by Jila Baniyaghoob
Translated by Banooye Sabz
It has been a while since I last wrote in my blog. The unexpected rainfall in Tehran tonight, brought with it that familiar and distinct scent of rain after it hits the dry pavement, a scent that swept through the window filling my room, reminding me of my blog and reawakening an urge to write once again, like I had two and a half years ago. I love the scent of rainfall as it hits the dry earth and as my lungs filled with that familiar smell I was overcome with a sense of delight.
The familiar scent of a wet pavemenl, reminds me of Bahman. After every rainfall he would make tea, settle next to me and say: "Jila let’s have tea on the balcony..." and he and I would then proceed to our small balcony off the room that houses our computer and books. As we drank our tea, Bahman would inhale deeply, savoring the scent of rainfall on earth and he would say: "Jila take a deep breath with me, for this type of weather is rare in Tehran..."
...and as we sat together I sought to fill my lungs with the smell of the earth moistened with rain. Much like our house, our balcony is very small. There is barely room for the two of us, yet we have filled it with several beautiful flower pots. Flower pots that I have tended to with such care during his absence as I patiently await Bahman’s return. I want to make sure that they are alive and vibrant when he returns home. As I fill my lungs with the scent of the wet pavement, my mind wonders off to Bahman and his other friends at Evin prison on this rainy night. What are they doing? Are they each silently listening to the loud drip drop of rainfall hitting the pavement while they wonder what their loved ones outside prison are doing and thinking on a rain filled night?
I am reminded of an interview Mir Hossein Mousavi gave days before the presidential elections two years ago, when he stated how much he loves the scent of rainfall as it hits the dry pavement.
I am reminded of a rainy night when I accompanied Zahra Rahnavard and the family members of a number of political prisoners on their visit to the home of the family of a relatively unknown political prisoner. As we drove together on that rainy night, Rahnavard peered out the window, starring at the rain drops falling on the pavement, engulfed in silence.
I wonder if the rain tonight is also falling on Akhtar Street and whether Mir Hossein can smell the scent of the rain hitting the dry pavement. I wonder whether Rahnavard is silently starring outside her window as the large raindrops hit the dry pavement, or whether any windows remain in that home on Akhtar street....
Source: Jila Baniyaghoub’s blog: http://www.zhila.net/spip.php?article364