Diosdado Fragata Here is a short story Id like to share with you (I wrote this in December 1978 in Bandar Abbas, Iran): THE LITTLE PERSIAN GIRL I’ve always thought that jeepney drivers in the Philippines are the worst. They race in narrow streets and park right in front of a no parking signs. But in fairness to them, they are quite good as they could park their jitneys on a space no bigger than a stamp. But that changed when I went to Iran. Drivers there would just make a counter flow on the other side of the road if they want to. Iranian drivers don’t care if they run you over. They will just argue that you wouldn’t have been run over if you did not go to their country. And you don’t stand a chance if you argue with them if you get hurt. They would just shrug their heads or swarm around you into desperation. It all started on the first day I went to Bandar Abbas. From the Bus Stop, I walked briskly across the busy street and had to jump my last steps to the sidewalk to avoid being hit by a speeding car that seemed to have come from nowhere. I stood there motionless for some time to calm my nerves. Only when I regained my composure did I resume walking. It was then that I saw this little Persian girl clad in dark printed clothes coming towards me with eyes so sad, open palm and saying some Farsi words that I could not understand. But from her looks, I knew she was begging for alms, so I dipped a hand into my pocket to fish for some change. But another hand held it there and I looked to find that it was my compatriot’s. He told me not to give any to the girl unless I want swarms of them to be following me wherever I go in the city. Then he motioned the girl to go away. She glanced at me once more with those sad eyes that seemed to melt me. Then she turned around and walked away. He too left, but I did not go anywhere. I just stood there confused and somewhat worried. The girl glanced back and saw me. She returned, still with her open palm and saying those Farsi words that I could not understand. And it didn’t matter anymore if swarms of beggars would be tailing me. I took all the coins in my pocket and put it on her palm. Radiance came beaming in her eyes and she flashed a smile and turn slowly away. The next time I went to the city, I skipped breakfast in the barracks, but when I reached the city I felt so hungry. So after gingerly crossing the street, I went to a pastry store and bought a few muffins. I was about to open the bag of muffins, intending to eat some while walking, when the little Persian girl saw me and came towards me with those sad eyes, open palm and saying those Farsi words I could not understand. I gave her the bag of muffins. She said some words which I think meant thanks and then she turned around, and darted across the street and was narrowly missed by a speeding car. I followed her with my eyes and she went toward a little boy at the corner of the street where she opened the bag of muffins and they started feasting on the few cup cakes. The sight reminded me of the misery of life back home, the many little souls daring the harshness of wanting and neglect, in an earnest desire to live. The thought pains me for I too was once like them. I went back to the city on Christmas Day to cash my pay check. The thought of the many bleak Christmases in the past came to mind. I thought of the days when we had to brave the traffic unmindful of being run over but just knocking at car windows while singing old Christmas songs off key hoping that the motorist dole out a few coins; the cold night sleeps on the pavement on the streets of neglect and abandon; the empty swallowing as we peered through the glass windows of the restaurant watching the diners have their fill and hoping that they would have some leftovers to spare for us. Once more I saw myself in the image of the poor little girl trying hard to live on this harsh cruel world. And I felt the urge to do one good thing that never happened to me before; share the Christmas spirit with my little Persian girl and resolved to make them happy that day. On the way out from the bank I saw a little girl walking ahead of me. I thought she was my little Persian girl so I hurried to overcome her but when I got near, I realized that she was another girl for this one had clean and obviously new dark printed clothes and had an expensive set of gold bracelets in her arm. I went back to the pastry store for some muffins intending to share it with my new found little friends. I also planned to take them to a nearby department store for some nice clothes and toys. With the bag of muffins in hand I started to look for the little girl. From the street corner across where I stood, she saw me and immediately she darted towards me. Then the terrible thing happened. There was a wild screech of rubber on hard concrete followed by a loud thud. Wild commotion followed and then the traffic ground to a halt. In front of the car laid a lifeless lump of dark printed clothes oozing with blood. In one cruel moment a poor struggling soul was snapped. The people started to mill around. The bag of muffins slipped from my hand and fell scattering on the sidewalk. No one noticed the wasted muffins or the tears that began to build up at the corner of my eyes or felt the burning pain in my heart. The prospect of a happy Christmas crumbled. But then, they don’t celebrate Christmas in Bandar Abbas.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Nov 2013 20:07:12 +0000
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