Page 41 of People Change

‘What’s new?’ Shirin asks.

Maman Bozorg shakes her head. ‘Not a lot.’ Shirin raises her eyebrow. ‘Your mother told you then,’ she says, waving her hand, before giving Shirin’s mum daggers. ‘It’s … it’s okay, it’s life, these things happen. I’m tough. Pass me some honey, joonam?’

Shirin hands her grandma the jar and a spoon. Her grandmother drizzles the honey over her bread, before breaking off a piece and placing it in her mouth. She sits with her back rested against a poshti, one leg tucked under her, the other out in front of her. Maman Bozorg has arthritis and diabetes, which is why she needs a carer, though her mind is the sharpest of anyone Shirin knows; it’s just her body that needs a little help. In fact it’s a running joke in the family that Maman Bozorg is psychic. She often senses things before they happen, correctly guessing the sex of her children’s babies before they were born, even predicting that her own daughter would marry a man who looked like Tom Selleck – whom Shirin’s dad in his younger years uncannily resembled.

The flat has no Wi-Fi, and Shirin is bereft at not having checked her messages since she was in Heathrow, a day ago now. That said, this break in her routine – in her constant doom-scrolling – is refreshing, even if it’s hard. She already feels differently from how she did in London.

The telephone rings, and Shirin’s mother goes to answer it. She leaves the room with the wireless headset. Shirin is about to question who it is when her Maman Bozorg puts her hand lightly onto her leg. ‘Azizam, when are you going to get married?’ she asks, because she is an Iranian grandmother with a single granddaughter in her twenties – how can she not?

Shirin rolls her eyes, takes a ghotab and plays with it in her hand. ‘I’ll marry when I’m ready. It’s not all about marriage.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘But you look a bit different on this trip – more tired, excited. What are you excited about, joonam?’

Shirin’s heart jumps at the questioning she was not expecting. It is too early for this, especially in combination with her jet lag and the difficulties of sleeping in the same bedroom as her mother.

‘I’m not excited about anything,’ she replies slowly. She takes a tentative bite of the ghotab. This is more delicately than she would normally eat it; if she were not being accosted, she would pop the entire thing in her mouth.

Her grandma smiles, her bright blue eyes crinkle. Her skin is so pale now, a result of staying in most days, which only makes the colour of her eyes even more pronounced. Her hair is cut short into a bob and she has let it remain grey, a recent change. Now she says there is no shame in grey hair, that ageing is no bad thing, it is something to be celebrated instead.

‘Tell the truth,’ she says. ‘I won’t tell your mother.’ Her smile is genuine, cheeky even. Shirin’s mouth is open, though she does not say anything. ‘As long as he makes you happy,’ Maman Bozorg continues. ‘That’s all we want.’

Shirin nods in acknowledgement, but she wants to say that that isn’t what everyone wants. There is so much focus on marriage – romantic relationships overall – and how that will fix a person. No one notices how lost she is in herself, and how a partner can’t solve that problem. Sheistired. Both physically and mentally. But her Maman Bozorg isn’t right about her being excited about someone – because if shewere, it would be Kian, and he is unattainable, thus filling her with the opposite of excitement.

When her mother returns, she says it was Zahreh – Shirin’s aunt – and that she is coming to visit later. Maman Bozorg is distracted by this news, thrilled at further visitors. The topic of Shirin’s love life is not returned to.

The next day Shirin stays at home with Maman Bozorg while her mother is grocery shopping. She is waiting for the samovar to boil. There are patterns imprinted into the antique copper frame, and making chai this way requires more effort, but the tea is smoother, crisper, thus worth the additional time. When the water is hot enough, Shirin pours tea into two clear glasses.

Making her way into the living room, she sets the two black teas in front of her grandmother. She sits on the armchair next to Maman Bozorg, leaning against the hard chair. It is uncomfortable, though her grandmother says it’s good for her back.

‘Merci, Shirin jan,’ Maman Bozorg says, taking a glass of chai with one hand and using her other to pop a sugar cube in her mouth. She takes a sip, sucking on the sugar cube as she drinks. ‘There’s sweets in the top cupboard. Why don’t you get them for us to eat with our chai?’

‘Your diabetes …’ Shirin begins.

Maman Bozorg waves her hand in the air dismissively. ‘We’re all going to die anyway, why not enjoy ourselves while we’re still here?’

This is where Shirin gets her lack of restraint when it comes to food. She is usually of the same opinion as her grandmother,that there is often so little joy in life that it is hard to restrict food that gives such instant pleasure. Her appetite is slowly returning since being here. She retrieves the box of pastries and sets it in front of Maman Bozorg. While her grandmother is making her selection, Shirin gets out her diabetes tablets and leaves them on the coffee table for her to take afterwards.

‘You look after me,’ Maman Bozorg coos before taking a bite out of a piece of zaban. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

‘Me too,’ she says.

‘Do you remember, Shirin jan, when you were very little and it was just me, you and your Baba Bozorg?’

‘A little. Less memories, but more how I felt.’ She, too, picks up a zaban. It’s been so long since she’s had one. It is a puff pastry that is sweet and crunchy on the outside, but soft on the inside. She is not sure she loves the taste, but it reminds her of being young and hopeful.

‘How did you feel then?’ Maman Bozorg asks.

‘Loved.’

Her grandmother smiles at this. ‘We were happy, weren’t we?’ There is sadness in her eyes that Shirin hasn’t noticed before.

‘I really am sorry about what happened to you, with the carer.’

She frowns. ‘No one believed me,’ she says, her voice suddenly forlorn. Maman Bozorg’s moods change so drastically – you often know exactly how she’s feeling when looking at her, when hearing her speak. It is something Shirin once thought would be a curse, but she now thinks must be nice. There is no pretending.

‘We’re all stupid. We should have. Everyone will believe you now.’ Shirin puts her hand over her Maman Bozorg’s – the one that isn’t holding her tea. Shirin’s hand is small in comparison, but she hopes it has the strength to comfort her, like her grandmother has comforted her all her life.

It is like Maman Bozorg can read her mind because she turns to her and says, ‘Why are you upset, azizam?’