set in Christchurch, New Zealand
As Mother is seated in her group next to all of the relatives who have come to feast for the mid-summer gahambar, she cannot help but reflect on each and every one of them.
That is little Ahad. He was looking like a little boy when I last saw him. In the last few months, he has grown so much. Is he growing a moustache so soon? At thirteen? At least it suits him, with his long ears and his unibrow.
They are sitting in chairs in three rows. Mother is one of the eldest, and so she sits at the front. They are under a stone wall, facing the two elders who sit cross-legged on an ornamental rug with a sacred fire in front of them, held in a metal vase. The elders are reading out the Afrins.
Uncle Cyrus is so kind. He’s from Christchurch. I’m from Wellington. He’s always inviting me to come over to his place whenever we meet at one of these things. I next to never take him up on it. It’s mostly because whenever we catch up we mostly have small talk. I get we’re Parsis, and Parsis are rare in this part of the world, but we’re Kiwis at the end of the day. I’ve never gotten the idea of meeting someone because our genes are the same, especially if it’s a bore to be around them.
At least his daughter is a babe. I’m a huge fan of Farzana. We’re more or less the same age. We grew up similarly so she gets my sense of humour. I’d love to catch up with her but I don’t know if she’s in the best state of mind right now. She’s over there by the doorway, her arms crossed. It looks like her eyes are focused on the men who are praying but they are also blank. I don’t think she’s listening to them. I wonder if she’s having some problem she won’t be in the mood to share with me.
That reminds me, it’s been ages since I caught up with her daughter. Though that’s because she only calls me when she wants something.
Like mother, like daughter, honestly…
Plates of food crowd the table on the other side of the open area. There are the sirogs that will be broken and dipped in the aush, stuffed grape leaves and ghasemi, pomegranates and apples, all assortments of bread.
I should have brought more food. At least I’m from Wellington. It’s pretty far. It takes effort to come here and I’m sure they are aware I’m not able to fly with food in the first place. I doubt they’re paying attention to me. There’s so many of us in this house. Again, being Parsi isn’t much of a thing in New Zealand, but if there are Parsis in Christchurch it feels like they’ve all come here. Loads of them are strangers to me, but the relatives, obviously they’re firm in my head. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my second cousin Jehangir. I still wonder why Shirin never invited me to her daughter’s wedding.
Hey, remember, the gahambars aren’t the days to be mulling on things like this. Days like this are meant to remind us that we are supposed to come together no matter how much we fight or annoy the shit out of each other.
There is a smell of smoke from the afrinagan, and Mother’s eyes are filled with tears.
I love my family. Really. Most of us are beautiful human beings and I take it for granted. What’s wrong with me? I should be visiting way more often.
The elders rock to themselves as they chant. The white veil covering only their mouths and chins is getting sooty from the smoke. The smoke is strong. It is causing Mother to want to sneeze, but she holds it by focusing on her breathing.
Ahura Mazda, I thank you for this food. Ahura Mazda, I thank you for this family. Ahura Mazda, you have given me so much. Why am I not humbler? I only think about myself. I spend all my time begging for you to make life easier because of that one my-son-is-gay thing. But when will I appreciate all that you have given to me? You’ve given me a face men stop and stare at, a subtly tan skin tone that complements it, a huge house overlooking the bay, a family that loves me, a great husband at that.
But all I think about is what I want and not what I already have.
When will this pain that comes with wanting finally leave me?
The morning service ends. People stand and start to greet each other. They ask the typical questions. How are you? How’s Roxelle doing with her exams? Why the long face? Older women hug their grand-nieces or nephews, older men are giving their favourite kids lollies.
Some are coming to say hi to me. Some give me a smile and a simple “You alright?” That’s it, and that’s probably fine. There’s no emotion in the meeting of their eyes. In all practical terms they are greeting a stranger that happens to be related to them. Based on how little we meet I probably feel the same about them. And there’s no way to fix it.
Because I’m afraid if I look into their eyes I’ll see something else. Perhaps a grudge because they know from the gossip that my son is a proud homosexual man and they aren’t fans of that way of being.
Be humble. Be grateful. This is a day to be happy for all that Ahura Mazda has given me. This is the day to remember and cherish the good things in life.
