Grandpapa's Welcome

Tadjrish, Iran
January, 1971


My father arrived in Tehran on a cold winter night in January. Lygeia and I sat huddled in the dark car with aunty for what seemed like hours as we waited for him to emerge from the glass doors of the airport. My mother had disappeared through those doors leaving us the promise that she would return with him, and after months without him in Iran it seemed an impossible miracle that it could be true. When he finally appeared, weighed down with handbags and dragging two heavy suitcases, my mother at his side, the exhaustion of the late hour ran off me as if a light switch had been turned on in my mind. I squealed and I squirmed, bolting upright to reach for him in the front seat to wrap my arms around his neck. Before long, I nestled my head in to my mother’s lap in the back seat and listened to his voice tangle topsy turvy with the rumble of the car as we made our way back to my grandfather’s house.

At breakfast the next morning, my grandpapa had gained a formality that seemed odd and awkward. Instead of the cotton pajamas which he had always wore all day around the house, I found him eating his breakfast in a suit, with a crisp white shirt and shiny black shoes instead of his leather slippers. When my father emerged from the house, beaming and excited, Grandpapa rose and I watched him shake my father’s hand stiffly.

“Baba,” my father called him. “I am so pleased to finally meet you.” He pumped my Grandpapa’s arm vigorously and smiled. Grandpapa tipped his head forward, his eyes down, bowing slightly towards my father. “Ekhdiarderee,” was all he said, a slight smile on his lips. He laid his cane down on the ground and settled in to his chair, gesturing for my father to sit in the chair next to him.

I jumped in to my father’s arms as soon as he was free to catch me, and I remained planted in his familiar lap as he sat quietly at my grandfather’s side.

“Put your cheese in your bread, Daddy,” I explained. “and don’t forget the jam!” I erupted into giggles at the thought of him eating the dry bread with the cheese. “That’s sugar for tea, Daddy. Grandpapa puts sugar in his mouth. See?” We both watched as my grandfather drank down his warm tea and let the sugar dissolve in his mouth.


“Like this?” my father asked, and my Grandpapa smiled and nodded in agreement as my father placed the sugar cube from his saucer in his own mouth and reached for his glass of steaming tea.

The next week flew by quickly, pulling my father’s hand through the narrow streets, through the bustling bazaar and up the steep hill behind Grandpapa’s house to buy a snack, warm Pofak-namakee, like American cheese puffs. I suddenly had someone I could show around, someone who knew less about this place than me, and Lygeia and I enjoyed laughing at the way he pronounced all the new words we had learned, “sheer,” “ob,” and “madreseh.” Grandpapa seemed stiff in his suit, but he could not be convinced to change back in to his cotton pajamas, which he normally had only changed out of when he was planning to leave the heavy courtyard gate.

“Baba, really,” my mother would implore. “Do you think my husband cares whether you’re wearing a suit?”

“Hhmmf,” he would grunt and glare at her. He did not want it discussed.

It was about four weeks after my father arrived that Grandpapa’s suit began disappearing like a subtle strip tease in slow motion. First, the carefully shined shoes were replaced by the worn leather slippers that had been waiting patiently by the door and he returned to his shuffling walk and lost the clop of hard soles on the concrete patio.

Another week went by and my grandfather shed his suit coat and then after a few more days his tie, leaving them hanging over a chair, or laid out on his bed. After another week, his button-up shirt was replaced by his crème-colored cotton pajama top with the brown trim. Piece by piece my grandfather was restored to his normal self until two months after my father’s arrival he finally arrived at lunch, a springtime lunch under the blooming plum tree, without any sign of the formalities of the previous weeks. He settled himself at the head of the table, as if he had just rolled out of bed, resting his cane at his feet, and let out a tremendous fart which held a tone like a lengthy blow on a paper party favor. My grandfather was looking down at his food and his expression didn’t change.

“I’ve finally arrived!” my father exclaimed happily looking around the table and he, my mother and my uncle burst into hearty laughter. A sly smile crept on to my grandfather’s face and he peeked up through the long white hairs of his bushy eyebrows.

“That sound must be from a little mouse under the table,” said my uncle jokingly and I peeked down between my legs to try to catch a glimpse of it before it could scuttle away.

“Yes, a mouse,” my mother replied, smiling, and we all dug in to our rice and stew as if it was our first meal as a family reunited.