2/10/2006
Ali R. Forootan

I just came back from Iran. One hot, uncharacteristically humid, afternoon when I was there I sat on the balcony of our apartment to tea and look at the sites of the country that I adore. Tehran is a beautiful city, even with smog hanging in the air.

Anyway, as I drank my tea and read from the afternoon newspaper. I heard a whistle. A high tone note followed by yet a higher tone but different note. I looked down the street and there he stood, a teenage boy, about 12-13. He had dark long hair, bangs grown longer in front, about five feet tall. He was wearing a azure blue shirt, a pair of jeans, and sneakers. He held a plastic ball, with red and white stripes, firmly between his arm and body.

He let out another whistle just like the first one, and looked up to a building across the street. Another whistle followed a few seconds later. I looked at the building he was looking at. There was a movement in the curtains and then the glass window slid a bit. A head appeared in the little opening. I could barely see the profile of another boy about the same age.

The boy in the window in a hushed voice asked:" Faramarz chie? (What is It? )"

Faramarz as if trying to put the other boy in a trance, took the ball from under his arm and began to juggle it, sending it up a few inches high and then catching it with the other hand and repeat it in reverse. He did this a few seconds without saying a word. Then called,

"Hey Hassan, Miay bazi? (Are you game?)"

-"Mamanam khabeh, mitarsam bidar beshe,Davam koneh" (My mom is taking a nap, I am afraid she wakes up and get mad) [ I hope you got the atmosphere by now. I will write in English from here on.]

-"Ah… come on, she won't wake up, just be quiet"

The other boy just shook his head in agreement and closed the window.

Faramarz as if trying to make sure that his friend will be coming down, kept looking up and tossing the ball in his hand. Then he took the ball and started to kick it against the wall again. As the ball returned, he kicked it again.

A minute or two passed.

The door to the Hassan’s building opened and Hassan slid out. He was shorter than his friend, with a round face and bright eyes. He walked to the other boy and extended his hand, the other boy squeezed it and that was the greeting. No words were exchanged.

As the ball rolled back slowly from the wall, Faramarz stopped it without even looking at it and passed it to Hassan. And a game of football began.

As the game went on, the alley was filled with their boisterous yelps, laughter, and youth.

They are oblivious to me, to me and my memories.

As the tears stream down my cheeks, I remembered Farhad Khosravi, my friend from across the street some 30 years ago, in Amir Abad. I used the same whistle as Faramarz did to call Farhad, who happened to be a Zoroastrian. I remembered our other friends there, his cousins who lived down the street, a couple of Philippino kids at the end of the street, Jean the Assyrian kid, Massod Tohidnejad, Ghyas the Jewish kid, and many others.

I reminisced and cried for the long gone innocence of our youth.