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The Pot of Jasmine: A Novel
Până la Katayoun Zarrinkoub
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Începeți să citițiLungime: 174 pagini3 ore
- Editor:
- Tellwell Publishing
- Lansat:
- Mar 6, 2019
- ISBN:
- 9780228812593
- Format:
- Carte
Descriere
At 17 Anahita leaves her war-torn country to take refuge in Canada, where she can feel, taste, touch, and smell freedom with every fibre of her being. Throughout many years of working hard trying to achieve her dream of becoming a prominent physicist, she struggles with depression, culminating in a manic episode which leads to a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. This story depicts the reality of living with a mental illness while achieving professional success, and it demonstrates how mental health issues can affect personal relationships.
Informații despre carte
The Pot of Jasmine: A Novel
Până la Katayoun Zarrinkoub
Lungime: 174 pagini3 ore
Descriere
At 17 Anahita leaves her war-torn country to take refuge in Canada, where she can feel, taste, touch, and smell freedom with every fibre of her being. Throughout many years of working hard trying to achieve her dream of becoming a prominent physicist, she struggles with depression, culminating in a manic episode which leads to a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. This story depicts the reality of living with a mental illness while achieving professional success, and it demonstrates how mental health issues can affect personal relationships.
- Editor:
- Tellwell Publishing
- Lansat:
- Mar 6, 2019
- ISBN:
- 9780228812593
- Format:
- Carte
Despre autor
After working as an engineer for 20 years, Ms. Zarrinkoub decided to pursue her more creative and artistic passions, including writing. Having experienced the challenges of immigration and mental health issues, she knew she had something to say and could help others in trying to overcome their own trials and tribulations. In this work of biographical fiction, she presents a realistic and intimate portrait of a person living with bipolar disorder.
Legat de The Pot of Jasmine
Mostră carte
The Pot of Jasmine - Katayoun Zarrinkoub
The Pot of Jasmine
Copyright © 2019 by Katayoun Zarrinkoub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Tellwell Talent
www.tellwell.ca
ISBN
978-0-2288-1260-9 (Hardcover)
978-0-2288-1258-6 (Paperback)
978-0-2288-1259-3 (eBook)
To My Husband,
for his endless and unconditional love and support
Although inspired by a true story, The Pot of Jasmine is a work of biographical fiction. Most characters in this novel are product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to my dear friends; Farangis Sorooshian, Afshin Sepehri, and Janina Komaroff who were my beta readers, and provided me with much appreciated words of encouragement and support.
One
February 2009 – Montreal, Quebec
The doctor called out my name, Anahita Parnian. As I got up and walked toward her office, I came face to face with her previous patient leaving the room. He was a handsome man, probably in his early 50s. He had a certain je ne sais quoi about him. He was shaking Dr. Belanger’s hand, saying goodbye with a pleasantly soft yet low and manly voice. He smiled at me, and right then I could see a sudden look of surprise on his face. His eyes sparkled. I didn’t know what had just happened, or that he just recognized me, but I knew this was a face I was going to remember.
There were many plants in Dr. Belanger’s office and also a large print of Van Gogh’s Irises
on the wall. A heavenly fragrance filled the room. Realizing that there was a jasmine plant among all the others was like giving me the world. I spotted it and walked to the corner of the room to enjoy its scent up close. I noticed the intrigued look of surprise on Dr. Belanger’s face. She didn’t know about my history with the pot of jasmine, its significance for me. It had been two years since mine had died of neglect. When the love died, so did my jasmine, but seeing her pot reminded me of more hopeful times.
After I had my little moment with her jasmine Dr. Belanger said, Let’s begin,
as she looked at me with a forced smile on her face and continued.
So, Anahita, tell me why you are here?
It’s simple, because I’m depressed, too depressed to study for my Ph.D. comprehensive exam,
I said.
Why do you think you have become so depressed?
