Baba Haji

Baba Haji

Checking into the hotel in London, I was filled with excitement and sadness at the same time. It had been decades since I had last seen my Dai (uncle) Homayoun. The difference now was that his life partner of 50 plus years, Khal-eh (auntie) Shahin would not be with him. She had recently died in a car accident.

When I heard a gentle knock on the door, I quickly opened it. Dai stepped forward, buried his head in my arms, and quietly wept. This was not the Dai Homayoun that I knew. A man whose physical stance yelled, ‘try me!’ A man who had withstood months of solitary confinement and physical torture under the Khomeini regime. This was someone else. An older man who was broken. An older man who had lost his North Star.

Dai was someone who always turned everything upside down, and made fun of people being too emotional. For example when Mooness joon (his grandmother and my great grandmother) died, he questioned why I was being sad. He suggested that we meet up at the funeral service, and ‘people watch’ together. And now, as I saw him clearly shattered, I didn’t know what to expect. Slowly he collected himself and told me he was doing his best to adjust to Khal-eh Shahin’s absence, but it was exceedingly hard. The hardest thing he had ever faced. He asked how I was. After thirty years there was so much to catch up on. Where do we begin to unpack our lives? From the start of the revolution? From his years in prison? Dai had always been an excellent letter writer, and I had failed miserably in corresponding. But here we were in London, I felt deeply honored that he had specifically requested a time, and a location to meet.

Dai Homayoun had this habit of stroking his forehead, and taking a deep breath with his lips slightly parted, making a slight hissing sound. Often he would start his sentences with sarkar ellieh khanoom-e Zahra (translation: illustrious lady, madame Zahra) showing me excessive respect. But his over-the-top formality was consistently followed with a verbal jab, something just enough to take me off guard. Inevitably, it would take me a second and I would remember, of course, this was his routine to get under my skin. It was his way of saying, 'en garde!'. Almost every conversation led to a new perspective even though we didn’t always agree. What Dai Homayoun had to say was never predictable. Our conversations consistently left me with a treasure trove of new thoughts. This visit was no exception.

As a souvenir, I handed him a small lavender-scented candle in a tin can. He took it, and held it in his soft and gentle hands. I told him that perhaps this candle could be used as a prototype for a rose-scented candle through Zahra Rosewater Company, the company he had co-founded with his wife in 1978, www.zahrarosewaterco.com

For a moment Dai Homayoun sat quietly pressing the tin can in his right palm, and then he said in a quick breath, “I have to tell you a story.”

“Years ago, I was invited to a gathering in Kerman. I had no interest in attending this event, but at the last minute I decided to go. The room was packed, and as is our custom I said hello and shook hands with all the guests until I reached the elders sitting at the head of the room. Still thinking that perhaps it was a mistake to have accepted the invitation, I was introduced to the guest of honor. ‘You are Sanatizadeh?’ he asked in a thick Kermani accent. ‘Yes, sir,’ I confirmed. ‘The grandson of Haj Ali Akbar-e Kar?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied. I had barely answered him before he threw his arms around me. He held me tight for a long time. Not expecting his response, I held him back wondering what brought on this old man’s reaction. He requested that I sit next to him, and began to whisper a story about Haj Ali Akbar-e Kar, the person you and I know as Baba Haji.”

The old man’s story went back many decades,

“‘Over fifty years ago, your grandfather decided to establish the first orphanage in Kerman, some place where boys of all ages could be housed, educated and get vocational training. This idea killed the practically free labor for the carpet makers. Your grandfather’s plan to house the street children threatened their business. They tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant. Knowing that their livelihood was about to slip through their fingers, the carpet makers conferred with the Mullahs and they all came to the decision that their only choice was to kill Haj Ali Akbar-e Kar. They called me to do the job for them.”’

‘KILL Baba Haji?’, I sat there shocked. This was my great grandfather whom I had never met. But I knew that he had played a very big part in raising Dai Homayoun in his formative years. ‘Yes,’ Dai Homayoun nodded, and continued the old man’s story.

“‘I shadowed your grandfather for a couple of weeks and learned his daily routine. He went to work early in the mornings. At noon he would always pick up a fresh bowl of yogurt and walk home. I thought hard about how to kill him … where to kill him.”’

The old man must have known how crazy these words must have sounded to my uncle but felt compelled to confess all the details.

“‘I told the carpet makers that if I did it in broad day light it would be best. My plan was to throw red ink at Haj Ali Akbar-e Kar, so he would think he is stabbed, and come at me. Defending myself, I would knife him, and then all the witnesses would testify that he came at me first, and I had no choice but to find a way to stop him. They agreed on this plan and we picked Tuesday for me to carry it out. On that day, Haj Ali Akbar-e Kar was dressed in a light-colored suit, and with a bowl of yogurt in his hand, he was on his way home. I walked up and threw red ink at him. He slipped and fell on the ground. The red ink and yogurt covered him from head to toe. He slowly got up without as much as looking at me. He straightened his suit, collected the pieces of the broken bowl of yogurt and continued on. I was left helpless. I expected him to lunge at me, at least yell at me, but he just followed his usual routine.”’

“‘A week passed and I was completely perplexed by your grandfather. And then there was a knock on my door. It was him. He asked if he could enter my house. My heart was about to jump out of my chest. I invited him in, not knowing what was going to happen. This time, looking directly at me, he said, “I’ve been thinking about you.” He added, “I know your intention, and I have spent the last week trying to figure something out.” I was so shocked by his visit that I could barely respond. He continued, “By trade you make candles, isn’t that right?” I nodded yes. “But your candles don’t smell good and therefore don’t sell well, so I imagine that’s why you were willing to take money for …” He didn’t finish his sentence. Taking a deep breath, he said, “So I went home, and started exploring how you can improve the scent of your candles, and I found a solution. I’ve come here to teach you what I have learned.”

Looking at Dai Homayoun, the old man asked him,

“‘Can you imagine how your grandfather’s visit that day changed my life? I will remain indebted to him always. If it wasn’t for him, there would be no way that I would be a respected member of the community, the guest of honor tonight. He never let on that I had planned to kill him. Instead he helped me become a decent candle maker. ’”

Dai Homayoun, still holding the container of the scented candle I had brought him, finished his story. He had gifted me with a glimpse into my great grandfather’s legacy. I learned that in 1918 alongside his wife, Agha Bibi, they went up against the carpet makers and the clergymen to set up the first orphanage in Kerman. He gave his last name Sanati to the boys who grew up under his care, many of whom have since become respectable members of our community as doctors, merchants, artists, engineers. Because of Baba Haji, they were no longer subjugated to years of tedious carpet weaving. Instead they were given a chance to pursue their dreams such as the great painter/sculptor Ali Akbar Sanati who painted Baba Haji’s portrait.

February 2018 marked the 100th year of the Sanati Foundation
http://www.hajaliakbarsanati.com/# which almost didn’t come to exist if my great grandfather had confronted the candle maker after he threw red ink at him. Just as Baba Haji didn’t take the assassination attempt personally, and made it his mission to help out the candle maker, I wish we could be supportive of children who come from institutes such as an orphanage. One of the last conversations Dai Homayoun and I had was about what specific measures we can take to help the boys and girls that are raised in the orphanage so that they can lead respectable, healthy and fulfilling lives, and not feel continuously stigmatized for being abandoned as a child.

Seated in the 2nd row, third from the left is Homayoun Sanati and fourth one in is Baba Haji AKA Haj Ali Akbar-e Kar