A Normal Day Indeed

         The fan rattle's its distinct sound as he lies still in his chair. Everything seems routine, although some would fail to see any repetition in the extreme calm that surrounds him. Some people would argue that the curtain fluttered at the belly as the wind sneaked through the window and tickled it sideways (yes, critics today have proposed a strict originality in their arguments), and that (they believe) does not substantiate ‘extreme calm’. The wall certainly doesn’t seem paler than usual, and nor does the boy himself feel anything different internally. Perhaps he is waiting to see if he would melt into his most dreaded dressing, since mumun and baba were earlier speaking (as if competing for an award for “most graphic depiction”) of the immediate effects of something called “mustard gas”. The boy’s particular dislike for mustard is for the first time outdone, and by none other than this new “gas” version of the yellow liquid that tastes oh-so-bad. And so he lay there still, hours after having overheard mumun and baba speaking of how people could die, if not treated promptly. He lay there in wait for this mustard gas to fly in through the window, and interestingly enough, he begins to feel the effect. He feels the numbness all around his body, from his feet dangling off the side of the couch, to his head that is hanging off the other armrest. And so he moves, and the feeling of numbness goes. Trying to cut off blood supply to his limbs wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but at the time it seemed “cool” to be able to feel mustard gas without having to taste it. Easa pushes himself away from the chair and drags his feet across to the window and shuts it, and then walks over to the door. He stands at the door for a few moments as he tries to remember a few of the questions he plans to ask his sister when he enters his parents’ domain. The door cries behind him as he closes it.
         Immediately mumun cries for him (almost in sync with the door) and tells him to come down and stand with her, and his sister under the doorframe. At his relatively young age of eight, Easa wonders where his father is as he tries to picture yellow gases attacking their home. Somehow the image breaks away as he attempts to picture just how effectively mumun, Delara, and himself would be able to keep the gases out by standing and holding firmly on each side of the doorframe. Just then, the dull sound of a missile landing is heard. These now frequently occurring sounds have become the norm for little Easa and they excite him much less now, than they did when the war first started.
         The swing creaks as the chains rub against the safety hooks. Easa watches from atop the slide, as the light shines through the holes in the chains as they swing back and forth before the sunrays. The neighbor looks up at Easa and asks him if he wants to play. Easa says that he wants to just sit and so the neighbor becomes agitated and sits in the sand, making patterns of mazes with his finger. The neighbor then asks Easa if he can see the rockets from up there, and Easa says “no” promptly.
         In bed at night, the ceiling looks bland were it not for the occasional car light reflecting off the window and onto the ceiling as a sharp ray of light shoots across; and in the process wiping his imaginary slant clear. Contrary to popular belief (and that of even his parents), Easa is very much like other kids. He wishes to “grow up to be an ambulance” (those are his own words) and prefers the company of his toys rather than friends. Many kids follow this trend, although many kids are not as quiet as Easa.
         A four-year-old Easa is seen sitting on the floor with his feet pressed firmly against one side of the doorframe, and his back against the other. His preoccupation with his toys at the foot of the most commonly used room (in other words, the kitchen) doesn’t seem to bother anyone except himself. In his silence he tries to find that place where his toys come to life and a cartoon set begins to emerge. But every time he tries, Bigfoot steps in and ruins the picture. And still he continues, and refuses to move, not because he is stubborn, but because he likes the form his body has taken with the doorframe. The flying car becomes frustrated, as his concentration is broken repeatedly.
         Today, Easa plays very little with his toys, and in a way has drifted to another plane of reality, where his imagination requires no physical substance for coming to life. As he stands in the doorway, he seems rather silenced. His mother speaks, and his father responds, but Easa just stands silently, feeling very pleased with his current outlook on life. Mumun and baba’s voices are muted now, and Easa yet again sees the yellow gas creeping into the room and he greets it. I hold him closer to me under the doorframe when I see the indifference that has sneaked into his eyes.
