A Norouz of improvisations
My haftsyn, especially this
year, represents a distillation
March 21, 2004
iranian.com
As this earthen vessel begins yet again its circling of the eternal
flame, may the grace of the universe caress your soul and the soil
at your feet see to your every need.
This marks the thirty-sixth year that I observe Norouz in the
solitude of a land so spatially and temporally distant from my
birthland, away from mother's haftsyn.
The sounds, smells and textures of the Norouz I observe here are not the same
as there, no matter what amount of effort may go into copying the conditions
and accoutrements of the occasion -- from the spread of the haftsyn down to
the obligatory visits and revisits. Copy one may, re-creation it
is not.
Norouz binds its celebrants not because it is a common narrative
that we share from northern China to the hamlets of Syria and elsewhere,
in every nook and
cranny of the Iranian speaking world but because we share in its immutable
logic that on this day earth springs into life and therefore it
is cause for celebration
by the living.
Norouz also divides its celebrants: Some see in it a romantic
reaffirmation of an undiluted Persian past unsullied by the influences
of religion and blood of
the vermin who invaded the cradle of this most high of holidays and compromised
its purity, as with all else. However, most see in it the practical synthesis
of native and foreign influences, longevity of tradition born out of accommodation
and adaptation. Nowhere is this controversy better illustrated than in the
practice by some secularists or xenophobes to substitute a Persian
book of poems for the
holy book. Some even set a spread containing seven elements whose names begin
with the letter sh (shyn), as in haftshyn, on the belief
that such must have been the practice of the ancient Persians, impliedly equating
the setting of
a syn spread to a national travesty.
More than anything, the differing approaches to the setting of
the spread speaks volumes to the single-mindedness and individuality
of the Norouz celebrants.
Nobody really knows for sure what the ancient Persians placed on their spread,
or if they truly had seven elements, uniformly. One dear acquaintance had insisted
for years that her haftshyn was truly authentic Persian: to drive the point
home, she would substitute wine (sharab) for vinegar (serkeh)
and have sugar (shekar)
for another one of the elements. Needless to say, the word sharab is not of
Persian origin, nor is the word shekar! An inconvenient technicality
of sorts, to be
sure, but not of significant vigor to dampen the spirit.
Mother's haftsyn, as I remember it, boasted a copy of the holy
word and a bearded likeness of the prince of lions, the prince
of the believers. My haftsyn contains
neither -- neither the word nor the picture. Instead, I display every Norouz
a favorite selection of the greeting cards and notes that I have received in
the years past. One of the items is the colorful depiction of an ornate spread,
complete with exaggerated portions of all the elements and more,
all reflecting in a mirror
to double one's visual feast. Another card shows two maiden (maybe not), in
colorful flowing dresses, sitting among a generous bed of flowers
and petals, one caressing
a submissive bird of paradise, the other viewing two more perched on a branch
intruding from the side of the postcard. Another card is the depiction of a
lavender-covered path-way in the green woods somewhere in south
of this country.
Another card
shows two cardinals poised on the branches of a berry-shrub; the inscription
in it wishes a very happy new year from my sister to her nephew. There is
one showing a story book character sitting in front of an oversized
note-pad with
a huge pencil, erasing a dying thought. There is also a picture of mother,
in her younger days; and a note from my son stating that he had
checked out a book
from the school's library on my motherland so that I could read up on the
old heritage. Lastly, there is a card, showing a single small heart
that looks
like a tear drop; or could it be a tear in the form of a heart?
Norouz is also about the end -- and my first memory of death
and loss, dates to my seventh new year. The haftsyn had been
gathered up and the various elements
of it were disposed off. The plateful of wheat had been committed to the
coursing water of a brook on the thirteenth day of the new year.
And -- the tiny gold-fish,
who had been circling, rising and sinking in a round glass vase for all the
thirteen or so days had been furloughed into the murky waters of the yard-pond
(hoz).
