My Father Used to Weep for Heaven

Midnight Email

The laptop’s notification sound, in the middle of the night, jolted Arash out of his trance. It couldn’t really be called studying. It was more like staring at a page he couldn’t tear his eyes away from. “Resāleh fi’l-lazzah” (Treatise on Pleasure). The one Professor Jalali had given him years ago.

The window was open. The autumn air, heavy and damp, swirled into the room. The smell of wet earth drifted in.

When he saw the email, he paused for a few seconds. Negar Kazemi. He remembered the name. A girl who used to sit in his Philosophy of Religion classes and ask many questions. But there was something else too. A kind of anxiety in her eyes. Similar to himself in those years.

He opened the email.

She had written in English, with short sentences. The way people write when they don’t want to dwell too much on what they’re saying.

“I’m Negar Kazemi, Professor. I’ve been living in Canada for fifteen years. I found a job. I have a home and a family. I love them. I have everything. But there’s one thing I don’t understand: how are you supposed to enjoy something without feeling empty afterward?”

Arash read the sentence several times. It was simple. Maybe too simple. But something about it trembled underneath.

She wrote that over the weekend she had gone to the lake with friends. There was music. Talk. Laughter. At one point, she had burst out laughing uncontrollably. At that same moment, she remembered her father’s words. From back in the day when he used to say, “God dislikes loud laughter.” She had put down her food. Gone to the bathroom. Performed ablution. Sought forgiveness in her heart. Without anyone noticing.

Then she added: “I know it’s ridiculous. I know no one here understands. I don’t even understand it myself. But my father was a good man. He loved God. So why did he plant this fear inside me?”

Arash looked at the photo on his desk. His father. By the pond. With that same unsettling thing in his eyes. Not exactly fear. Not exactly sadness. Something in between.

Negar wrote: “Professor, I remember once you brought Professor Jalali to class. I didn’t understand anything he said back then. But now, sometimes I lie awake at night and think about his words. That part where he said God takes pleasure in His servant’s pleasure. What does that mean?”

Arash still hadn’t touched the keyboard. He stared at the blank screen. The rain intensified. Its sound was like a pulse. Monotonous. Endless.

He continued reading the email. Negar wrote that a few years ago, a Canadian boy had wanted to marry her. A good person. Kind. But she hadn’t accepted. Not because she didn’t like him. Because she couldn’t imagine living with someone who wasn’t afraid of pleasure. She thought to herself, if he isn’t afraid, then one day I won’t be afraid either. And if I’m not afraid, then what part of my father remains with me?

Arash read that sentence again: “If I’m not afraid, then what part of my father remains with me?”

A raindrop seeped through the window crack and fell on his hand. It was cold. But he let it stay.

Negar had written: “I know these questions are unanswerable. But I wanted to write to someone. It doesn’t matter if you reply or not. I just wanted to write.”

When the email ended, Arash stared at the screen for a long time. Then he stood up. He looked at the bookshelf. At the treatise Professor Jalali had given him. At his father’s photo. At the window.

He didn’t know what to write. Not because he lacked an answer. But because any answer he gave would implicate his father. Or implicate Professor Jalali. As if someone always had to be at fault. Someone had to be right. Someone had to be wrong.

The father with the God of fear. Professor Jalali with the God of pleasure. Where was he in all this? Where was Negar?

His hand moved to the keyboard. “Dear Negar, I too once had these two Gods, like you. But then I realized maybe neither of them was the real God. Let me tell you about my father. About Professor Jalali. About myself. Maybe in the end we won’t reach any conclusion. Maybe in the end we’ll only understand that some questions aren’t meant to be answered. They’re meant to be lived with.”

The rain was still falling. Arash listened to its sound. It was like words that had never been spoken.