UNFULFILLED- Two- The Family

Many beautiful things of childhood, the ones which seemed unattainable, now became trifling; and many things that had existed then, now and forever were unreachable. The triumph which was longed for before, now was in hand. Neda had her first poem published even though it was only in a magazine. But her father said that it was a good start. For a girl, her age, being accepted was an elation beyond belief. But even at that young age, she, herself, knew that was just the beginning of a long career of writing and publishing.

She remembered herself as a child when she was too short to reach the second shelf of her father's bookcases. He had a a complete collection of Persian poetry, old and new, all kinds and styles. At that point, her father's study seemed to her like a big library of everything she wanted. Her father was a great lover of poetry from ancient to modern time, most Persians were. He owned volumes of almost every poetry books that were ever written in Persia. Neda was told by her father that she inherited the love for poetry from him and Sohrab, her older brother inherited the love for business from him.

Jalal, her father was a diverse man, a man who wrote well, read profusely, and had the ultimate sense for business, so everyone thought. He was a merchant who was in the business of domestic import and export. Any merchandise that could be moved around, he imported or exported. He had a well furnished, large office in Tehran Bazaar. His son, Sohrab, four years older than Neda, worked for him after school, summer and weekends. He was a religious man in the sense that one should be one; and never missed his five times daily prayers. But Neda, as young as she was, knew that her father had his doubts about religion.

Jalal tried to do everything in a right way; but it was always in the evenings when he was home, after he had his dinner, and would retire in his study that he enjoyed life the most. Often, he would let Neda, the only girl in his side of family, to join him. He would allow her to sit next to him and sometimes even on his lap. Then he would read to her from all those masterpieces of poetry books. Italian had their painting and sculpturing; Persian had their poetry.

In those occasion that Neda spent time with her father, he read her daughter from poets like Sadei, Hafez, Ferdousi, Malawi, and on and on. Most of the time Neda had a hard time to understand them being so young; however, she was never shy to interrupt her father and ask him questions. Jalal was always happy to be cut in and to explain to his daughter the meaning of those poems. Even at that young age, Neda would indulge those rhymed poetry which sounded like music to her ears. Father would explain to her about the beats, equal syllabus, and rhyming. She did not know anything about those style, or stanza, meter, syllabus, ... All she knew that she liked the sound of them.

To Be Continued