Bath Time Lullaby in Tehran
In memory of Fereydoun Farrokhzad and Siamak Pourzand
“Azi Khanoum [Miss Azi], you are growing up! Time flies, my little love. One day you will grow up, and realize this,” he said with his usual big smile. Holding onto his big, strong and hairy hand not to slip too deeply into the soap water and ruin the bubbles that she wanted to preserve for as long as possible, she splashed a bit of water towards him, and laughed as he blinked to keep the water drops from going into his eyes.
Wiping off the soapy water that she had victoriously splashed on his face, he reached for the shampoo to pour a bit in his palm and wash her hair. He was the only one on Earth, as small as Earth was for a 6-year-old little girl, who could wash her hair impeccably, gently untangling the curls without making her head hurt. He had an incredible ability in washing her curly frizzy hair with the cheap and poor quality of soap made by factories sponsored by the government without burning her eyes, ruining the curls, and leaving the frizz behind. He knew it, and was proud of it.
In his years of forced unemployment after the Islamic Revolution, he had taught himself to take pride in small things, like washing her hair better than anyone else, knowing how to make the old and half-functional washing machine work without it leaking every time, vacuum cleaning their home much more meticulously than the maid, and being the only and the most popular dad among all those housewives who would come to pick up their kids at the kindergarten every afternoon.
“Close your beautiful little black eyes, my princess”, he said to her. She closed her eyes in anticipation for the song that he’d always sing when he was bathing her. “Babyee, sing!” she said. He began without a pause, “Boom Ba Ba Boom Boom!” Excited, she joined him to sing her favorite song of all times. “Boom Ba Ba Boom Boom Bari Bari Boom Bam!” they both sang as he was washing her hair. He continued to sing the rest of the song, which was a famous one by one of his closest friends, who like the rest, had fled the country a few years before at the onset of the Islamic Revolution, and who was going to be stabbed in his apartment while living in exile in Germany one year later, where the hitmen of the Islamic government planted abroad would kill him as punishment for being a homosexual, an anti-revolutionary singer and a showman. He stopped to catch his breath, and said, “You have to sing Uncle Fereydoun’s song the next time he calls! He will be very happy to hear you sing it, my little princess.” She responded, “Assal!” He laughed and said, “Yes, he is the one who sent you Assal for your birthday, remember?” Assal (Honey) was the only Barbie doll she had whose hair was dark brown and curly like hers, and her skin was less white like hers. She was so good that her knees would bend.
A couple of minutes of silence, and closing her eyes tightly to fight the cruel shampoo drops that she was sure was trying to get into her eyes and burn them, before she started to scream, demanding that he sings the song again. “Sing Baba! Sing!” she screamed at him. The former renowned journalist, the former Hollywood correspondent, the former world traveller, the former editor-in-chief, the proud son of the former chief commander of the Shah’s military took the little girl’s order to heart, and resumed singing right away. “Boom Bara Boom Boom!” they sang together until he completed the hair washing ceremony flawlessly. He had won yet another battle against the bad quality shampoo made in the Islamic Republic of Iran, that was made to damage hair and to burn the eyes, besides hopefully cleaning the hair as well.
Now it was time for him to wash her feet that were always too dirty for him to believe, after hours of running around in the kindergarten followed by playing in the back alley with the neighborhood kids. Just like him, she was painfully ticklish. To prepare her for the uneasy sensation of being tickled, he would say enthusiastically, “Here we go! Ready? Ready? 1, 2, 2.5…” and she would yell while already giggling, “THREE!”, and they would both giggle as he’d scrub her feet. “Like father, like daughter”, he’d say while laughing.
While rinsing her small feet, he quietly said, “My princess is growing up fast! She will be a fine young lady some day, and then she is going to have to learn how to wash herself like a real lady. I won’t be able to wash her anymore!” Before letting him finish his words, she rose of anger in the bathtub, and almost slipped and fell, had he not grabbed her arm in time. She stood back up angrily and looked at him with resentment. Stomping her feet against the water in the bathtub, while screaming out of her lungs, she kept on saying, “You must bathe me forever!” Preserving his usual big smile, he said, “But, I can’t! I will be old and weak then, and you will a beautiful and independent swan, my little princess. You won’t need me then.” “No!” she screamed. While holding tightly onto his arm not to fall again, she went on to say, “I hate you! I hate you!”
He took her in his arms. His shirt was all wet by now. He grabbed the towel and wrapped her around it like he was wrapping the most precious treasure he ever possessed in silk. Holding her tightly in his arms as she was shivering a bit, he put her head on his shoulder, and whispered in her ear, “My little princess, growing up is such a nice thing. I promise you will like it a lot. And, I will always be your one and only Baba Siamak. I promise. I love you as much as the whole entire…” She interrupted him and said, “the universe”, without knowing what the universe really was. Regardless, she knew this much: He loved her as much as the whole entire “universe”.
She was still mad at him, but too comfortable and warm to complain. He moved the towel against her skin slowly to dry her without interrupting her calm mood. He took the smaller towel and slowly dried her hair without ruining the curl as her head was still resting on his shoulder. Her curls were important to him. He would do anything not to ruin them. He would come to kindergarten and explain to her teachers day after day that they should not brush her curly hair as it ruins the curls. The teachers were of course ignoring his request, thinking that he is some sort of a strangely polite and concerned bored stay-at-home father, which back then was as rare as dinosaurs.
The bathroom was filled with steam. She liked the steam. He stepped backwards to get closer to the mirror so that she can draw whatever she wanted on the steamy mirror. She drew a star that looked more like a ravaged triangle. He turned around, and drew a perfectly shaped star, and let her see it. He said while pointing at the star, “Do you know who this is?” She said, “No”, as she was dozing off. He whispered in her ear, “my Azi Khanoum,” as he ran his finger against her cheek that had grown red in the heat of the bathroom. He began to slowly and patiently open the door of the bathroom, letting her body adjust itself to the changing temperature.
She must have fallen asleep like every time. She must have fallen asleep, confident that he will always wash her for the rest of my life, that he was always going to be a stay-at-home dad in Tehran, and that she was always going to be his little girl, little star.
“Boom Ba Ra Boom Boom!” he must have hummed in her ear, while putting her to bed and kissing her on the cheek.