Mother goes up to Uncle Cyrus. She decides to start a conversation with him. Uncle Cyrus’ eyes brim with so much light that they penetrate his glasses. They exchange stories from twenty to thirty years back. Uncle Cyrus holds Mother’s hand warmly. Mother feels again a tear against the corner of her eye.
Uncle Cyrus is like this. He’s just glad to be around people of his community. It’s because Uncle Cyrus migrated in his early years from Mumbai. He is from another generation so he values anyone who is family.
As Mother holds Uncle Cyrus’ hand, she sees the female cousins in a circle by themselves. Each one notices her glance, and not a single one smiles back, or salutes her, or gives recognition with their gaze.
In the meantime, there is chatter among the male cousins about world events. They are talking about the stupidity of the United States, the bloodshed happening in the motherland, the school children killed for no reason, the insane prices of petrol. Some of them are quite right wing. Even one is talking about the trans people trying to infect the children, how all of these “they-them” types need to be lined up and shot in the head.
They speak with so much indignation.
One of them’s looking straight at me.
Don’t be so self-absorbed. Not everyone is trying to poke at you. Not everyone in this family knows about your son and how he lives his life.
But how do I figure out who knows and who doesn’t, given the whispers and hidden comments?
The Jashan is starting. There are breads in all shapes on the table, long and wide, short and stout, pretzel and rounded. There are plates with yogurt, hummus, salad, and papeta ma gosht or ajil e mushkil gosh. The food is abundant, probably because of how full this house is. People are starting to sit, but because of how few tables there are and how many people there are it will take time for Mother to be able to eat. Luckily Mother isn’t hungry yet.
Family is family. You don’t choose to be family. You’re just a part of it. You get invited to things not because of who you are but because of your last name. As for who I am…they don’t know a single thing about me frankly. And if they find out about my son…I know for a fact some of these people wouldn’t dare to invite me.
Food is passed. Some people snap grapes in their mouths. Others crack pistachios with their teeth. Bread is broken and dipped into sauces. There are no plates. People use the bread to try everything. The fried pieces dissolve in the water and herbs, creating small islands of dough alongside pieces of tomato and bubbles of oil.
But maybe it wouldn’t be like that. Yes, we choose to be around family because they are family, but we also stick by family because they are family. No matter how much I bitch about these people they will always be there for me. Even if it’s been ages since I last visited Christchurch. If these people were neighbours they wouldn’t even think about inviting me to something like this. But because we’re family they have let me into their home and are sharing food with me. That has to mean something. I have to have faith that some of them have found out, but they aren’t confronting me because they don’t want to create tension. They want me to be a part of their life. They just don’t know how to express it.
Still, if they don’t really know me, if they don’t really care to know me, and if they want to keep everything superficial, do I even want to have a relationship with them? Do the relationships we are born into have any actual meaning?
“Yasna. Darling.”
“Oh, Farzana. It’s so long. Come and give me a hug.”
Mother’s cousin comes and does that. They reach around each other, holding each other for a long time. After that, her cousin looks Mother in the eyes. She asks about Mother’s husband, she asks about Mother’s son, and then she starts asking about her own daughter, who happens to also live in Wellington.
Mother barely talks to her niece these days. So she answers the questions carefully. She doesn’t know how many boys Meher meets. She doesn’t know when Meher’s out partying. She doesn’t know if Meher still prays.
After her cousin gets her questions answered she stops talking. She stands idly with Mother for some time, then makes some excuse to greet another relative. Mother goes back in for another hug and asks her cousin to visit her sometime, to which her cousin says the same. Then Mother stands alone, rubbing her arm.
No one else is coming up to me. I guess I’ll go to eat. It was nice of Farzana to say hi. But did she really want to come greet me or to check up on her daughter? I suppose it’s a mix of both, or neither really. She probably felt that it made sense to greet me, and that was the first topic that came to her head.
I could have spoken more. I could have told more stories from my own life. Then I doubt she would have cared. Farzana’s not thinking a single thing about myself or my son. She has her own problems that keep her mind busy, just like I do.
If anything, that’s the one good thing about talking to family. It’s easy to get distracted, get into a long chat about something unimportant, and not feel judged over it.
There’s an empty seat. Delnaz has finished eating and gone to wash her hands. She was sitting next to my cousin Kayan. He doesn’t look busy.
I will sit with him and ask him about his family. Why not? What is the worst that could happen?