I had to dig in and talk about the root cause. I had to talk about Pedram. For two years I had tried to forget him, but it was useless. Not being able to forget him was why I had sunk into the depths of despair. But now I had to verbalize all these thoughts and feelings in a coherent way, to make her understand something I couldn’t fully comprehend myself. I didn’t understand why I was stuck in a moment, as U2 says. I couldn’t recognize who I had become. I was once a very strong and emotionally independent woman. I had fought against other heartbreaks and rejections in the past, when I was younger. Why was it that this time, at 39, I was paralyzed, suffocated, and hurting so much that I had lost my spirit? I was a lifeless shell of a person. However, at that moment, I needed to revisit my old wounds and describe the misery I had been going through for the past two years.
Two
May 2007 – Boston, Massachusetts
I slipped a small silver capsule into the pocket of his jacket. This was the second time I had done that. Five years before, it had been on the first night we spent together. That time, on the little piece of paper that was in the capsule I wrote I miss you already.
This time my note said You proved it.
By that I meant that he had proven his love for me. But what a fool I was. I have nothing to prove to you
is what he wrote back to me in his e-mail the next day.
I had just arrived in Montreal from Boston and connected my computer to the internet to check my e-mails, and this was my gift from the man I believed to be the love of my life. That was not only the beginning of our end but also the beginning of my insanity. I jumped with excitement every time the phone rang, and week after week it wasn’t him. It was never him. No other e-mails ever came either, and I had too much pride to contact him. I died a little each time I answered somebody else’s phone call, each time I opened my e-mail, time after time. Not a word from him, month after month. The period of deep regret began. At 37 I left a luxurious lifestyle in the heart of Boston and a successful teaching career at Boston University to move back to Montreal to live under the same roof as my mother. When I asked myself why, I found a disappointing answer, an answer not worthy of a strong and emotionally independent woman but of a fool in love. I felt there was an imbalance between us. He was a young scholar with a Ph.D. and academic achievements beyond his years, and I had let go of any scientific goals beyond my master’s degree. Instead, I had satisfied myself with professional success. That is, of course, until he made me feel inadequate. So even though it meant separation, I decided to uproot my comfortable life to seek what I thought would make me worthy of his love. He was moving to New York City for his exciting new career, and I came to Montreal to enrol in a Ph.D. program in engineering. What I didn’t realize was that, for him, the last goodbye was the last ever goodbye. To him we were over.
I used to go to my classes and sit for lectures and then run back home only to go under the blanket, hide myself from the world, cry myself to sleep, and wake up to the sound of the alarm I had set for my next class. I could not stay on campus for one minute and be seen talking or socializing with anybody. I hated the world. I hated myself. I used to cry uncontrollably for no apparent reason. However, I did all I could, mustered up every last ounce of confidence I could find in myself to plow through and do well in my classes. I took all the required Ph.D.-level courses and passed them, not with flying colours but at an average level. What helped me cope with my depression enough to be able to study was a surge of spirituality. I had found God again, after more than 20 years. Sometime during those dark days, I remember receiving a life-changing e-mail from my best friend Roxana. In that e-mail, she had written part of a poem by Hafiz, one of the greatest Persian poets, loved and revered by all of us Iranians. It can be translated like this:
Oh grieving heart, you will mend, do not despair
This agitated mind will return to calm, do not grieve
Oh heart, should a flood of destruction engulf the world
If Noah is at your helm, do not grieve
Home may be dangerous, and the destination far
But there are no paths without an end, do not grieve
These verses impacted me greatly. They brought me back to my teenage years when I was quite a believer, quite spiritual, and felt very close to God. I suddenly stood up in my room, facing what I thought must be the direction of Mecca, and without washing up, which is required, I started to perform the Muslim prayers. I was begging God to watch over me and help me get out of the abyss I had created for myself. It wasn’t just spirituality through Islam that was moving my soul. During that time, I went to every church and every synagogue I found. In Catholic churches I would light candles, kneel, and have a nice heart-to-heart with Mary. In Protestant churches, where there were fewer statues of Mary, I would go straight to Jesus and beg him for help. The synagogue was a different story. I got lost in one. Once, I entered a synagogue and the service was already under way. I went and sat in the middle section, close to the front row. I had no idea synagogues are segregated like mosques. Right away I got a tap on my shoulder from the man sitting behind me, who said, You are not a Jew, are you?
I said no. He pointed at the side sections where all the women were sitting and said, You are not supposed to be here.
