Chapter Tow

Part 1  -  Part 2  -  Part 3  -  Part 4  -  Part 5

In reading this passage aloud, which is what is really needed to gain the full effect, the reader should draw back the chin, draw in the cheeks and cultivate as closely as possible the appearance of a camel. The late Peter Sellers would probably have given an interesting rendition of it. Something of the text is lost, of course, in an oral rendition which fails to indicate such high points as the author's care to demonstr:ate (in an adjoining passage) the vagaries of the French spelling of "battle" when being translated. A little of the charm of the original is also lost here, through the elimination of footnotes in which the author is really able to wear his learning heavily. But let us not be ungrateful to the future Marquess and Viceroy of India: we have sweated his labour pretty thoroughly and, if it is slipshod at the finer points, there is nobody to beat him (fortunately) when it comes to hard slog!
But Tabriz means much that could never be gathered from George Nathaniel Curzon.
I have tarried long, and let my memory and imagination wander into many byroads, taking up each distraction presented by the association of ideas from each place, and like my mother you must wonder if we will ever reach my grandfather's house. And so I will stop playing and come to the road on which we will find it at last.
We used to arrive at_my grandfather's house at about one o'clock in the afternoon. We approached the district called Varji, entering through twisted alleys with high wa!ls, rather ugly from the outside although inside were hidden beautiful gardens and orchards. Perhaps the houses were designed in this way to trick the tribes attacking Tabriz from outside into believing that these houses were poor so that they would ignore them in the course of their assaults. Thus my grandfather's house did not look attractive from outside, but on passing through the entrance gate you could feel the cool and pleasant interior with the garden full of fruit trees. Going into the garden you could see the cheshma, which having wandered underground over many miles now came to the surface in Varji, to end in the famous area of large vegetable farms called Hokmabad - known in Tabriz by its local name, Homavar. I immediately wanted to strip off my trousers and dangle my legs in the cool, almost freezing, water, wash my face and arms, and relax after the long journey on so hot a day. While I was doing that my mother used to hold my shirt from behind in cas_ I should fall in, which I loved to do as it gave me an excuse to swim. I would pretend that I was frightened when in fact I was not, and my mother would carry me off to change my clothes.
My grandfather imd two older uncles were either in the village or at Davachi Bazaar, where they had a cloth and grocery shop, selling various goods to the villagers. My grandmother, a very kind and dignified lady, used to welcome us, and we had lunch usually about 2.00 p.m. which I eagerly awaited. Before lunch I would have already picked several apricots from the garden, or snatched one or two small cucumbers from the corner where they used to grow. My grandmother gave us delicious dishes, mostly made of different vegetables. Bread was cooked at home once every two or three months, stored in a room and used gradually. The bread was /avash, long and as thin as thick paper, a metre long and half a metre wide.
My younger aunt, Dilar, used to help my grandmother with the housework and cooking. They also had a manservant and several womenservants. My second-oldest uncle, Karim, was fond of horses and kept one at home and sometimes gave us rides on it, which was most enjoyable. I liked him most of all because he played with us a lot: he was the only older person who played with me and his two younger brothers. My grandfather had two brothers, one older and one younger than him, who lived in the houses adjoining his. There were doors dividing these houses. My grandfather was very well-bred and rather serious, and did not show much interest in children except for a brief smile and word of conversation. He thought our playing and running around the garden was pointless. We had a toy which was a round disc on a long string and could be made to go through the garden, twisting and turning and wandering off among the trees. "What is the use of that?" asked my grandfather. He did not know that it took me in my mind into the air, twisting and turning, and escaping from all the world. It was a great thing to do! I was surprised when I heard him ask what was the use of it. Myyoung uncles, and sometimes Karim too when not too busy with his horse, would join in, chasing me as I tried to make the disc travel far enough to keep them at a sufficient distance. It was a great shock to the whole family, and especially to the children, when Karim was suddenly paralysed at about 25 years of age, and was taken to Tehran where after unsuccessful treatment over several months he died. My grandfather, too, died some five years afterwards, almost certainly from his grief, as he never recovered from Karim's death.
