Memories of Summer in Hamadan
My family came over yesterday. I enjoyed it. In these pandemic times, the aloneness sometimes gets to me. This morning, as I tidied up, for some reason, my mind drifted to the summer when I was ten years old.
At one of their get togethers, my mother and some of her friends discussed getting away with their children. They did that on occasion during the summer months. Sometimes they would go to the Caspian Sea, to the towns of Ramsar or to Chalus. One summer we did not travel too far. We went to Darband, at the foot of the mountains adjacent to Tehran. It is always cooler there. We often drove there on summer evenings. It was a short drive away from the city. The mountain streams rushed past with great fanfare as they pushed the melted snow into the city. The sound of the roaring water never abated. It was like a long unceasing and soothing crescendo of comforting music. On one especially hot summer, it was decided that the women and their children should stay in Darband. It would make it much easier for the men to join them on the weekends.
But on this particular occasion, the ladies spoke of Hamadan. Mama’s friend came from there and she painted such a pretty picture. So this group of ladies persuaded their husbands that this was where they wanted to spend their summer that year. Originally it was a small group of ladies, perhaps three or four of them. However, before too long it multiplied. Everyone wanted to go. The most luxurious hotel at that time was the Hotel Bu Ali Sina, named after the renowned poet of days gone by. These fifteen ladies, along with their children and their nannies booked for a period of three weeks. Rooms were needed for the parents and rooms were needed the children and their nannies. For the weekends, rooms were needed for the chauffeurs as well.
For that period of time, the hotel was filled by the sound of gleeful laughter of children as they ran across the slippery marble hallways heading to the manicured gardens filled with flowers with heady perfumes. Every once on a while a child would fall on the marble floors. You could hear their cry of outraged indignation as their mothers or nannies rushed to comfort them. One such child was my baby brother Jacky. He was barely a year old and was just beginning to take his first baby steps. He was somewhat top heavy. It seemed that his head rushed to grow more quickly than his body, which lagged behind it. It never failed. At least once or twice a day he slipped and fell. For the rest of our stay, the poor child had two permanent bruises, one on each side of his forehead. He was a valiant little tyke. After the first few days, he did not cry. He was picked up, hugged and kissed on his booboo. ‘’Bad floor! Bad floor!’’ the adult exclaimed as Jacky stamped the marble floor in delight.
On occasion, the husbands and chauffeurs drove in from Tehran for brief visits. Since we did not have cars at our disposal in Hamadan, our mothers hired the abundant droshkeys, the horse and carriages to drive into town. As a matter of fact, in those days, taxis were quite rare in Hamadan. The main mode of transport were the horse and buggies. We, the children, were delighted to ride them. The boys begged to sit next to the driver, behind the horses. If the mothers agreed, they were so thrilled! The horses hooves would go clip clop, clip clop, as we wandered through the cobbled street just people watching. It was a picturesque town, quite different from Tehran, which was a bustling city.
Lunchtimes, the hotel accommodated for our crowd. They simplified their menus because of the children. We had our own dining area. The staff worried in case the children would chase their regular clientele away. This way we were able to be the large group of mothers and their brood, while the hotel felt sure that their regular clients dined in peace. After lunch, it was the habit that we all took afternoon naps during summer the months. It was no different at the hotel. I think perhaps the hotel staff breathed a sigh of relief during that period of time. Calm and serenity reigned for a couple of hours.
As the day progressed, the gardeners began watering the lawns. The air cooled down. Our mothers sat with their intimate group of friends on the patio by the lawn. We were served our teas. As the sun set, conversations grew quieter. Soon the nannies came to take the younger children to bed. We, the older ones, settled down to play board games. Snakes and Ladders was the all time favourite, Scrabble was another. Soon the crickets began their even song. As the sun set, the crickets fell into song. Their chirping sound felt so soothing. To this day now, that I am in my senior years, I feel great comfort when I hear them. There is a wooded area near our home here in New York. In summer, when we pass by, we can hear the crickets tenderly chirping to each other, as if singing a lullaby or a love song to their loved ones. I listen and a gentle smile spreads across my face as I recall times gone by, in another world and another place. I remember the little girl that I used to be, sitting in our garden at home, with my parents and their friends. Lanterns swung from the branches of the trees and on the brackets on the garden walls. Their lights gently flickered. The crickets lived in those trees as well. We did not see them, but they hummed their comforting tunes. To me, it seemed as if they were humming a lullaby. The lizards resting on the garden walls listened to their lullabies with contentment as well. In the eventide I took it all in. Soon my eyelids grew heavy. Gently, ever so gently, they drooped until they closed. Someone cradled me in their arms and tiptoed me to my bed. My limbs grew lax and I gave myself up to a deep slumber.
All too soon, our stay in Hamadan drew to an end. But before we left, Mama’s friend, who owned a bagh in Hamadan, planned an elaborate luncheon amongst the orchard of fruit trees. There was a little house where the caretaker and his family lived. In a clearing near that abode, they made little fires to cook on. Different pots of food simmered on top of them. The nannies and the caretaker’s women folk happily supervised the different dishes as they companionably chattered away. The ladies started to sing and then they began to sway as they belly danced. One woman, with an exceptionally fine voice, sang a hauntingly beautiful love song. ‘’Allah, Allah!’’ the rest of them murmured in praise. The children clapped their hands in delight. They tried to imitate the belly dancing and the singing. The whole bagh filled with the sounds of happy chatter, songs and laughter. Not to be outdone, the birds in the trees warbled delightful songs as well.
All too soon it was time to go home. At the end of that week, the men returned to take their families back.
‘’Goodbye! Good bye!’’ they called out as they embraced on another. They all piled into the cars and headed back to Tehran. The caravan of cars wound its way through the unpaved dusty bumpy and winding road back to Tehran. It was a journey of many hours. I stare out of my window as I contentedly travel back in time in my mind. Almost seventy years have passed since that time. I remember that trip through the haze of distant time with fondness. Ah, memory…