He was sitting on a bench in the
classroom. His legs not long enough to reach the floor, they were dangling in
the air. One of his hands was on the desk as he rested his head upon it. He
wore a shirt, two size bigger than him. His other hand went into the pocket of his
shirt, every now and then to bring out some nuts to eat. I was rehearsing a
play with the children in the class while he was sitting just like that. He was
looking down, not at us, but he was there. If I told the children to close
their eyes and imagine, I could see that Siavash also closed his eyes while his
mouth was moving as he chewed his nuts and imagined...
Siavash was such a little child, maybe 3
or 4 when I saw him. He smelled alcohol in the mornings back then. He couldn’t
walk steadily and staggered. He was very naughty; even the older kids couldn’t
handle him. Sometimes Siavash smelled opium; the same days that he sat calmly
at the desk, his legs dangled in the air, his eyes closed as he imagined...
Siavash was one of the Iranian children.
One of those who sometimes was and sometimes wasn’t there. The days that he was
there, he smelled strange, played impishly... he sometimes delved into his
dreams in the theatre class. Sometimes I wished that after saying ‘imagine...’
a cloud appeared above Siavash’s head. I wished I could see that cloud
unraveling what was inside the mind of this 5-year-old kid, what was he
imagining?
Siavash was and was not there. When he
grew up, he became the ringleader, managed to gather some kids as followers and
clamoured in the neighbourhood; he had become master. Not only he smelled
strange, but also did strange deeds. Nevertheless nothing made this kid less
sweet. His hands were always wounded. Sometimes the wound was so deep that he
wrapped it with a rag; other times it was just on the surface and he left it
open. He said: “it will heal itself.”
There was a knife scar on his face; tiny
marks here and there but there was a major scar marked by a knife.
One day, close to the New Year, he
entered the school wearing a loose red garment, his face blackened as he was
holding a tom-tom and a tambourine. He had become ‘Haaji-Firouz’; he played out
of tune, laughed and sang. His red cloth was too big for him. He had come to
show his new occupation. Siavash played in the middle of the streets, at the
crossroads and in the alleys. He played and sang; he stopped the cars and
danced. His daily practice was to play tom-tom and caper about here and there.
He gathered with his friends and practiced. One played, another danced.
Sometimes they went to the streets in a group, sometimes alone. At nights,
there were more cars, more traffic. It was New Year’s Eve. Siavash danced
between the cars, played his tom-tom and made people laugh.
Siavash daydreams... he wears his red
garment; he has a tom-tom; he sings; he dances... Siavash still smells strange.
The clouds above his head are dark; it’s not clear what is going on in them...
I want to close my eyes one day and shout out loud: Imagine...
Siavash has closed his eyes; he’s five
years old; he puts his hand in his pocket on the sly; his legs dangle in the
air...they don’t reach the ground; they just dangle in the air. The wound on
his hand was very deep; the surface wounds on his face were healed but the
scars had remained.
