“I do not know if you know me or not, But we used to have the same nanny, Muluk khanoom, years ago back in Iran. She always talked about you and your brother (if I am right, cannot remember). I saw your page on Facebook and suddenly noticed who you are.”    –  M.K

I must have annoyed her. I was loud and naughty and easily irritated. Growing up with an older brother, I loved to fight (still do) and practiced my punches on a self-made boxing bag— note to self: sign up for boxing classes. My parents worked and we had a big house and so Muluk khanoom was in charge of my taming. She wasn’t the first and she wouldn’t be the last but she was, definitely, my favorite nanny. She was just perfect: a little chubby and so always warm, kind eyes, soft voice, and for the most part, she’d let me do whatever I want. She would listen when I was upset with my dad, mom, or my brother — she was my guardian, and I always wished she lived with us, forever. But she had her own house, her own daughter, somewhere in northern Tehran.

Tehran is a rare capital city, for it sits at the skirts of a mountain, and “northern Tehran” is on higher altitudes. It’s a beautiful scene if you go up there and look at the mad metropolitan. Which is why I called her ‘Miss Mountain Muluk’ (Muluk khanoom koohi), and I always begged to go to her house one day and stay there. I never did. Her daughter, who was older and very intelligent, went to a great university. I don’t know what came of her, but I know at the time she was tutoring half the boys in my brother’s high school.

I didn’t see Muluk khanoom for a long time, until during a trip back home when I was 16 or 17. She was getting old and weak but she came all the way (from the mountain?!) to my grandma’s to meet. Her eyes lit up when she saw me and I hugged her so tight. She wore the chador and I loved her smell, which was clean, and honest, and never in a hurry. I was a bit self-conscious and worried she wouldn’t like or aprove of me, but she was proud. I guess we talked but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was already archived, stored in our souls.

I’m guessing the boy/man who wrote this message to me, knows exactly what I mean.