It was 2007 or may be
2006 that I started creative drama classes in the institute and we had
commenced a drama: ‘My Father Got Lost In Letters’. The rehearsals had become
very intense. The kids had become tired but nevertheless enjoyed. From the very
first days of class, I had to search for two of them, Shiriali and
Khan-Aghaplaying who played football in ‘Darvaze-Ghar’ (a place in the south
Tehran, notorious for its atmosphere of drug addicts and drug dealers who
involved even children in drug dealing. Instead of grass, its football field is
covered with used syringes.) If they were not in the streets, it meant that
they had gone to play a momentous game in ‘Harandi’ stadium, in the same
neighbourhood.
Disputing with these two kids during the course of two years class was in vain. In 2006 the rehearsals became intense and so did the kids’ coursework but still and all, we all had a good feeling of being with each other; we wanted the rehearsals to continue more and more. Even the kids didn’t complain about our repetitions and remarks. From the time Naval said that we could play at Arasbaran Cultural Center, it seemed everyone was given a new hope and energy; they were indefatigable in carrying on the rehearsals. None of us wanted the days to end or to leave the run-through, although the kids were busier those days.
Disputing with these two kids during the course of two years class was in vain. In 2006 the rehearsals became intense and so did the kids’ coursework but still and all, we all had a good feeling of being with each other; we wanted the rehearsals to continue more and more. Even the kids didn’t complain about our repetitions and remarks. From the time Naval said that we could play at Arasbaran Cultural Center, it seemed everyone was given a new hope and energy; they were indefatigable in carrying on the rehearsals. None of us wanted the days to end or to leave the run-through, although the kids were busier those days.
The kids had to attend classes, practice session, and after that
they had to go to market for work. At that time Shiriali collected cartons in
the market and Khan-Agha worked in a carpet weaving workshop. Khan-Agha was 15.
Like so many other kids, he also had come from Afghanistan years ago; he was
smuggled by land. He has worked since he was much younger. The days when his
face was not glowing from the excitement of football game and he was not as
mischievous, his look got lost and his countenance deep, just like a
middle-aged man. Wrinkles appeared around his eyes as he moved his big hands
over his hair. If he realized that I was looking at him, he hid his eyes.
When I came back from Afghanistan, Naval and the kids were ready to perform the play. As usual, Khan-Agha hadn’t attended half of the rehearsals and so his role had changed. Not long after the performance, we heard the news that he had gotten married. It was Farkhondeh who told me; they were the same age and classmates. When she was telling me, it was as if she wanted to say it out loud to someone so that she could believe it herself. She said that his friends had given their all for his wedding. The girl was his relative who had come from Shiraz and is younger than Khan-Agha. I then thought how his name befitted this kid, our youthful khan.
The rehearsals carried on for further performances but Khan-Agha didn’t come to class anymore. The kids saw him from time to time and said that he was working hard since he had to support his family. I thought of the weaving factory and other places he could be; the market, on the streets or pulling handcart. I thought of his gambler father, of his wife who’s expecting him at home.
It was 2007 or 2008... The performances in Arasbaran Cultural Center had come to an end. Shafiq called me. It was he who came to the rehearsals instead of Khan-Agha. He told me: Khan-Agha hanged himself!
‘Hanged himself!’ I couldn’t assimilate these two words. I hadn’t heard it so closely hitherto. Was it in the weaving workshop? From the window? My mind wandered... It was full of unanswered questions, or maybe not, full of questions I knew the answer of; questions every one of us knew the answer of, even these kids.
And I was thinking these kids are more mature than their age... way more mature...
When I came back from Afghanistan, Naval and the kids were ready to perform the play. As usual, Khan-Agha hadn’t attended half of the rehearsals and so his role had changed. Not long after the performance, we heard the news that he had gotten married. It was Farkhondeh who told me; they were the same age and classmates. When she was telling me, it was as if she wanted to say it out loud to someone so that she could believe it herself. She said that his friends had given their all for his wedding. The girl was his relative who had come from Shiraz and is younger than Khan-Agha. I then thought how his name befitted this kid, our youthful khan.
The rehearsals carried on for further performances but Khan-Agha didn’t come to class anymore. The kids saw him from time to time and said that he was working hard since he had to support his family. I thought of the weaving factory and other places he could be; the market, on the streets or pulling handcart. I thought of his gambler father, of his wife who’s expecting him at home.
It was 2007 or 2008... The performances in Arasbaran Cultural Center had come to an end. Shafiq called me. It was he who came to the rehearsals instead of Khan-Agha. He told me: Khan-Agha hanged himself!
‘Hanged himself!’ I couldn’t assimilate these two words. I hadn’t heard it so closely hitherto. Was it in the weaving workshop? From the window? My mind wandered... It was full of unanswered questions, or maybe not, full of questions I knew the answer of; questions every one of us knew the answer of, even these kids.
And I was thinking these kids are more mature than their age... way more mature...
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