Curb Conversations

I never thought I’d pick it up again. Goo khoshtra, I berate myself whenever stale smoke sours my stomach or blurs my vision—shit tastes better. Yet here I stand beneath the mulberry tree outside our house in Bukan, a cigarette smouldering between my fingers. I watch the glowing tip fade, then crush it with a twist of my shoe.

I place my Touchstone book on the shoe rack and glance at my wristwatch. In the corridor mirror, I smooth out the wrinkles in my white shirt. The grey stubble speckling my cheek stays sharp in the corner of my eye. In the living room, the TV blares as my father drifts off. Grabbing my book, I dash out into the sunlit street.

‘Hemn, hoooy Hemn!’

I turn towards the voice. My grandmother sits on the black-and-white curb, beckoning me over. I clench my jaw, glance for oncoming cars, and shuffle towards her.

‘Yes, Daya gian.’ I roll my eyes.

‘Where are you going?’ She scans me from head to toe with her clouded eyes.

‘To the class.’

‘I hope to see you moafaq, kaka gian,’ she says, blessing me with success as she always does.

Her tone wavers between condescending and genuine. She doesn’t realize that chasing low-paying teaching jobs at thirty is my only option—or that I leave the house every day just to look busy. But she does know my siblings and I—me, the oldest—can’t depend on my father, who’s been between jobs for nearly a decade. ‘Ask dawlat’ he says every time we confront him—his usual way of shrugging the blame onto the government.

‘Take this two-thousand and get me a cigarette from Hossein’s.’ My grandmother takes out a scrunched-up banknote from her black waistcoat.

I feel an impulse to ask how come she smokes, but I hold back.

‘I’m really late for my class, Daya.’ I say under my breath.

‘Haa?’ She looks into my eyes and cocks her head, her hearing aids sticking out like seashells.

The Kurdish sash at her waist gathers her usual black Sorani crepe dress around her legs. I snatch the money from her hand and stride toward Hossein’s supermarket around the corner. Four years have passed since I swore off cigarettes. I started smoking on a dare in college; my friend promised me a kilo of bananas if I could finish a cigarette without coughing. I pledged I’d never get hooked, but soon enough, every occasion—good or bad—became an excuse to light up.

Now, with a Winston wrapped inside my palm, I head back to my grandmother. She is thumbing her prayer beads as if calculating something in her mind, her back exposed to the sun.

‘Here, Daya.’ I put the cigarette on top of the change and hand them over to her.

She stretches out her arm, revealing a box of matches on her henna-stained palm.

‘Light it up for me and keep the change for your bus fare.’

Suppressing a wry smile at her generosity, I hesitate before squatting in front of her. The cigarette—too familiar, as if I’d quit only yesterday—rests between my fingers. The teaching demo I’d spent weeks preparing lingers in my mind. I bring the cigarette to my lips, strike a match, and nestle the flame in my hand. After a pause, I draw the flame closer to the cigarette’s tip and watch the tobacco glow as I take three quick, deliberate drags.

‘Just don’t tell your dad or your uncle Soleiman,’ she whispers, her eyes bouncing around.

I withdraw the cigarette from my lips and turn back to stifle a cough as a plume of smoke escapes my mouth. Then, mimicking a familiar gesture, I pinch the cigarette between my thumb and forefinger and offer it to her.

‘They don’t know you smoke, do they?’ I snicker as I lunge to pick up my book on the curb.

She remains silent, raising her hand every so often for a puff. My breath still reeks of smoke; my head feels light. By the time I reach the junction at Danesh Road, it’s already two in the afternoon. A white Paykan waiting by the bus station has room for one more passenger. I slip inside. The pungent smell still clings to my T-shirt, my hands—my skin. I can’t help but wonder what draws Daya to smoke, but I shove the thought aside, my eyes returning to the notes for my demo as a cold sweat beads on my forehead. When the driver lets me off, I dart up the stairs to the Azad Institute. There, behind a large mahogany desk, sits the manager in his black suit. I steady my breath, my gaze flicking to the clock on the wall.

My breath still reeks of smoke; my head feels light. By the time I reach the junction at Danesh Road, it’s already two in the afternoon. A white Paykan waiting by the bus station has room for one more passenger. I slip inside. The pungent smell still clings to my T-shirt, my hands—my skin. I can’t help but wonder what draws Daya to smoke, but I shove the thought aside, my eyes returning to the notes for my demo as a cold sweat beads on my forehead.