Villagers used to bring presents to my grandfather regularly. Once he had planned to take my grandmother to another city for a holiday while she was recovering from an illness. He intended to combine business with the holiday and so decided to go to Maragheh, to the north-west of Tabriz near Lake Urmiyeh. He wrote a letter to a friend asking him to prepare a house for them, sealed it in an envelope and stamped it. He came outside, looking for the servant to take it to the post-box. At the same moment a villager arrived with a donkey laden with presents - eggs, flour, chickens, butter and so on. My grandfather, remembering that he had sent the servant, Qurban, to his place of business, asked the villager, Nawruz-Ali, to take the letter to the post-box. Nawruz-Ali replied, as was customary: "Your servant be sacrificed to you. Let me unload my things." My grandfather insisted, "No, no, take the letter". So Nawruz-Ali took the letter and put it on the ground, and my grandfather shouted at him not to make it dirty. Nawruz-Ali said, "My lord, I wanted to untie the chickens and put the covering on the donkey" (to absorb its perspiration and prevent its taking a chill). "The poor animal has travelled a long way." Seeing my grandfather looking serious and rather commanding, he picked up the letter from the ground and went a few yards forward, but then returned to my grandfather saying, "Your troubles are my heart, my lord: let me take the eggs into the house in case the donkey should roll over them and break them." My grandfather shouted, "Don't talk too much: run and take this letter to the post-box." Nawruz-Ali was going away when my grandfather called to him, "Don't give that letter to anyone; don't show it to anyone. Put it quickly into the box and return." Nawruz-Ali said, "Am I a child, that I would let anybody take that letter from me? Do you think I am so crude? I will not even let the police touch it." My grandfather again showed him the way to go, and told him where the post-box was, explaining several times. Nawruz-Ali disappeared, and my grandfather returned to the room, explaining to my grandmother what he had written to his friend and telling her to prepare and make ready for the journey. While they were talking Qurban arrived and asked, "Whose donkey is this in the garden? What are these things on the ground?" My grandfather answered, "Boy, go and take them in: they are presents from Nawruz-Ali Tazakandi", thus naming a village about 30 kilometres from Tabriz. Then Qurban took the chickens to the kitchen and opened the sack and told my grandfather that it was very good flour. My grandfather then ordered Qurban to bring lunch. We had lunch. Two hours went by, Nawruz-Ali did not return, and my grandfather became anxious. He called Qurban and told him to go to the post-office ana find out what had become of Nawruz-Ali.
It was about half an hour before Qurban returned, without having found Nawruz-Ali. My grandfather was on the balcony, smoking, and worrying about his letter. While he was there, the police appeared at the door. As soon as they saw my grandfather they said, "Sir, the officer in charge asked me to beg you to come to the station, and bailout one of your subjects." My grandfather was very surprised at this, and after a few minutes' silence asked, "What has this poor man done that he has been taken by you to the police station?" But the officer said he did not know much about it, and my grandfather had better come himself. My grandfather did not say anything to my grandmother in case she might worry. When he arrived at the police station (he told me later), there he found poor Nawruz-Ali sitting among the prisoners and crying, and wiping his tears away with the end of his jacket.
After talking with the policeman in charge my grandfather brought Nawruz-Ali back to the house. As soon as Nawruz-Ali reached the garden, he squatted next to the wall and wept. My grandfather called him into a room and started to investigate what had happened. Nawruz-Ali wiped his eyes and said, "My dear Lord, may my life be sacrificed for you and for your children. Excuse me, it is not my fault, I am a simple peasant. How should I know what is a letter, and what is a postal-box, and what is the post-office. I have never seen any of these things in my life. For the sake of your children's health and your own prosperity, forgive me for this mistake. If I do not die and do live, I will recompense you for the error which I have made. What can be done? Perhaps this was God's wish, that this should happen." He moved forward and bowed down to kiss my grandfather's feet. My grandfather told him to sit down, and asked again what had happened. Nawruz-Ali said, "Sir, what happened to my donkey?" My grandfather said, "Don't waste time talking about donkeys, tell me what has happened." Nawruz-Ali said, "When I reached the post-box, I did not dare to put the letter in the box in case somebody should take it. After seeing one lady and one child bringing letters and lifting the cover and putting the letter into the box, I was heartened to take your letter and put it in the box. Then in order to be sure that nobody would steal it, I waited a few minutes to make certain the letter was safe. Then to my surprise I saw a man approach the box and, by fiddling with it, manage to open it. He stole my letter and the others. And then I rushed on him and snatched all the letters from him, and seeing that he resisted my attempt to save the letters, I punched his face and knocked him down so that he would not steal your letter. The policeman saw what I was doing from across the road and took me away. Sir, it was not my fault, I wanted to protect your letter."
Nawruz-Ali tended the donkey after dark and went back to his own village. He refused to eat anything in my grandfather's house. My grandparents went off to Maragheh, and when they returned to Tabriz they heard that after some weeks Nawruz-Ali had been taken from his village and sentenced to three months' imprisonment for the crime of having assaulted a public official. When my grandfather heard this, he stood for some time staring at the ground. He did not say anything.