Felix who used to be Moses, who used to be Mohammad was clever and even cunning on a good day. He employed a cook named Jahan, who owned two shirts, both of them spotless, his heart an unruffled lake; Jahan ate little but enough; he served his meals right on time, never lied to his two wives, and only socialized at sunrise with the enlightened gardener, Gol who sprinkled the dusty yard with rose water and was also friendly with the chickens and plants.
One day, Jahan smiled serenely at high noon as he served Mr. Felix raisin rice steamed with a chicken who was singing just yesterday. Felix’s heavy heart lifted, seeing a smile not on Jahan’s lips but in the cook’s eyes.
How can he smile through his eyes?, wondered Felix who had just taken on a third lover, having a date that night with his second lover, having sold his useless car to his brother, having indigestion over vodka marinated in Lima beans, and having forgotten to pray before last night’s joy-party.
Felix: Jahan, are you a happy man?
Jahan: I have mostly happy thoughts, Master, does that make me happy?
Felix stared at the glistening swimming pool for a life-long moment, as if calming syrup had dripped down his Being.
Felix: Jahan, I have no wife, no children, instead I own eleven cars, an elevator that rises to my bathroom, and tomorrow I will be fifty nine. You have fed me for two decades without a complaint and even wished me safe travels when I abandoned you and this home for months. I suppose I am becoming senile, but nonetheless, today I want to will you this mansion after my passing.
With suddenly moist eyes, Jahan asked, Master what has made you deadly ill?
Felix: All of this fun, Jahan. I’ve lost my will because I’ve no more desires.
Jahan: I understand completely.
Felix: You do? Because if you do, you must have been there! Do you have a recipe for this too?
Jahan: Yes, Sir; it is Yama soup. I will stir it with love and after you drink it for breakfast tomorrow, it will only take a few precautions before your resurrection.
Felix: Damn! I’ve always detested precautions; they are for old men—then again, tomorrow I will be fifty nine! Very well, what are the precautions after Yama Soup?
Jahan: Read a verse of Rumi’s poetry before going to sleep; do not steal from your brother, have mercy on Gol’s chickens, wash and keep only seven shirts, say Grace at sunrise as you sprinkle rose water on dirt; confess everything and find three good husbands for your immature lovers, and finally, call your high-school heart throb, Zommorod—tell her you have a present for her granddaughter’s birthday.
Epilogue
Together, Mohammad, Jahan, Gol, and Zommorod (the new lady of the house) lived happily ever after.
~ Kambiz Naficy
For more inspirational insights, I invite you to listen to my podcasts: joyoflife.podbean.com
