Beirami Rock

Beirami Rock

 

By Ezat Mossallanejad

 

I will never forget a winter night in Jahrom (Iran) when a stranger knocked on our door. I was a 7-year-old boy.  My father asked me to go to the other side of the yard and open the gate. I dragged the doors half open; I was dreadfully scared to see a clumsy old beggar dressed in rags, haggard, with a long white beard just like the jinnis my aunt used to tell us about in her scary tales.  “I am an old and disabled stranger in this town; give me a corner in your house to sleep, just for tonight,” he begged me.

I became so scared that, without giving him any response or even shutting the door, I ran to the room where all my family had gathered for supper and cried:

“I’m scared! A scary ghost dressed like a beggar with a long white beard is trying to get into our house!”

My father ran through the courtyard and rushed to the gate.  While my siblings were laughing, I ran beside my father.

“Can I help you sir?” he asked the beggar after greeting him warmly. I was astonished that my father called such an old, haggard vagabond “sir.” With a deep sigh, the old man calmly responded.

“My name is Mohammad Beirami.  I am from Beiram – a small remote village you might not have even heard of…”

My father politely interrupted him and said, “This is not true.  I know Beiram very well! I have visited Beiram three times when there were still no cars and people traveled with donkeys and mules.”

The old man wanted to continue with his story, but my father stopped him.

“It’s not good to stand at the gate and talk.  You must be tired and are probably hungry.  Please come in.  Dinner is almost ready.  Let us share some salts together and then everybody will be happy to listen to your story.”

The old man was lame; waling very slowly and with tremendous difficulties. My dad slowed his pace and walked with him shoulder-to-shoulder. This made me very angry with the old man, as I want to get supper as soon as possible.

My extended family received the old man with mixed reactions: my mother and my 19-year-old aunt and uncle (who were twins) greeted him warmly and provided him with a cushion; my elder brother, then 13, did not pay much attention to him; another brother and sister, 6 and 5, were scared, while the youngest sister and brother, 4 and 2, laughed and started to pull the old man’s beard.

We were also poor like hundreds of people living in that small agricultural town. Everyone worked hard from dawn to dusk in order to keep body and soul together. We did not even have enough food to eat, and there were so many mouths to feed.  Initially, my mother used to serve food to all of us in one big communal pot.  This was not very successful.  Every evening we had an unwanted and undeclared war during supper:

“You eat faster!”

“Your pieces are bigger!”

“Why did you take all the meat and leave us with plain bread?”

Sometimes the elders intervened on behalf of a poor sibling who had been left hungry and then we had a full-fledged war! In an attempt to impose a ceasefire, my mother purchased 10 pots in different sizes and colors and served everyone according to her/his age in her/his own pot.  This initiative did reduce the intensity of the war, but did not completely end it, as the children used to steal from each other’s pots.

That night my mother served the old man in a big beautiful pot. She must have put at least 10 small pieces of meat in his rice with a separate bowl of curry.  We usually got two pieces of meat.  Becoming angry, I went to the kitchen and complained to my mother in whisper:

“Mom! Why did my father let that scarecrow come to our house?  News will spread fast. Everyone will tease me in school tomorrow. They will say that I have got a new lame uncle.”

My mother kissed my cheeks and tried to calm me down, but I burst into tears of anger and continued, “My classmates will pull my legs and will call our house a ‘sanatorium of senility and lameness.’ They might even say that dad is going to utilize disability to start a new business in partnership with a lame beggar and take all of us out for begging.”

My ever-kind mother hugged and caressed me and told me in her quiet loving whisper, “My darling son, don’t be afraid of anything!  I want you to be brave, courageous and compassionate.  He is a disabled old man, but that’s not his fault.  I will also become old and disabled one day.  You too.”

The bread was ready.  My mother took some loaves out. She left two on a plate for the old man, and she divided the rest of it for the others according to their ages.  She then returned to the kitchen and continued, “You know my sweetheart, this old man is a ‘Slave of God’; we are also Slaves of God.  We are equal before our generous God.  He is a stranger now, knocking on our door for help.  One day we may become a stranger needing help from others.  Slaves of God must help one other.  This is the only way to live in peace and please God.”

