Mir Ismail

 

The grandfather's story began not far from the city of Tabriz, in Shabestar — at the crossroads of the Great Silk Road, near the salty shores of Lake Urmia. It was there that Mir Ismail was born.

 

His childhood unfolded among orchards and mountain valleys. Youth thundered in soon after. 

 

The spring sun rose above the white mountain peaks and over the roof of Ismail’s house. He was already awake. The young man pulled on a crisp white cotton shirt and stepped outside. Tucking his trousers into tall boots, he began to saddle his horse. His slightly sun-kissed face, with the corners of his eyes turned down, seemed to glow with an inner light—despite its sombre expression. Ismail placed an arahchin (author’s note – a traditional headdress) on his head, leapt onto his horse, and galloped away from the thoughts that clung too tightly.

 

Horses were his greatest passion. These noble creatures stirred something in him—a wild love for life, breathed in deeply, like wind at full speed. Only beside them did he feel absolute trust, a unity in motion, and an unquenchable desire to race toward the horizon.

 

The air was alive with the chirping of birds, and fresh buds of green leaves were slowly unfolding. Soon, Nowruz — the Persian New Year — would awaken the world with spring. Nearby, a mountain river gurgled softly.

 

Ismail strolled toward the water, leading his horse at a gentle pace. He let the animal drink, then froze, his gaze fixed on the far bank. His heart suddenly beat faster.

 

There, across the river, sat a young girl in a bright Turkish dress. Startled by the unexpected traveller, she stood up quickly and hurried away. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ismail leapt into the saddle and urged his horse into the river, determined to catch up with the mysterious stranger.

 

Breathing in deeply, he finally gathered the courage to speak. He offered her a ride.

 

From beneath a colourful scarf, black hair like flowing tar spilled down. The girl glanced at him with warm brown eyes, hiding a smile behind her shawl before stopping suddenly. She tucked a wayward curl behind her ear, looked at the horse, and called out in Turkish:

 

— What is his name?

 

— Me? Mir Ismail, — the young man replied, his voice bright with joy.

 

She laughed playfully and asked for the horse’s name again. Ismail, slightly flustered, adjusted his arakhchin, which had slipped askew in his surprise, and wondered, Why is she so curious about the horse?

 

Her eyes, lined with black surma, darted away, avoiding Ismail’s gaze — in which two bright flames now danced. It was no accident that grandfather had dressed in favourite white today. His faithful companion had brought him to her. To the one who would one day bear his son. And that son then gave the world the one to whom I will give my heart and go to live with him in Iran.

 

And that, dear reader, is how everything came to pass — so I could tell you this story.