Page 40 of People Change

‘Why?’

Maman Bozorg always has issues with her different live-in carers. She says they are unkind to her, and to begin with her complaints were taken seriously, but after a while the family concluded that Maman Bozorg craved attention, due to her loneliness. It is through complaining about her carers that her many children surround her and give her what she needs. She has had five carers in a year, and with each new carer her complaints about them become wilder and wilder. She says they swear at her, they starve her, they do a whole manner of shocking things. The last Shirin heard was that they got a nanny-cam installed in the flat, which the current carer is unaware of, which links to Maman Bozorg’s children’s phones.

‘It’s horrible, Shirin. Dayi Saman saw the carer bring a man to the house and they began … in the living room.’ She mutters what sounds likeDisgustingunder her breath.

‘What? Were you both in the house?’

Her mother nods sadly. ‘She was in the next room, asleep. I was away.’

Shirin’s mouth opens involuntarily, but she can think of no words to speak.

‘Saman called us all, rushed over, phoned the police and kicked them both out. Maman says she thinks she was drugged; she remembered feeling so drowsy just before, and said she saw figures standing over her – checking if she was asleep.’ Her mum shudders. ‘I’ve not been a good daughter. I was out in Shiraz with my friends, travelling. I should have been at home with my maman. I’m never where I need to be,’ she says.

Shirin agrees with her mum’s last statement. She never is. Even now. Shirin is aware her thoughts are selfish, but it doesn’t make what she feels any less true.

‘Is Maman Bozorg okay? What happened to the carer?’

‘Yes, she’s fine. We dropped the charges in the end. The carer had separated from her husband but hadn’t yet divorced, and the punishment for what she did with that man would be too much.’

‘Death penalty?’

Her mum nods. ‘It’s ridiculous. They should be punished, butdeathis extreme. It means they’re going to be let free because of our goodwill. It’s not fair.’

Shirin is silent.

‘Maman Bozorg’s looking forward to seeing you, though. She says you’re her favourite grandchild, even in front of her other grandchildren,’ her mum continues, smiling now.

They are now in the city. They pass grand murals of important figures, elaborate graffiti proclaiming ‘Death to America’, with the American flag bleeding. Shirin’s head strains to get a good look at them as they speed on by.

She checks her phone. No messages. It is always difficult to get Wi-Fi when she visits. Eventually they make it to the only street in Tehran that Shirin knows like the back of her hand: Maman Bozorg’s street. It is narrow, with grand mismatched gates, each one a different style, some tall and black metal, others low, white and wooden, with gold accents. Her mother parks over the pedestrian path, close to the front door.

Maman Bozorg lives in a large house that’s been converted into flats. Once they get past the electric gate they walk up the smooth white steps, and two flights of stairs. Next to every flat’s front door are shoes, an insight into the people who live in each apartment.

They quietly enter the apartment, but it is unnecessary, for Maman Bozorg is awake. She is a short but large woman. She unsteadily pads over to Shirin, grabs her in a very powerful headlock-hug, and kisses her head.

‘Shirin, I’ve missed you so much, my love,’ Maman Bozorg exclaims. They speak in Farsi.

‘Hello, Maman Bozorg,’ Shirin says.

‘Do you want tea or something to eat? I got some fresh pastries from the bakery.’

‘It’s bedtime, Maman,’ her mum says, her hand lightly placed on Maman Bozorg’s back. ‘We can have all of this in the morning.’

Shirin retrieves from her suitcase the various diabetes medications she has brought with her from England, because they struggle to get them, due to the sanctions against Iran, and places them on the side table for her grandmother. The apartment has tiled floors running through each room, Persian carpets laid on top of each other in the living areas. Maman Bozorg insists that Shirin sleep in her bed and she sleep on the futon on the floor of Shirin’s mother’s bedroom. They argue about this for a long while, Maman Bozorg’s taarofing getting more and more extravagant, in which she insists that she prefers the futon to the bed, as her bed hurts her back. Shirin lies, saying she prefers the futon because she feels closer to the earth that way. She has never, in her life, considered that she would prefer to be closer to the earth when she sleeps.

In the end, Shirin wins and Maman Bozorg relents. The futon is not so bad. Her mother’s night-time habits, however, are not conducive to easy sleep. She’s forgotten how her mum listens to an Iranian psychologist’s YouTube channel every night to sleep. Even though her mum puts her headphones in to listen to him, Shirin can still hear his voice and cannot sleep from the light coming from the phone, the brightness on maximum. Then, just a few hours later, she is woken once more by her mum getting up to pray.

‘I’m speaking to Allah, Shirin,’ her mum retorts to her groans.

‘Well, yeah, but could younotturn the light on to do it?’ she snaps.

After she says this, she is certain she will be going to hell when she dies.

Maman Bozorg

Under the careful instruction of Maman Bozorg, Shirin’s mother lays out an assortment of food, some especially bought for Shirin’s arrival. Various shirini are spread out, many with crushed pistachios sprinkled on the top. Shirin’s favourite of these is ghotab – an almond-and-walnut-filled crescent coated with powdered sugar. The outer shell is hard and the inner nutty and soft. Also brought out is freshly baked barbari with honey, tart jam, butter and boiled eggs. It is a welcome sight.

Her grandmother lives more traditionally than Shirin’s other relatives. And so for each meal they lay down a sofreh, and sit cross-legged around it to eat. Maman Bozorg asks Shirin to sit down next to her. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she says. She often speaks a mixture of Farsi and Turkish, which gives her voice a shrill quality that is home to Shirin. It makes her instantly smile.