One morning, the neighborhood tomcat pounced the gold-fish and left it dying
unceremoniously in the grass. To preside over a situation that can spell the end of life, even
for a fish, in the midst of a season given to the celebration of
life, could not be. Curiously,
my ancestor, a sufi and mystic, refused to go on the hajj. When asked about
this impertinence, he had replied to the curious that he could
not take part in any
rite which would require the killing of a creature, the sacrifice of a lamb.
My haftsyn now has a small wooden facsimile of a fish, which
sits atop a heap
of colorful pebbles in an arid glass bowl. Bright-eyed and happy about his
chances of survival, the fish keeps company with the single wooden colored
egg that sits
in its holder next door.
Norouz is also about childhood memories, a connection which invariably produces
in the celebrants regardless of age a gripping return to an earlier year,
as if to seek a rationale for its present repetition. My memories, which
I elaborate
every year to my family, includes the anticipation of the arrival of the
new year, no matter what hour of night or day; the spontaneous hugging of
the loved
ones when it arrived; and the short prayer that followed for the peace of
the departed.
There is also the memory of a well-to-do uncle, who was not really
an uncle, and his dispensing of crisp bluish one-tuman bills as
celebratory tokens (eidy)
to the children. None of these memories however was more telling of human nature
than the doings of an acquaintance who avoided gifting and spending endless
hours in the company of unpleasant people out of a necessity to
observe protocol. He
would time his arrival at the home of the people whom he had to visit in such
a way that it coincided with their absence; conveniently, he would then leave
his calling card with an inscription that said he had come to kiss the hand
of his master in reverence for the new year and that his steely
resolve was overcome
alas solely by the Almighty's extreme disfavor upon his lord's most obedient
servant!
Being dragged to visit people one hardly knew or saw all year-
round was a significant part of the scene. It was in many ways
a tribal thing, a ritual designed to take
inventory of the denizens of the familial realm who inhabited the remote and
peripheral areas of one's emotional map and daily relevance. One among them
was an elderly couple, an aunt and uncle to someone in the family;
the man was deaf
and required repetitive and louder yet utterances in order to get the audible
gist of the conversation; his wife produced the most forceful and watery kisses
on the unsuspecting children who had come to visit. What would change from
year to year during this visit was the answer about the children
having moved up a
grade in school.
There are no new year's resolutions in the vernacular of Norouz.
There is a cultural element to this and it is related entirely
to the predestination of
man and his
faith in the grand scheme of things. As long as all is written by the Almighty
and it is his will that is done, no free will exists and therefore resolutions
are by definition inconsequential. Instead, there are prayers.
Norouz is also
about improvisation, a paradigm that marries the necessity of ritual with
the convenience of the possible -- often resulting in absurd but
equally meaningful departures from the norm. My haftsyn, especially this
year,
represents a distillation of this. I have not been much for buying the prepared spreads, nor do
I have the penchant for setting an elaborate spread like mother's.
What is there on mine satisfies
the basic requisite of having seven elements that begin with syn. There is somaq(sumac), syr (garlic), serkeh (vinegar), syb (apple)
and sekkeh (coin). With sonbol (hyacinth), I had rounded
up six of my seven syns. Very cleverly, I decided that
the sonbol would also substitute for sabzi (wheat shoots) and my haftsyn thus
will be complete. To overcome the nagging disquiet of this improvisation which
bordered on cheating, in a fit of absolute borderline genius I went to my rock
collection and picked out a shapely sang and placed it on the spread. If asked
about this novelty, I shall retort that it is an ancient Persian practice,
which signifies elemental might, immutability, resolute determination, patience
and
unmitigated cheek..................... Say
goodbye to spam!
Author
Guive Mirfendereski practices law in Massachusetts (JD, Boston
College Law School, 1988). His latest book is A
Diplomatic History of the Caspian Sea: Treaties, Diaries, and Other
Stories (New York and London: Palgrave 2001)
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