1. A Professor Who Still Doesn’t Know
The room was small. No more than ten or twelve people. A few graduate students, two researchers, and a whiteboard that had turned gray from being erased and written on so many times. Iraj entered calmly. He put his books on the table. He picked up the glass of tea beside him. One of the students opened his notebook.
Iraj was a man who was in control in this space. Not with a loud voice. Not with claims. With a kind of calm that came from years of reading and thinking. He sat down. He looked at the group. He gave a faint smile.
“Well. Where should we start?”
One of the students said:
“From desire.”
Iraj nodded. He put his hands on the table.
“Desire in itself is neither man’s enemy nor his savior. The problem begins where a person imagines that everything they want, they must obtain.”
A few people took notes. Iraj continued:
“We usually either suppress desire or sanctify it. Both are wrong. Desire is what moves us. But movement doesn’t always reach the destination.”
One asked:
“So what should we do?”
Iraj paused. He smiled.
“Maybe the question is wrong.”
And that sentence was enough to make the room silent. Iraj knew how to hold a question. He knew how to place the answer a little further back. And this, in that moment, was exactly what the group wanted.
2. Desire, Suffering, or Erasing Yourself?
The discussion grew heated. One of the students—a young woman with glasses and tied-back hair—raised her hand.
“Professor, if desire causes suffering, why shouldn’t we suppress it at all?”
Iraj paused. Not briefly. For a few seconds. He looked at the girl. Then he said:
“Because if we eliminate desire, what exactly have we eliminated?”
Student:
“The suffering.”
Iraj:
“And maybe a part of ourselves.”
Silence. Iraj stood up. He went to the board. He picked up a marker. He wrote nothing. He just twirled the marker in his hand.
“Desire can be painful. But it is this same desire that wakes us from sleep. It is this same desire that lifts us from our place. The problem may not be eliminating desire. The problem may be our relationship with desire.”
The student asked again:
“What does that mean?”
Iraj put the marker down.
“It means understanding what we want, why we want it, and whether we can truly have it.”
He looked at the group. A few nodded. One wrote. One smiled. Iraj hadn’t answered. But he had spoken in a way that made it seem as if he had.
3. A Harder Question
The session was ending. One of the students—a man younger than the others—who had been silent until that moment, raised his hand. Iraj looked at him.
“Yes?”
Student:
“But professor, suppose a person wants something they can’t have. Then what?”
For the first time, Iraj paused a little. A pause that lasted a second longer than usual. The students didn’t notice. But he himself did. He put his hand on the table.
“Then the problem becomes more complicated.”
Student:
“How?”
Iraj looked at the glass of tea. The tea had gone cold.
“Because some desires cannot be achieved by wanting more.”
The student waited. Iraj added nothing. He just said:
“It was a good discussion. We’ll continue next session.”
And he closed the session. A few people stood up. A few gathered around him. But that question remained in the room. Suspended. Unanswered.
4. An Exit That Isn’t Calm
The students gathered around Iraj. One thanked him. One asked about an article. One brought a book for him to sign.
“Professor, your answer to my question really helped.”
Iraj smiled. He signed. He returned the book.
“Good luck.”
The students left one by one. The room became empty. Iraj gathered his books. He picked up the glass of tea. He looked at the board. It was still gray. He had written nothing, erased nothing. He had only twirled the marker a few times.
He put on his coat. He came out of the room. The hallway was empty. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the silence. A few students were in the hallway. They nodded. Iraj nodded too. But he was no longer that man in control. Not that he was tired. Not that he was upset. Just… something in him wasn’t calm. And he himself didn’t exactly know what. He took his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the time. Five-thirty. It was getting dark. And that question was still in his mind. A person wants something they can’t have. Then what?
5. A Ring That Changed Everything
He went down the stairs. He opened the entrance door of the faculty. The cold air hit his face. He took a deep breath. He started walking toward the car. His phone rang. He looked at the number. It was the hospital.
He stopped.
He answered.
“Yes?”
The nurse’s voice:
“Dr., I’m calling about Leila.”
Iraj put his hand on the car.
“Yes?”
Nurse:
“Today she showed a new reaction. The doctor wanted to talk to you about her condition.”
Iraj was silent for a few seconds. The sound of the street. The sound of the wind. The nurse’s voice saying:
“If you can, come in today.”
Iraj:
“I’m coming.”
He hung up. He put the phone in his pocket. He looked at the car. At the faculty building. At the dark sky. He stood for a few moments. Then he got in. He started the car.
6. Just Come Back, Leila
He stopped at the red light. He thought about Leila. About her hair. When she got upset, she would tuck her hair behind her ear. A small movement. Habitual. Or when she argued with her father, in the end she would say:
“Okay Dad, you’re right.”
And then she would laugh.
Iraj put his hand on the steering wheel. He remembered that Leila loved ice cream. Traditional ice cream. With almond slivers. She always said:
“Dad, this is the best ice cream in the world.”
Iraj would buy it for her. Every time. Even when she had a cold. Even when her mother said:
“Enough, she’ll get sick.”
Iraj would laugh and say:
“One more time.”
The light turned green. He drove on. He thought about that day. About that accident. About that hospital. About that moment when the doctor said:
“She’ll survive, but…”
And that “but” still hadn’t ended. Iraj pressed his hand on the steering wheel.
“Just come back.”
And then silence.
7. A Father Facing Reality
The hospital parking lot. He turned off the car. He didn’t open the door. He sat. He looked at the glass. At his reflection. A man in his sixties. With gray hair. With tired eyes.
Now he knew exactly what he wanted.
He wanted Leila to come back. Not just to be alive. Not just to breathe. He wanted her to be the same Leila as before. The girl who tucked her hair behind her ear. The girl who loved traditional ice cream. The girl who said:
“Okay Dad, you’re right.”
But he knew it wasn’t possible. He knew that some desires cannot be achieved by wanting more. He himself had said it in the session. But now… now he couldn’t accept it. He opened the car door. It was cold. He started walking toward the entrance. He said to himself:
“This one is different.”
And then he entered.
The hospital hallway. The smell of alcohol. The sound of machines. Nurses. He opened the door to Leila’s room. He entered. Leila was on the bed. Motionless. As she always was. Iraj sat beside the bed. He looked at her face. A few seconds. Then he took her hand. It was cold.
“Hello, my daughter.”
Leila remained motionless. Iraj didn’t let go of her hand. He looked at the wall. At the window. At the dark sky. He waited. A few minutes. A few seconds. Nothing.
Leila remained motionless. The machines were working. The regular sound of the beep. Iraj sat beside the bed. He took his daughter’s hand. He looked at her face. A few moments of silence.
“You know… today I was talking about desire.”
A pause.
“I was saying a person shouldn’t necessarily have everything they want.”
He gave a very faint smile. He held Leila’s hand tighter.
“But there’s one thing I can’t let go of.”
A few seconds of silence. Then very softly, as if he were only speaking to himself:
“Just come back, Leila.”
Iraj didn’t let go of her hand.
