The New Story about the Old Man
There once was a young boy named Mira. He had everything going for him, except for money.
His family loved him very much, and he loved them. He had close friends and friendly acquaintances. He said hi to everyone on his way to school, and they waved or said hi back. All of them, except for one. His name was Musta.
Mira’s grades in school were a source of delight for his mom and dad, and made his little brother look up to him in a way that made Mira’s heart glow. He felt as though he was on top of the world most of the time. You would not imagine that his father walked around other neighbourhoods, collecting items of value that people had discarded and which he would later repair.
Mira was a dutiful boy, and on the weekends, he went with his dad on his long walks around the city, helping him find valuables and carry them home. His father had tried to dissuade Mira from joining him, thinking that it’s not work fit for a promising young student. But Mira knew that with his sharp eyes, he caught glimpses of things that his father’s still young but weakened eyes sometimes missed.
So one Sunday, they started their journey after a beautiful if thinly spread breakfast and a kiss on their cheeks by their loving mother and wife. Onward they marched, making sure to be well outside of their own neighbourhood before starting to collect. It would be a shame if Mira’s schoolmates found out that he had to collect items from other people’s trash on his days of leisure. That day, they walked the ten miles that took them to Mashqan, where the children had leather shoes on their feet and the adults had white teeth. The sun shone on the blessed heads of these blessed people a little more brightly than on his own, thought Mira. And as he thought this, the sun shone brightly at him from across the street.
He looked over and saw that it came from a pile of plastic bags. He ran over to have a closer look. He had to push some bags aside, and when he saw what he saw next, his heart started racing, and he whispered as loudly as he could to get his dad’s attention. Once. Twice. Three times, he had to call to get his father to turn around and come to him. His small body was covering the shiny object from the gaze of any onlooker. Finally, as his father stood next to him, he moved aside, holding aside the plastic bags that, moments earlier, covered a golden clock.
Back at home, his father went straight to the only room with a strong lamp and closed the door behind him. Mira, full of excitement after the day’s events, told his mother and his brother the entire story of how they found what could possibly be the most beautiful object he’s ever seen, and how they filled their bags with useless objects to make sure it remained hidden from anyone who might be interested in taking it. He had spared no detail, and only after finishing his story did he notice the food in front of him, and how hungry he was. His mother, after making sure that her children were well-fed and clean, led them to their bedroom before joining her husband to bring him some food as well.
The next day, Mira’s father was in the kitchen, sitting where a kitchen table would have been. He was bent over, his arms moving only slightly. Hearing his son coming into the room, he stretched and yawned, and greeted him with a warm but tired smile. There were lines under his eyes. He had been repairing the clock all night. He called Mira closer, and gave him a few instructions and a few coins before kissing him on the forehead.
If Mira ran, he could get everything his father needed to repair the clock before going to school. On his way, he saw Musta, the only person who never greeted back when he saw Mira. He went towards him, and listed the names of gears and screws. Musta, looked down at Mira from his towering height and furrowed his brow. Looking up at Musta made Mira dizzy. The boy said a number, and the man let out a cruel laugh.
Mira did not want to disappoint his father. He hadn’t seen his father so excited in years. So he went against his intuition and suggested to Musta that he would pay him more later, and throw in a handwoven basket if he gave Mira the parts right then and there. The large man opened his palm and bent down towards Mira, who thought he was going to collect the coins he had in his hand. But instead, Musta gave Mira a short but firm push, which took Mira’s breath away and almost landed him on the ground. But he caught himself and straightened up as Musta turned around and went into his store.
Mira was sad, but relieved that he hadn’t done business with a man so cruel. He continued on his way to school.
Later that day, upon returning home, he explained the situation to his father, who told him that he would fix it. So the next day, with the clock in hand, they left the house together, and went to Musta’s shop again. Mira’s father showed Musta the clock, and told him that he could take a large commission if he helped them repair the clock and sell it. Musta’s eyes scrutinized the clock on his counter, turning it on one side, and then the other. He said that he would take the clock as it was, for a certain sum of money. Mira’s father turned his head slightly, as if to see if Musta was joking. The sum was ridiculously low. He could get much more for it once it was repaired. Then, seeing no hint of a smile in the his face, he wrapped the clock in its cloth and left.
The next day, Mira’s father was out of the house before Mira had woken up. Mira went to school, came back home, and did his homework. It was almost time for dinner, and still no sign of his father. He asked his mother where he was, and she told him that he had gone to work early, and would not come home until late at night. The house was quiet without his father’s spontaneous laughter as he remembered a story or a joke, or an event from the day. Mira, his brother and his mother had dinner together, before the little ones went to bed, and Mira’s mother sat waiting for her husband.
It was very late when Mira’s father opened the door and stepped inside. The dark circles under his eyes first alarmed Mira. When his father’s eyes fell upon Mira, however, the father smiled a reassuring smile. Later that evening, Mira’s father called him to his room. He gave him a small bundle of money, and asked him to go buy the parts that they were missing to fix the clock. Mira asked his father how he was able to raise the money. “I had to carry bricks on the construction site with my friend Haadi,” his father said. “He and I were quite close as children, and he was happy to help me. It is not work for an old man like myself.”