I knew he meant women don’t sit in this section, but that sentence pierced my skull and into my muted and darkened brain as a reminder that I did not belong, that I was on my own and abandoned in this world. However, it was enough that I had God on my side. I found God everywhere. There were a few songs on my iPod with which I truly connected. I listened to them a lot. One of them was You found me
by The Fray:
I found God on the corner of First in Amistad
Where the west was all but won
All alone
Smoking his last cigarette
I said where you been?
He said, ask anything
Where were you
When everything was falling apart?
All my days
Spent by the telephone
That never rang
And all I needed was a call
That never came
From the corner of First and Amistad
Lost and insecure
You found me, you found me
Lying on the floor
Surrounded, surrounded
Why’d you have to wait?
Where were you, where were you?
Just a little late
You found me, you found me
Two years of regretting, self-blaming, and feeling sorry for myself passed. After I passed the courses, it was time for me to schedule the comprehensive exam and start my research project. Just when I was overcoming my despair with the help of God, something unexpected and eventually destructive happened. After two years of not hearing a word from him, Pedram e-mailed me. Here he was again in my life. When I saw his e-mail, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My heart stopped beating for a few seconds, I felt cold, and I couldn’t get up because I was afraid I would fall down on the ground from dizziness. I didn’t know what to do. Was I going to answer him? What a question. Of course I answered him—as if I had forgotten about all the pain he had caused me; as if I never drove myself to the point of nothingness due to his disappearance. All I could remember at that point was his beautiful smile. I answered him.
One e-mail after another our communication began. After a few correspondences I finally swallowed my pride and mustered up enough courage and confidence to ask him about 2007: why he broke my heart by severing all ties with me. He claimed that it was my love capsule that had alarmed him. He said, Let me explain it in person.
He suggested that we meet up. He rented a cottage in the beautiful countryside of northern Pennsylvania, and with the help of GPS we both drove to our rendezvous spot to meet at a charming house in the woods covered by ivy. I had lost my mind when I agreed to go and meet him. How could I have been so careless? He had arrived before me. I opened the door and saw him putting groceries in the fridge. When he saw me, he didn’t run to the door to hug me and hold me in a long embrace as I had daydreamed. He did not kiss me. He had a small bag of chocolate-covered dried figs in his hand that he offered to me. I knew I had made a mistake, but it was too late. I had to spend the whole weekend with this iceberg. He was more interested in cooking than in me. He asked me to join him in preparing everything for a barbecue. As we were grilling the hamburgers outside on the porch, I brought up the fact that it was the anniversary of the day we had met six years ago. His response to my statement was something that broke my heart all over again. He said, Yes, six years from the worst day of my life.
I could not believe my ears. I could not understand why he would ask me to come all the way here to say something so cruel to me. It was dark outside, otherwise I would have driven back to Canada the same way I had come. That sentence kept circling in my head: the worst day of my life.
If anybody had the right to say that, it was me. I was the one who fell in love on that day, drove myself to the abyss due to that unreciprocated love, and became a whole other person who couldn’t even stand up for herself and let such a jerk have it when he said such a cruel thing with so much audacity. I kept ruminating. I kept going over that sentence. I felt shocked and was in disbelief. At dinner, he kept telling me that I should get married and have children before it’s too late,
as if I needed his permission to do so. I was furious, but the new me - emotionally numb, calm, quiet, and passive - just took it all in and said nothing. Who are you to tell me what I should do with my life?
I thought to myself. But did I voice my thoughts? Did I utter a word? No. I want to kick myself every time I remember that whole trip. After dinner I guess he wanted to get into an amorous mood, because he played a DVD of what he knew was my favourite romantic movie: White Palace, starring Susan Sarandon and James Spader. He must have remembered that I had once called him the dark, brown-eyed James Spader. Perhaps he was hoping that the movie would arouse my passions, not realizing that I had been completely turned off by his behaviour and was not going to put my guard down no matter what. I fell asleep, or should I say pretended to fall asleep, on the sofa during the movie. He noticed that I was asleep and turned off the TV and DVD Player, put a blanket on me, and went to bed alone.
In the morning I just woke up early, put that bag of chocolate-covered figs in my
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