She then filled my empty pot with rice, poured some curry on it and put three pieces of meat on top and ordered me, “Now, my little child, go back to the room, eat your food, be kind and respectful to the old gentleman.  I want you to listen to his story and learn from it.”

After supper, my mother served tea at my father’s request, whereupon the old man shared his story.

“I have been working and living in Beiram as a peasant for the last 65 years.  I have hardly traveled outside my village.  Molla Ali, the respected landowner of your town, is originally from Beiram.  We grew up together; he used to be my friend and playmate before he moved to your town.  For the last 50 years, I have been living with the sweet memories of the friendship we had together. I missed him all these years.  Despite with my old age, I came all the way to your town, partly on foot while hobbling, partly on the back of the donkey of a good-hearted peddler from a neighboring village and partly by bus.  I traveled with all my desire to see him before I die.”

At this point the old man lost control and started to sob.  In sympathy, my mother and aunt cried with him.  In a minute, ashamed of the sad atmosphere created in the room, the old man smiled gently and continued with his story:

“As soon as I entered Jahrom, I requested a passersby to help me find Molla Ali’s house.  To my surprise, they told me that he had become the greatest land and garden owner of the town.  They advised me not to approach his palace, as he was an important man who did not have time to speak with ordinary people.  ‘Silly,’ I admonished, ‘he is my childhood friend and playmate!’ A middle-aged man accompanied me to Molla Ali’s house but then ran away in fear.  My heart was pounding as I knocked on his door.  I expected him to open the door and hug me with all his strength.  The gate was opened about halfway. Two young girls appeared.  I told them that I was Molla Ali’s friend and wanted to see him.  They laughed at me and ridiculed me, saying that their father did not want an old lamed bugger like myself. Then they chased me away and threatened that they would kill me if I ever dared to approach their house again. With a broken heart, I tried to leave fast, but it was not possible due to my old age and disability. A group of children in the neighborhood stopped playing and began harassing me with name calling: lame ass, old fool, bad omen, scary owl, etc.”

Right after sharing his story, the old man sighed deeply and made his desperate request of my father.

“And now, sir, I have no place to sleep.  Please give me shelter in your house for this night only. I’ll leave tomorrow first thing in the morning.”

This time my father did not ask my mother to bring tea, he himself got up and brought the old man a full glass of tea from the kitchen and told him, “Please feel at home Uncle Mohammad.  My house is your house.”

Just then, we heard a knocking sound.  I ran to the gate and opened.  I was thrilled to see Molla Ali, his wife and both daughters at our front doors.  In those days, it was the greatest honor when the lord of the town became a guest in the house of an ordinary person.  Coming with his wife and children was considered a double and triple honor.  I jumped for joy and informed everybody who our new guests were.  Molla Ali went straight to Uncle Mohammad and welcomed him; embraced him; and kissed him repeatedly.  He then apologized profusely and made his haughty well-dressed daughters ask for forgiveness and kiss the old man’s hand as a sign of great respect.

One by one, women, men and children, some of them my schoolmates, came to our house.  In the presence of the great Molla Ali, we all celebrated the arrival of Uncle Mohammad to our town.  My mother offered everyone tea and homemade candies and cookies, kept for emergencies such as this, and which had been carefully hidden from the children.

An hour before midnight, the guests reluctantly bade farewell and left, again one by one.  With everyone gone, Molla Ali pleaded with his childhood friend:

“You have honored this town and me and my family in particular.  You are my most beloved guest of honor.  Please come to my house.”

Uncle Mohammad thanked him wholeheartedly, but refused to leave our house:

“Molla Ali, I’m happy now; you have not changed at all through these years.  You’re as kind and sincere as ever. I love you as much as I loved you before, but I cannot come with you.”

“I have arranged a special room for you with servants at your service night and day.  You can stay with us forever. Please! I beg you! Your friend Ali is begging you.”

“Forgive me I can’t.”

“Are you offended by my daughters’ rude behavior?”

“Not anymore. They are just children. I have forgiven them.  Now, I love them like my own children.”

“Then why won’t you honor me by coming to my house and staying with us?”

