Sunday, December 25, 2005
Hossein and the Russian Orchard
After the incident at the Russian orchard, Hossein was never the same. It was only because he had failed the fifth grade, that the the twelve year old was forced to walk 6 miles each way to attend school in the evening. Jasmine bloomed in the Spring of 1955. Under sporadic stars and the cool black ceiling of sky, the boy whistled his way through the thicket of trees, untapped fields of rice, and past the abandoned orchard, every night of the week.
Yellow brick walls too high for children to climb, surrounded the fruit trees, with the exception of an unlocked entry. While the owners were never seen, local residents believed that ghosts occupied the Russian owned property, which stood in an eery silence, on the Iranian side of the choppy grey sea.
Five forever hungry boys with mischeivous apettites and a much younger porcelain doll of a sister, a father in the bussiness of port administration, and a mother made of pearls and thick calloused skin, had found a new home along the coast of the Caspian sea. Hossein was forced to travel alone, because the four other brothers, who took taxis, trolleys, and busses to school in the mornings, had no need to enter the orchard full of ghosts, with walls wrapped in vines of grape leaves. As for the porcelain doll of a sister, she was far too young to attend school, and by the time she was old enough to start the first grade, the family had moved back to the constant traffic and transportation of a big sprawling city.
Naturally, Hossein was afraid, but he did not have the luxury of a horse or carriage. Thus, he was forced to walk through the orchard alone at night, where a breeze among the leaves can easily disguise the uninvited arrival of a spririt on the scene. Branches of trees, drooping from the weight of cherries, apples, nectarines, were no longer appetizing.
Ordinarily, after a dinner of soft steamed rice and the tumeric seasoned drumstick of a chicken that took forever to catch, Hossein cleaned his teeth and laced up his shoes of canvas and cotton, kissing his mother good-bye. One night, after class, from the bazaar near the school, he bought a bag of fresh yogurt and stone baked bread to bring home.
By the time he reached the front door, his body trembled with fear and the yoghurt had spilled on shoulders, kneecaps, and young hands shaking nervously. The state of shock excused his attendance from school for the week. Thereon, every night, armed with a wooden spear and a German Shepherd, the mother made of pearls and calloused skin accompanied the boy who eventually became the champion of boxing, through the abandoned orchard of ghosts and grape leaves.
Decades later, after the fruit had rotted in the trees, after the inauguration of a new regime, after camels and terrorists stereotyped the country, after families moved away overseas, my father tells me that the walls of the Russian orchard are still standing.
Yellow brick walls too high for children to climb, surrounded the fruit trees, with the exception of an unlocked entry. While the owners were never seen, local residents believed that ghosts occupied the Russian owned property, which stood in an eery silence, on the Iranian side of the choppy grey sea.
Five forever hungry boys with mischeivous apettites and a much younger porcelain doll of a sister, a father in the bussiness of port administration, and a mother made of pearls and thick calloused skin, had found a new home along the coast of the Caspian sea. Hossein was forced to travel alone, because the four other brothers, who took taxis, trolleys, and busses to school in the mornings, had no need to enter the orchard full of ghosts, with walls wrapped in vines of grape leaves. As for the porcelain doll of a sister, she was far too young to attend school, and by the time she was old enough to start the first grade, the family had moved back to the constant traffic and transportation of a big sprawling city.
Naturally, Hossein was afraid, but he did not have the luxury of a horse or carriage. Thus, he was forced to walk through the orchard alone at night, where a breeze among the leaves can easily disguise the uninvited arrival of a spririt on the scene. Branches of trees, drooping from the weight of cherries, apples, nectarines, were no longer appetizing.
Ordinarily, after a dinner of soft steamed rice and the tumeric seasoned drumstick of a chicken that took forever to catch, Hossein cleaned his teeth and laced up his shoes of canvas and cotton, kissing his mother good-bye. One night, after class, from the bazaar near the school, he bought a bag of fresh yogurt and stone baked bread to bring home.
By the time he reached the front door, his body trembled with fear and the yoghurt had spilled on shoulders, kneecaps, and young hands shaking nervously. The state of shock excused his attendance from school for the week. Thereon, every night, armed with a wooden spear and a German Shepherd, the mother made of pearls and calloused skin accompanied the boy who eventually became the champion of boxing, through the abandoned orchard of ghosts and grape leaves.
Decades later, after the fruit had rotted in the trees, after the inauguration of a new regime, after camels and terrorists stereotyped the country, after families moved away overseas, my father tells me that the walls of the Russian orchard are still standing.
