Gulbadan

For the best part of the last one year I have been living in an apartment complex owned by my university that usually houses families, older students and scholars in various departments and disciplines.

Almost every day while walking to class or to run the usual errands, I see a man sitting on the stairs of his townhouse talking on the phone and smoking a cigarette. He is quite old, has a mane of bushy, unruly grey hair, and always appears lost. When I return home in the evening, I see him there again. Then, late at night, when I head out to have my final cigarette of the day (my house is sadly non-smoking, a regulation I have begun to flout recently), I see him again - he's sitting on the same stairs, looking into the distance, and enjoying his drags.

I never spoke to him or even acknowledged him while passing by, always intrigued and fascinating but a bit afraid. Until today, that is.

I ventured out at night to have a cigarette (even though I now sneakily smoke inside sometimes, the weather was rather nice so it was worth enjoying the deathstick in fresh air), and walked up to my usual bench in the corner where I sit in solitude and think big thoughts while slowly reducing my life. This time, however, the mysterious smoking uncle was sitting in the same area, rather than on his stairs as usual.

I quietly sat down on my bench of choice, exchanged a smile with him (our first acknowledgement of each other's existence in the entire year), and lit my stick. Suddenly, he spoke, and that too in heavily accented English: "Tonight is a great night for smoking, isn't it?"

I smiled hesitantly, and said, "Yes, it definitely is," and would have ended the conversation then had I not noticed his heavy accent. Now I was mildly intrigued. So I straight up asked him, "Uhh, where are you from?" (In retrospect, I realize that's a pretty rude start to a conversation.)

"Iran" he replied very slow.

"OH" I went, a bit too loud. I had spent the whole day catching up on the mayhem and protests and election rigging and everything going on in that country, and so naturally was quite excited to meet an Iranian in flesh. "I am from Pakistan," I finally added.

"Oh, that's nice," he said, smiling, almost happy to hear that.

"So, what do you do here," was my next obvious question.

"Oh, I write."

"I'm sorry?" I blurted out. My bad. See, I was expecting something like "I am a professor of history/political science/international relations/insert-important-sounding-subject-of-choice."

"I am a writer," he replied, still very polite and gentle.

"So, what do you write? Novels? Scripts?"

"Yes, novels mostly. Or stories. I am writing a novel about censorship right now. My agent is trying to find publishers around the world."

Me, now obviously intrigued: "So, have you written before this, or is this your first novel?"

"Oh, yes, a lot. I have about eleven books or so."

Holy fuck! That's a lot of books.

"So, this book is about censorship. Are all your past books about political stuff?"

"Well, in Iran, if you're a dissident and you're not writing for the government, all the books are about political stuff."

"Oh" was all I could say. "So how long have you been here?"

"I have been here three years. Sadly because of my books, I can't go back."

"Wow. I'm sorry," was again all I could say. "Umm, so your family lives here too?"

"No, my wife and daughter are back in Iran. The Americans don't give my daughter a visa, she has tried five times. Has taken a lot of expensive trips to Istanbul and Ankara. By the way, what does Musharraf do now?"

"Oh, Musharraf? Hehe. Well, umm, nothing really. He pretty much tours the world giving lectures and making money, and lives on a farmhouse outside the capital, stealing electricity. Nothing exciting. So, umm, things are bad in your country right now."

"Yes, very bad," he says, suddenly turning very gloomy. "I was quite hopeful, but it's all very fake. Very fake. And our president, he's such a shame."

"Is he popular in Iran?"

"Yes, a little bit. People believe him. They make a mistake."

"Well, I hope things work out. There was a protest today in Harvard Square, I believe," I said, trying to sound consolatory.

"Yes, yes, I know. I went to that. It's all very sad." He then paused for a bit. "And how come your English is so good?" he suddenly asked.

"Pardon me?"

"Your English. It's very good. How is that?"

"Oh, hehe, well, umm, British legacy, I guess. We were ruled by them for 200 years, so some of our education system is in English. It helps us now. Everyone in the world speaks English," I tried to explain.

"Heh, yes, that is true. In Iran they don't teach English well. I wish I could speak it well, write in it. I have a translator, I have to write in Farsi and get everything translated. It is very difficult."

"Oh. Umm, if you don't mind me asking, what is your name sir?"

"Hmm? Oh, heh, Shahriyar."

"In case I want to read your books, I should know what to search for."

"Yes, of course, Shahriyar Mandanipour." He then went ahead and spelled out his last name, letter by letter, so that I would remember.

"Right. I'll definitely go to the book store this week and try to find some of your books."

"Yes, they are on the Amazon website."

"Okay, I will check that out. Right, I need to head back now. My laundry must have dried," I said getting up. "I hope things get better in your country soon."

"And in yours too," he said.

And I proceeded to pick up my dried laundry, came back home, sorted and folded and put away my clothes, and plopped in front of my computer to do a quick Google search on the dude. I forgot how he spelt his last name. All I could remember was a Shahriyar M-something-pour. Hehe. After a few tries, I was finally able to locate a Shahriyar Mandanipour. Sounded like him. So, I clicked.

And, oh my Deobandi God, was I in for a shock. Turns out, the quiet, almost-scary looking, mysterious smoking uncle I was seeing every day and never acknowledging is one of Iran's most famous writers. Mr Mandanipour is a true artistic legend. And the book that he was talking about is actually out now. It's called "Censoring an Iranian Love Story." I couldn't believe it.

Now I will definitely be reading it, and all of his other work. And hopefully I'll run into him again, and bum a cigarette off him, and finally have a mildly interesting story to share with my kids. :)