Uncle Mohammad paused for a minute, thought carefully and then responded, “Believe me Molla Ali, it’s not in my hands. When I knocked on your door and I was rejected as an old disabled person, even if the children did it unknowingly, I felt like an alien to you and your household.  Forgive me Molla Ali.  I don’t feel at home at your house. What’s the use in accompanying you to a place I feel no attachment for?”

“I am your childhood friend,” insisted Molla Ali.  “But here everyone is unknown to you.”

“You are right,” said Uncle Mohammad, “But when I knocked on their doors, they accepted and embraced me with open arms. They offered me a home in a place not my own.  They hosted me like the closest of their family members. They accommodated me due to my old age and disability. I feel at home here and nowhere else.”

Molla Ali argued, “Don’t be stubborn the way you used to be in Beiram 50 years ago.  You are no longer a child.  We can share many things from those days – stories that nobody else can share.”

The strong lord of our town paused for few seconds.  I saw tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.  He pleaded for the last time; “People die to spend time with me, but you are my only friend from my childhood.  Please do not abandon me.  Please be with me.  I need you.  I miss you.”

“It’s OK, Molla Ali!  I miss you too.  If you need me, you are welcome here.  This is my home.”

In my childhood heart, I felt Uncle Mohammad to be the closest of our kin.  Without knowing why, I was delighted that Uncle Mohammad had gone so far as to consider our house his own home, even to the extent of inviting someone else there.

Molla Ali, recognizing that any further argument was futile, left our house in total despair, by that time, it was after midnight.  When I got up the next day, I did not find Uncle Mohammad Beirami.  He had left right before dawn.

The following night many people, including Molla Ali and his family, came to our house in the hope of seeing and enjoying Uncle Beirami’s company.  They all blamed us when they found out that we had let him go.

“He was a source of blessing for our town.  We failed to see the halo around his head,” they praised.

Nine months passed.  Everybody was preparing for the celebration of Nowrooz – the first day of spring that is celebrated as the beginning of the New Year in Iran, Afghanistan, Tajikistan and other countries.  I was playing with other children outside our house. Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice calling me by my first name:

“Hi Ezat!”

“Hi who’s that?  I’m coming….”

It was him! Uncle Mohammad Beirami was calling me!  I ran towards him.  He embraced me and gave me special gifts he had brought from Beiram.  With Mohammad Beirami as our guest, the evening of the New Year was wonderfully celebrated in our house.  Molla Ali and his family attended enthusiastically, without even having to be invited.  They mixed and chatted with others on an equal footing with little, if any, pride or arrogance.  Everyone was cheerful and overjoyed that our town had been blessed by the presence of Uncle Mohammad Beirami.

In the years that followed, Uncle Mohammad used to bless our house the night before Nowrooz, to stay for three days and then leave.  This continued even after the death of Molla Ali. He was particularly beloved by the children who would to receive wonderful New Year’s gifts from him plus marvelous idyllic fables about the hope and dignity of human labor.  People enjoyed his popular wisdom and dictums:

A month before Nowrooz, people would to come to our house and inquire about Uncle Mohammad, asking us to let them know when he came.  There was always a competition to host him. Many women, men and children would to rush to the house where he was a guest. He never slept at anyone’s house except ours that he considered his home.

As in the life of mortal beings, there is an end to all stories: one dark Nowrooz, Uncle Beirami did not come.  The news quickly spread around.  Scores of people, including Molla Ali’s daughters and sons, gathered in front of our house – all were concerned about the health and life of their uncle.  After an extensive consultation, my father took it upon himself to travel to Beiram and find out what happened.  As the bus was unavailable for the next three days, he chose to go by horse.

Two days later, hundreds of people were anxiously waiting outside our house for my father to arrive.  In those days, I considered myself a strong young man and a champion of wrestling. This did not, however, prevent me from shedding tears the entire night before my father’s arrival.

Finally, my father arrived tired and travel-worn. His clothes and horse were covered with a thick layer of dust.  He did not utter a word, but we all understood the sad news.  He was wearing a dark colored shirt that was (and still is) the sign of lamentation in my town.  In shared sorrow, the quiet people turned into a weeping and wailing mob.

Within a week, the people in our neighborhood rallied together, collected some money, and erected a monument of precious marble in the heart of the town’s cemetery and called it Beirami Rock. Nowadays, people go for pilgrimage there, but they do not know why.