You could also usetohfor someone you were very close to.
Sohrab squinted at me, then held the door open for the woman behind him to enter. She was short—almost squat—but her hair was so huge, once it was freed from her headscarf, that it took up the whole room.
Sohrab said, “Maman, this is Darioush. Agha Bahrami’s grandson.”
Sohrab’s mom leaned her head back to look me up and down.
“Eid-e shomaa mobarak, Khanum Rezaei,” I said.
“Happy Nowruz!” she said. Her voice was throaty and sandy. And loud.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
She smiled, and her eyes crinkled up just like Sohrab’s. “Thank you.” She pulled me down by my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks, then let go of me to find Mamou.
“Is your dad coming? Or your amou?”
Sohrab chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment.
“No. Just me and my mom. We always come for Nowruz. Amou Ashkan goes to Feast.”
“Feast?”
“The Bahá’í celebration. Most of the Bahá’í families go.”
“Oh.”
I was going to ask more, but then I heard Sohrab’s mom let out a cry and charge across the sea of Bahramis separating her from her target.
“My mom loves Mamou,” he said, and his squint was back. “She is special. You know?”
I did know. Sohrab didn’t have to say it out loud.
We all had to take pictures behind the haft-seen.
Laleh and I sat on chairs from the dining room, while Mom and Dad stood behind us.
Persians have mastered the ancient and noble art of the awkward family photo—in fact, we probably invented it. True, Non-Fractional Persians refuse to smile in photos, unless they are tricked into it, or have been talked into it with a combination of pleading, guilt-tripping, and high-level taarofing.
Dad smiled behind me. He had very straight, very white teeth—exactly what you’d expect from his Teutonic heritage and years of aggressive dentistry—and Laleh smiled, because she was Laleh, and Laleh was always smiling.
But Mom just pursed her lips, which is as close as she came to smiling unless you surprised her.
I tried to smile too, but my face felt weird and rubbery, and it came out as a half smile, half-constipated look.
Dayi Jamsheed snapped a few pictures of us, and I thought we were done.
I was wrong.
Everyone needed pictures: with their own family units, with Mamou and Babou, with me, Laleh, Mom, and Dad. I keptgetting pulled into different photos, with different arms over my shoulders or around my waist every few minutes. My family was everywhere.
And even though I hated getting shuffled around and grabbed by my love handles, my rubbery constipated face did relax into a smile.
I had never been surrounded by my family before. Not really.
When Dayi Jamsheed started herding us together into a big group photo, my eyes started burning. I couldn’t help it.
I loved them.