When the driver lets me off, I dart up the stairs to the Azad Institute. There, behind a large mahogany desk, sits the manager in his black suit. I steady my breath, my gaze flicking to the clock on the wall.

‘Hi, Dr. Farhadi, sorry for being twenty minutes late. I’m here for the teaching demo.’

He offers a curt nod, gesturing towards an empty classroom on his right.

Hours later, with the sun dipping behind the rooftops, I trudge along Farhangian Boulevard. Lost in the replay of my teaching demo, I wince at having blurted ‘I used to smoke’ during my presentation. If only I hadn’t been late. I kick a pebble and look up—there’s Daya, still on the curb. If only she hadn’t asked me to buy that cigarette. I grunt.

‘You’re still out here?’ I call out as I walk up to her.

‘Welcome back kaka gian!’ she smiles.

A voice nags me to let everyone know she smokes, or better, let her sons catch her in the act.

‘One more cigarette before we go in?’ I blurt out as we head towards the house.

She snaps her head around and drowns her vacant eyes in mine.

‘Do you have any?’

‘I can get one.’

‘Khera, Khera,’ she urges me to run and buy one.

I return to her, light her cigarette, and settle beside her. She sits still for a beat, then takes a draw, rocking her head gently. I mirror her sway, a sly smile twisting my lips as I plot my revenge for her meddling in my demo.

‘Since your Baba Agha passed away. God bless his soul. I smoke one or two cigarettes a day,’ she sighs, her gaze glued to the cigarette. ‘You get used to everything, you know? To the good and the bad.’ She ashes the cigarette.

A cold wind brushes against me, sending goosebumps across my arms. Daya has never opened up to me before. The tremor in her hands sinks my heart. I’ve never truly seen her—not beyond the stern matriarch who sends me on errands.

‘Do you remember Baba?’ she asks.

‘Faintly. I think I was five when he passed away,’ I say matter-of-factly.

I can’t hold her gaze. I turn my head to my right, down the boulevard. A shadowy figure is walking towards us. It takes me a moment to recognise that it’s my father, strolling back home from the park, his Dama checkerboard tucked under his arm.

‘Dad’s coming, Dad’s coming!’ I hear myself saying.

She puts her cigarette down and tugs her scarf forward to hide her face. With my gaze locked on my father, I take the cigarette from her hand and drop it on the curb’s edge. He stops on the opposite side of the street, waving to see if I’ll join him.

‘In a moment,’ I call back.

‘Has he gone?’ Daya whispers.

I don’t mention that he’s just returned from another Dama session in our local park.

‘I don’t know why he won’t find a job,’ she says, taking the cigarette from my hand. ‘Does he think he’s retired? Has a pension? Spending his days with those layabouts in the park?’ She gives me a sidelong glance.

I shift uncomfortably, not knowing whose side to take.

‘Your dad’s always been this way. Baba Agha bought him a taxi, a minibus, even told him to work in his textile shop, but… he just can’t hold down a job.’ Her hands tighten around her prayer beads. ‘He’s wired differently.’

‘We can’t all just sit around and do nothing. I applied for a teaching position, but I don’t know how we’ll pay the rent if I don’t get this job…’ I trail off, recalling how poorly my demo went.

‘Hope you get it, kaka gian.’ Her eyes soften. ‘I’ll pray for you—though I know they don’t give jobs to Kurds unless you’re one of them.’ Her head drops.

Her tone is no longer disdainful. I nod and keep quiet, not wanting to explain that it isn’t one of those government positions that hinges on connections. My fingers twitch, longing for a cigarette to bridge our moment of frustration.

Three weeks drag by. I stand beneath the mulberry tree outside our house in Bukan, a cigarette pinched between my fingers, not even wincing at the thought of finally breaking my streak. Suddenly, my phone rings.

‘Hello?’ I say, clearing my throat.

‘Mr. Heidari? This is Dr. Farhadi from Azad Institute. Sorry it took us a while to get back to you, but we’re happy to offer you the teaching position.’

‘Oh, really?’ I say, my mouth goes dry, my heart pounding. I glance around. The distant laughter of neighbourhood kids weaves through my chest. I drop the cigarette and crush it with a twist of my shoe, then sprint upstairs to tell Daya the news—that I am not my father’s shadow, that a Kurd has just got hired.