Mira was saddened by the resigned smile on his father’s face, but tried not to show it. The next morning, he went to Musta’s shop before school. Musta was surprised when Mira pulled the bills out of his pocket, but quickly dissimulated his surprise under his thick eyebrows. “Business is business,” he said, as if that would explain away the way he had treated Mira and his father. Mira took the precious pieces and went to school. In the evening, he saw tears in his father’s eyes as he presented the small pieces of metal, shining under the good lamp. His father kissed him on the cheek and thanked him, and Mira left feeling his heart full, only dampened by the fact that his father was working too hard.
The next day, Mira woke up to the panicked voice of his mother, telling him to wake up. “Get dressed Mira. Your father is not well. He needs the doctor.” She produced the words quickly, without taking a breath. Mira put on his pants and a shirt that he grabbed as he ran out of the room, towards the neighbourhood’s clinic. When he arrived there, sweating and panting, the doctor was just putting on his white coat, asking Mira what was going on. Mira said that his father was unwell, and that he needed to see the doctor right away.
Back at home, the doctor was kneeling next to Mira’s father. Mira’s mother took him outside, but Mira wanted to see. Later, as the doctor came out of the room, his expression was unreadable. He told Mira and his mother that Mira’s father had suffered a stroke, and that he needed rest more than anything else. He wrote the name of two medications on a sheet of paper, and told Mira to go pick them up at the clinic later that day.
“But we don’t have the money,” said Mira’s mother.
“Don’t worry about that now,” answered the doctor.
And so, Mira went to the doctor’s office in the afternoon. He gave the pharmacist the sheet of paper and received two plastic bottles full of pills. He ran home and stayed with his father for the rest of the day, giving his father medication at the times written on the bottles, and water whenever he saw that his father’s mouth was getting dry.
At first, his father was mostly sleeping, and waking up for a few minutes, confused, before going back to sleep. Mira’s mother watched over her husband, while Mira’s brother went to school. Mira’s mother helped her older son find Haadi, his father’s friend, and Mira started working, carrying small loads of bricks to help his family buy food. Mira’s hands quickly blistered, and his back started to hurt. It was supposed to last only for a short while, while his father recovered.
After a week of rest, Mira’s father stayed up longer, and was less confused. But he couldn’t get up. Everyone gathered in the room where he was resting to eat with him. The spark in his eyes as he watched his family eating with him was well worth the pain Mira felt in his limbs. They had barely enough to have regular meals, but they were grateful to have their father and husband with them.
Then, a second week passed, and one evening came a knock at the door. Mira was already sleeping, exhausted from the day’s work, so his little brother opened the door. There were several people standing at the door, and they asked to come in. Mira’s mother asked to know who it was. The doctor that had examined Mira’s father introduced himself. He was joined by Mira’s school teacher, a few students from his school and their parents. They all had their hands full. Some were carrying bags of rice or pulses, others fruits, and others had oil or milk or butter in their hands.
They sat on the floor, and asked Mira’s mother about her husband’s condition. They were also concerned for Mira, and asked if he could join the class if they continued to bring food while Mira’s father recovered. Mira’s mother had tears in her eyes when they left, and she kept crying for a long time before going to bed. She and Mira’s brother hugged each other for a long time before she put him to bed.
The next few weeks, Mira attended class instead of working, and the neighbours kept bringing food. He could not do anything in return but study rather than work, as he had promised, and he continued to watch over his father in his free time, reading to him books that he borrowed from school.
Almost three months passed before Mira’s father could walk on his own. He had heard about the help that he and his family had received. When he asked Mira about the clock, Mira told him that he had finished repairing it and had already sold it to pay back the loans they had received from their friends and neighbours, because he had assumed that they were loans. However, when he had gone to their doors, money in hand, they had instead given him more food, and sent him home without listening to a word about money. Some of them had just enough to feed themselves, and had probably eaten less while they brought bags of rice to Mira’s house. But they loved Mira and by extension, his family.
Mira’s father would never be able to do the same kind of manual labor as he used to, so they used the money they had made from selling the clock to open a small shop, out of which Mira’s mother sold her food. She had many admirers among their friends and neighbours for her cooking. People from surrounding neighbourhoods would come to ask her for her dhal recipe because they had heard from a friend of a friend that hers was the best. Now, people came from further still to eat her food, or buy large portions to feed an entire company or store. She was delighted, and her husband was delighted to help his talented wife.
Mira was also happy to be learning to cook from his mother. He suggested early on to make food for the families that needed it, and his mother would always cook her last pot of the day, not to sell, but to offer to whomever needed it. There was always a long queue in front of the store late in the evening. Mira’s father happily stayed later with his son, serving as many of the men and women and children that needed the food he offered. Whenever they ran out of food, he would offer dry rice and pulses and tell the remaining people with empty hands to come back the next day, because there would be more.