         A bond was forming between the boy and his newly dreamed up figment. At dinner, mumun and baba argue about God, as mumun’s agitation grows for baba’s lack of faith. The boy fails to see how faith can mean little more than either believing in God, or denying his existence. Surprisingly, that is what faith boils down to, although adults would choose to complicate the otherwise binary system of faith. Dinner commences and the muffled sounds of forks and knives against plates seem welcomed from all who contribute to their orchestration. Being brought up in a speech-forsaken household tends to make scenarios such as this one seem rather habitual.
         Easa has always been a quiet child. The doctors said it was rightly possible for certain kids to develop delayed language skills. Nonetheless, mumun and baba were so pessimistic by the time Easa was four, that they began questioning whether there was even the slightest possibility that their son was either deaf, mute, or both. I mustn’t be so harsh with my assessment of his parents, as the rest of the account of our final night as a family makes all that has passed appear more than adequate. I still believe that this boy’s resulting indifference towards the incident is due greatly to the life that mumun and baba chose to neglect, and that life is neither Easa’s life nor that of mine.
         The sound of water stuffing the insides of an empty glass is then heard clearly. Baba spills water on the table as he nervously overfills the glass and Easa tries to hide everything but his eyes from the table’s horizon again. He understands the events that are taking place. Perhaps not in a great level of depth, but he can tell when something is hurting the family. And for an undetermined reason (he thinks), this war seems to be affecting the love between mumun and baba. Mumun excuses herself from the table and baba continues to feed himself. Easa stares. An adult is rarely ashamed before a child, but the rarity doesn’t make it any less intense. It shocks me to see how a religious legalist can make a man feel ashamed before his son. Easa mutters a “hi” as his father smiles and responds with “it’s ok…I’m fine”, as if almost in response to the child’s bewilderment.
         I was laying in bed with him one night as we stared at the ceiling fan when he suddenly asked me in a grammatically correct sentence why the ceiling fan was turning one way and not the other. In shock and awe, I cried as I replied “I don’t know zippy…I don’t know”. I felt very unhelpful that moment, for the child I had been nursing from four days after birth had finally uttered words after four very long years of silence, and I had nothing to say to him that could satisfy the curiosity that drove him to speak in the first place.
         It is said that a child sometimes sees more sides to a story than an adult would. Easa clearly follows this tradition. He sees the events, he questions them, and then makes an evaluation that reaches the correct moral conclusion, despite the methodology and somewhat ‘loose’ logic he uses. He is a child nevertheless, and despite his childhood being over-taken by the evident war for the past four years of his life, he has managed to shape well. But baba still forces spoon after spoon in his mouth, and slowly but surely breaks down into frail cries. Easa still ogles baba, with his eyes spying over at his subject, in his attempt to examine (from a safe distance) and possibly cure his father of these indescribable symptoms of an enigmatic illness. Perhaps it is the yellow gas. I keep my head low and continue eating, but suddenly I feel the urge to take Easa aside and remind him not to ask about the “mustard gas” he had heard about from the stair case where me and him had been sitting at the time.
         Baba proceeds to clean the table tensely as the plates chatter against each other, reflecting on the fear that is slowly growing in Easa. The two separate and go their own ways. Father and son, each seeking asylum within them, obtain isolation in their rooms. I clean up the rest of the plates that baba so feverishly attempted to gather, and then walk over to the window to glance over at the other partner in this marriage. Being a member of a well-bred Iranian family has its shortcomings, many of which are in the intimacy department. As I look through the double-paned glass, I notice mumun cutting the dead roses from the rose bush. At first glance the sight seems disturbing, but then I remember that I am looking at a woman who has always bit her lip in order to keep the marriage together. Life always has a double meaning, and it’s a shame most people fail to see that “other” side. Baba has always been rather quiet and self indulged for as long as I remember. They had me eight years into their marriage (which seems odd enough in itself) and I recall that his turning inwards came after that infamous day that changed not only mumun and him, but also me. I would ask him the details myself, but the family does not function like that. One has no right to ask about personal issues, but only the things that relate to the family as an entity (and that excludes personal issues that have affected someone’s personality towards the family). It is an odd enough practice, but it’s worked I guess.
