Mulberry Memories
We have two mulberry trees in our garden. Each morning, when the air was still cool, I carried a tray with a bowl for the berries and a tiny estekan of tea. I placed the tray on the round table underneath one of the trees. Leisurely I nibbled at the berries and sipped at my tea. That was my breakfast. Then I would sit on the jelala that Peter had bought when I broke my ankle. It is under the dogwood tree. There I would sit with my cup of tea and a book. I whiled away a good part of the morning, reading and lazily swinging back and forth. In those days our dog Max and our cat Sacha were still alive. Max would curl up into a ball near me and snooze, while Sacha climbed up to the highest branch of the tree and observed her domain. While she was there, no squirrel or bird would dare go near that tree, for she was very possessive of it. She would hiss at them and expose her sharp claws.
At least seventeen years have passed since then. When Peter passed away, I no longer had the heart to sit in the garden, nor did I have the inclination to pick berries for breakfast, or any other time, for that matter. Nevertheless, the mulberry tree still produced its berries. Over the fence, people still stopped to nibble at them. Recently, one of my neighbors commented about how much she loved mulberries. I invited her to come anytime and pick some. She came yesterday. She described how she had seen a documentary film made in Turkey about how they laid sheets on the ground and shook the trees. Torrents of berries would rain upon the sheets. I remember that as well!
I smiled to myself. My mind flew back to Tehran. In the village of Vanak, off a winding badly paved road, shaded by old plane trees, there was a little-known secret, a mulberry orchard. The orchard was surrounded by adobe walls and a thick heavy wooden old gate. To enter, you had to honk the car horn. Someone would open the gate, and you would slowly drive in. The road was unpaved and rutted. The first thing one noticed was the peaceful silence. The only sounds were the sound of the breeze rustling through the trees and the birds merrily tweeting away. There was no sound of the city here. No honking of cars, no peddlers calling out their wares; no motorcycles weaving in and out of traffic; no office boys on bicycles tinkling their little bells to warn pedestrians that they are on the road. There were no donkeys laden with various goods braying in fatigue and annoyance, as the owner led them up and down the streets calling out his wares. In a corner of this orchard, by a little brook running alongside a small parcel of grass, there stood a couple of cows and donkeys, contentedly nibbling at the grass and sipping water from the cold stream.
It was early in the morning. We wanted to get there before the heat of the sun warmed up the day. We followed the rutted road until we reached a simple small brick building. Our group was not a large one; we were just two couples and our children. We had our son and daughter, and the other couple had two sons and a daughter. We parked in a small clearing and exited our cars. The owner of the orchard approached us, shyly followed by his wife and small children. Whereas we were dressed in western clothing, they were dressed quite differently. They were dressed like the other villagers. He wore baggy brown pants, a collarless baggy shirt. Upon his head, he wore a rust-colored felt hat that covered his pate. He was barefooted, since it was summer. There was no need to waste money on shoes. His wife was dressed in a long-sleeved cotton dress that was gathered around the waist. Underneath the skirt, she had long pantalons, elasticized at the ankles. Her head was covered with a large white muslin square, folded in half diagonally, and firmly pinned underneath her chin with a large safety pin. Above her nose and eyebrows, she had a series of dainty dots tattooed. I supposed they were considered attractive. They were not offensive to look at. The children were miniatures of their parents.
As they approached us, they gave us a slight bow and said, “Befarmayid! Befarmayid! Welcome.” They led us to a wooden bed-like platform covered in Persian rugs. We removed shoes and climbed up on the platform. We women modestly tucked our feet underneath us, while the men squatted knees akimbo then tucked their feet underneath each thigh. The platform where they seated us was located in a shady area beneath the leafy plane trees.
Our children immediately began to run about the trees playing a game of tag. The husband and wife team soon returned with a round tin tray. It was laden with a plate heaped high with mulberries, thimbleful glasses for tea, sugar cubes, a huge teapot of freshly brewed tea, and a large slab of fresh feta cheese from which dew-like moisture clung to its surface. They asked us if we would like some fried eggs. The eggs in Tehran were small, and their yolks were almost saffron-colored and oh were they packed with such a great flavor! Moreover, they fried them in ghee, a delicious clarified butter. We ordered that too. Offering meals was a side job. Their income was earned mainly by selling fresh and dried mulberries. The fresh ones were very popular during the season. The dried ones were popular all year long. Iran grew a huge supply of mulberries. A large part of which was exported worldwide.
That morning the air was crisp, fresh, and cool. It was sheer delight just to breakfast there. The sun was newly risen and had not yet overheated the day. There was a slight chill that early in the morning. A rooster, a short distance away, was crowing triumphantly, greeting the start of the new day. The cows mooed contentedly, and not to be outdone, the donkey gave the occasional bray. The sound of our children’s laughter added to that idyllic day. It turned that moment in time into a most beautiful memory. It felt exhilarating! The children kept running back and forth, opening their little mouths for the morsels of food we fed them as they approached for more. They were having too much fun to sit down and eat. We sat in that orchard underneath the trees, chatting quietly for quite a long while. The sun rose higher in the sky and began to warm the day. The children began to weary. It was almost time to go home. Both our families bought mulberries to take back home. Reluctantly we rose to leave.
“Mama! Mama,” I heard. I returned to the present. My neighbor’s child was calling her mother. It interrupted my thoughts and brought me back to the present. I became aware of the little girl. She is about the same age as my children had been then.
“I want to pick some berries too! Mama! Mama! I want to pick some berries!” she repeated in her plaintive childish voice. She climbed upon the wrought iron chair that her mother was standing on. Her mother was stretching to pluck berries. The little girl hugged her mother’s leg and pulled at her skirt. I held my breath for fear of an accident. But young mothers do not seem to worry about such things. Young mothers are sure of their strengths and their invincibility. This mother leaned slightly more forward and caught a branch full of berries and pulled it towards her young daughter. The little girl clutched a handful and stuffed it in her mouth. Her little hands and face were all stained and sticky. Her face was a picture of smiling delight. I also smiled to myself. Some things never change. There will always be an older lady observing life through the eyes of a child. Sated, the little girl suddenly announced that she had to go to the bathroom and it had to be her own bathroom. With a little cup filled with berries in one hand, she held her mother’s hand with the other. She pulled her mother towards the gate. The mother smiled at me and waved as they headed towards their home.
Ah yes, today the mulberries brought back so many fond memories …