“Can I help?”
Mamou was up to her elbows in suds.
“It’s okay, Darioush-jan.”
“I can rinse for you.”
“If you want. Thank you.”
I was amazed I didn’t have to taarof about that either.
I stood next to Mamou and rinsed the dishes for her as she hummed along to the radio.
I was so used to unrecognizable Persian beats, at first I didn’t recognize what Mamou was humming. What the radio was playing.
“Uh.”
It wasn’t Farsi. It wasn’t Persian music at all.
It was “Dancing Queen.”
“Mamou?”
“Yes?”
“Are we listening to ABBA?”
“Yes. They are my favorite.”
I thought about that: how Fariba Bahrami, who had lived in Iran her entire life, was in love with a band from Sweden.
I wanted to know where she heard them for the first time.
I wanted to know what other music she liked. And movies. And books.
I wanted to know everything she loved.
“Darioush-jan.”
“Yeah?”
“I am almost done. Can you make me some of your special tea?”
“Sure.” I dried my hands and started the water. Mamou finished the last few dishes and then pulled half a watermelon out of the fridge. She carved it into cubes while I dammed the FTGFOP1 First Flush Darjeeling and poured us each a cup.
“You don’t keep the leaves in?” Mamou asked.
“It gets bitter if you let it steep too long.”
“Oh. Thank you, maman. I love this tea.”
I loved my grandmother.
Before, she had been photons on a computer screen.
Now she was real, and full of the most amazing contradictions.
I wanted to know more.