         Easa enters the room and drags his body across to where I stand. He holds onto the sleeve of my shirt and peers through the barrier with me. I rarely leave his side and rarely does he feel at ease in the presence of anyone but me. I still sometimes wonder why he feels such intense anxiety when in public. He sits in an unreal posture even in my parents’ presence. “Why is mom out in the rain?” he asks, which swiftly brings me back to my dutiful reality, which I believe is my existence as protector of Easa’s innocence. “She’s cutting the dead roses, can’t you see?” I say in an unusually calm voice that detests sarcasm but is cornered into it. Easa dismisses the oddity of the scenario and proceeds with his natural curiosity. “Where does mustard gas come from?” Easa asks, now looking closely at the pattern at the wrist of my shirt. “It comes from very bad people who want to hurt other people” I say, without removing my eyes from mumun who is now drenched in the rain, but who is still persistent in cutting all the dead roses. She is very hurt. “Why did God let the bad people make mustard gas?” Easa asks now, trying not to make eye contact. This is a debate, and Easa is slyly determined to win. I’ve learned through the years that the only time a child would cease the endless questions is when you craftily construct a question to counter his question. At that point, the child walks off and ponders the new question. “Why did God make the bad people in the first place?” I ask him, as a burden begins to weigh my stomach down while I look at mumun from where I stand. Easa has not left my side. I ask him to lay down on the floor, stare at the ceiling, and think about my question while I go outside and help mumun.
         The rain was a good cover-up for the incessant tears she had shed while standing amidst her then happy rosebushes. I hugged her as I accompanied her up to the bedroom. I helped her change and then helped her into bed, but as I glance over I realize baba is not in his bed. And the fact that the two have had separate beds for the past thirteen years is another issue altogether. Walking back down the stairs I remind myself that baba should be left in the kitchen until he is ready to sleep. But where is Easa? He is usually where he is expected to be, thinking more than a child his age should be. The war siren muffles the mosque’s prayer call. I lay next to Easa and watch him play with something that to my knowledge seems like mumun’s fieldwork dust mask, which she uses the few times a month that she goes to the excavating site. The silence between Easa and I seems (for a moment) like an absurd homage to the ongoing war siren, playing an early death hymn for the masses. In an almost telepathic instant, Easa speaks his mind “maybe God made the bad people because he needed to get rid of other people he couldn’t help anymore”. In agitation and maybe even fear, I turn and tell him “Easa…zip it”. Easa smiles as any poetic child would, and complies with my request. He got the nickname Zippy because of all the times I told him to zip it when he was younger. Children are poetic because they can put together the most peculiar words in a string and have it make sense, and yet, know nothing of what the greater meaning is for other people.
         The sun was bright but cool, and the windows created an even cooler effect on the floor tiles. I was just given my first water color set, and was having trouble getting my dream house painted vividly. I watched as mugs and plates flew across the kitchen at the end of the hallway. I resumed painting my house. I realized I couldn’t concentrate with all the screaming and racketing, so I got up and entered the kitchen and found baba crawled up in a corner shivering uncontrollably, and mother at the table hitting herself over the head while she cries hysterically. Might I add that this sight is not a very easily absorbed one, but nonetheless it is these such things that are always remembered, even eight years later. I was nine years old then.
         I hold Easa’s hand and point it at the ceiling. Then I say “God can help everyone. He has a plan for all of us.”, but I realize he’s not with me and is instead staring at the ceiling fan. So I stare at it with him. I’ve always admired his innocence, and in a way I sometimes wish I could forget all that I know so that I could live life without a battle, to live without ever again questioning whether my existence abides with God’s morals. I can tell he is still wondering when the mustard gas will come to take us away. I find myself asking the same question then.
