day. The warm liquid trickles down my throat. It caresses my parched esophagus as it goes down. I close my eyes and vaguely remember being a toddler sitting on my grandfather’s lap in Baghdad. We were sitting at the large dining table. In my memory we were alone in the room. He fed me small tidbits of food from his plate as he sipped his tea. As he leans forward to feed me, his beard tickles my cheeks. This has been a constant memory throughout the years, ever since I was a tiny child.
On this spring morning, the gardeners are busily taking care of the lawns in the neighborhood. The sound of their lawnmowers disturbs the peace this early in the day. Annoyed, I think to myself, “It’s too early. Go away!” But it isn’t too early. It is past eight o’clock. Feeling slightly ashamed of myself, I take another sip of tea. My thoughts wander to another occasion. This time it is of my parents, my sisters, my baby brother, sitting on his high chair happily banging away with his spoon, and I. We are seated around the dining table in Tehran. It is a grey wet morning in spring. One can hear the sound of the rain puddles in the middle of the street splashing loudly as cars drive through them.
Papa’s radio in his bedroom is announcing the day’s news. We can hear it in the dining room. The table is set with breakfast fare, fresh hot bread, just delivered from the bakery that very morning, butter, jam, fruits, keymagh, but no cheese, for Papa hates the smell of cheese! At the head of the table, at breakfast time, the samovar presides all by itself. It is flanked by my parents on each side of it. It is a heavy old fashioned Russian samovar that is heated with charcoal, a heavy samovar that gurgles contentedly to itself.
Next to Papa sit my sister Nora and I. My baby brother, Jacky and Gilda, my youngest sister sit on Mama’s side of the table. Maryam Barbari walks in with a tray bearing Papa’s fried eggs and some soft-boiled in egg cups for the rest of us. She sets them on the table and waits, just in case anything else is needed. My mother nods her head in dismissal. She leaves. It is the weekend. We are still dressed in our night clothes and warm robes. The radio station switches from news to The Children’s Hour. I like that program. I listen to it as I eat.
My thoughts continue to move forward in time. I am now twelve or thirteen years old. On one of his business trips to Europe, on the spur of the moment, Papa gets it into his head to enroll my sister Nora and me in boarding school in England. He then sent Mama a telegram instructing her to send us to London, where he was waiting. He had made a sudden and impulsive decision. Although taken off guard, Mama obeyed. When we landed in London, a few days later, he trundled us off on a train to Malvern, Worcester. In Malvern we stayed overnight at a hotel and the next morning, Papa dropped us off at the school and took the next train back to London. The bewilderment and confusion my sister and I suffered at this turn of event are a subject for another story.
We had arrived late in the school term. The two of us shared a room overlooking the churchyard cemetery. I remember looking out of the window the next morning into a dismally rainy grey scene of tombstones. It reminded me of a scene from Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist. It was a far cry from our sunny Tehran where peddlers walked alongside their loaded donkeys. They advertised their wares in a singsong voice as they passed by. The maids hurried into the streets to see if they could buy some of their wares. People sang or whistled as they passed by. The gloomy silence of Malvern was a far cry from the liveliness of our hometown. I would not be remiss in saying that we felt bewildered and unhappy. That first term the other girls were not friendly. They were little monsters. However, eventually we made friends.
During the holidays, we stayed at Mrs. Harris’ boarding house in London. She specialized in providing room and board to Middle Eastern boarding school girls for the holidays. In the evenings, we had a habit of snuggling up to her in her bedroom. She treated us as if we were her children. She allowed leeway in our comings and goings. However, she had certain rules we had to abide by. We were well-behaved proper young ladies, so she never had any problems with us. Sometimes a few of us would go to tea at Selfridges. I loved their crumpets spread with clotted cream and heaped with strawberry jam. There was always a large pot of steaming hot tea at the table. I would first pour a dash of milk in the bottom of my cup, followed by the steaming hot tea on top, I added sugar and stirred. My companions also busied themselves with what they ordered. When we were done preparing our meal just as we liked it, we leaned back, looked at each other, and leisurely ate as we chatted. When done, we left. If it was springtime, there would be people selling narcissus on street corners. The aroma of these delicate flowers was so heady and delicious, I could not resist buying a bunch or two. They were 6 pence a bunch. I would pin a bunch on my spring coat and the other one I placed in a tumbler by my bedside when we returned to Mrs. Harris’ boarding house. Their fragrant perfume filled the room with their heady aroma, and at night they provided me with sweet dreams as I slept. Because of my great fondness for narcissus and daffodils, they are present in our garden in New York.
My mind continues to wander. I remember sitting in my parents’ garden in the summertime. The lawns had been watered by Mashgamber, the gardener, after the heat had diminished. The flowers gratefully released their various delightful scents as did a the lawns. They were as grateful for the cooling sun as we were. The family gathered on the patio. It was delightful to sit outside at the end of the day. The air turned cooler. Friends and family always dropped by, for my mother was a very gracious hostess. Sometimes she and Papa wished it would just be just our immediate family. Papa would like to say something, but Mama worries about hurting their feelings.
“And don’t we count?” Papa argues in a peevish tone. “They drop in every evening at our home as if it is their club! Sultan and Khatoon are forever running back and forth serving tea, cakes, fruit, and your endless melted cheese toasts. Don’t think I don’t know! I can smell the cheese as soon as I walk in!”
Mama looks at him sheepishly. “We serve them in the garden, not in the house!” she says.
“Humph!” Papa grumbles but drops the subject, as he sucks at his pipe. In autumn and winter, there was a reprieve of the constant parade of people dropping by, he would comfort himself. It is nice and cozy then. We would sit watching TV over cups of tea and warm sweet shalgham. It was just the family.
After the Revolution in Iran, the family split. My parents moved to Los Angeles to be near my brother and sisters. My family landed in New York, where we were haphazardly dropped. We visited each other across the continent. In summer, we spend most of our time on the porch. We have a round table and seats. I have lots of plants and a potted orange tree there. One summer my parents came to visit us. During the weekends I used to make an extra special brunch with pots of tea covered with tea cozies to keep them hot. My children would hover over their grandparents, and my parents concentrated on smothering them with love.
The years drifted by. The children became adults and led their own lives. My parents passed away. Our parents were gone. Our children led their own lives. It was only Peter and I. On winter weekends, we sat at the kitchen table looking out of the window at the snow coming down outside, covering the world in a blanket of white. We sipped at our tea and listened to music. Time plodded along. Then the day came when Peter also passed away. Now I come downstairs in the morning, take my cup of tea upstairs to the bedroom. I snuggle into the old tired armchair, that is such a comfort to me. Classical music and my dogs are my only companions as I quietly sip my tea. Picasso snores as he sleeps, Ebony sleeps peacefully curled up on our bed, and the house echoes in silence.
As I lean back and sip at my cup of tea, I cannot help but wonder how fleeting time is…