         Easa is in the playground again, alone as usual. Tonight the street lamp isn’t working, but he insisted on going out. I can’t recall ever seeing more than two kids in that place at once, but that’s because he likes to go there at the strange times of the day. I would know, because I keep an eye on him every time he goes to play. Well, he doesn’t play really, he just sits around and sometimes lays on his back in the sand and stares at the empty sky. Mumun is always busy sitting in the living room, thinking. Baba is in his study, working on the book of poetry that he takes pride in before everyone but mumun. And it is this fact that has kept him from publishing it for the past four years. I feel that they have given up on life, which they can’t really be blamed for. It would come as a shock to anyone, and I am surprised at how they have handled it. I look at Easa many times and see a lot of myself in him, apart from the fact that we are brother and sister, I note that it was I who brought him up. Mumun was too tired to take care of another child, and baba felt that he had no right to treat him as a son. It is really no wonder that Easa turned out to be the way he is, and I think the age of four is a great one for him to have started speaking. I cried at the age of thirteen because of overwhelming joy. I too secretly feared that he might have been mute, and that would have been sad indeed. A boy who had seen no expression of intimacy during his first four most important years, would have gone through a life time of not being able to then express himself either. I cried even though I shouldn’t have, and I shouldn’t have because I was only thirteen. A child of the age thirteen shouldn’t be capable of joyfully crying for the accomplishment of another. And yet, I did shed tears, because I wasn’t really thirteen anymore.
         The night of the rose cutting mother and nervous wreck of a father has passed. We were at school the next day, when I was called to the principle’s office. I was informed of the ordeal in summarized form at first, but I demanded to know the details. As it seems, a missile made it past even the secondary defenses and exploded approximately eight hundred feet above the ground when anti-aircraft artillery intercepted it. Ironically, the anti-aircraft unit managed to gun down the missile while it was airborne over our home. The shrapnel from the discharged missile then proceeded at high velocity towards the left wing on the map of the house, cutting mumun’s torso in half as she lay in bed waiting for the forced beginning of another day when baba returns. What happened then, I am told, is that baba entered the house roughly five minutes after the incident and ran up to mumun’s bedside where he found her slain by the intruder. He wept at her bedside and then began rubbing both his wrists against the scrap metal that had by defined chance landed where it had. The paramedics arrived and found him bleeding and crying. He died in the emergency room.
         Just as flying mugs and plates may seem like too much to handle for a nine year old, being orphaned by such an episode at the age of seventeen might seem improbable to many people. But I am not seventeen, and Easa is not eight. We are older than we should be, and we have our parents to thank for that. One could easily say that my parents in a way prepared us for this day, allowing us to mature beforehand so that the real world would not abuse us. I cried at the funeral, but Easa didn’t. I don’t think he knows how to, because by the time he was growing up, baba had learned to hide his sadness rather well, breaking down only occasionally. And during those instances, Easa has always felt alien to the tears. He seems more like mumun; he spills out his emotions through anger. During the funeral he told me in an anger heaved voice “it was God’s yellow gas that did this to them…it’s all his fault”. I love Easa, and for this reason I chose not to tell him that it was really mumun and baba’s fault that this happened. That had it not been for mumun’s inability to accept the reality that had become of their life, she would not have been laying in bed that morning, but would have instead been on her way to work. Her soul was tired and did not want to face the day, and it had been so for eight years. Of course Easa did not know this, for all he ever saw was mumun in bed until three in the afternoon and he had become accustomed to this. And I hope that Easa never realizes that his parents were in reality siblings from the same mother, who had been separated at birth because of detailed complications that only they knew. A nine-year old child could never forget such things. I remember the denial on mumun’s face as baba showed her the birth certificates. I remember the screams that followed. I remember the blames that were put on baba, and the endless conflicting thoughts that commenced. I remember seeing these two people slowly render themselves blurred in the background of my dream house. And still they loved each other, but could not face each other and say it, for their love was taboo before God. Hardly Romeo and Juliet, but my mother and father loved each other. They just didn’t know how to deal with their lives after realizing they were direct siblings. Maybe they were dead already. Maybe they were waiting for an incentive. Maybe Easa was right. Maybe God couldn’t help them anymore.