The smell of rain reminds me of my grandmother.

I’m talking about cool fresh rain on a hot summer night, the kind everyone welcomes.
It smells like earth, like the stuff planets are made of.

It takes me back to her kitchen a lifetime ago, smelling it for the first time as a child.

Her name was Mahboubeh. It’s from Arabic. It means ‘loved.’
Everyone called her ‘Mahboub Khanoom’ – ‘Lady Loved.’
But I called her Maman. It’s what my mother called her as well.
She lived until she was 85.
And by the time she died, she had cemented her place as the family matriarch.

By family, I’m not just talking about her children and grandchildren. I mean people I didn’t even know, scattered across 3 cities in Iran – her birthplace, Mashhad, my grandfather’s hometown of Ghazvin, and where the two of them lived for most of their lives, bringing up 3 children – in Tehran.

Picture a kind, gentle and polite lady Godfather. Without the mob part of course. Queen Victoria. But smaller, thinner, kinder, more humble. And Nowhere near as rich.

She didn’t command respect. It was goddamn bestowed upon her wholeheartedly – voluntarily. And she accepted it, humbly, gracefully, modestly.

During the No-rooz holidays, there’d be a waiting list to see her. She was the oldest in the family, and by custom, the first you’d have to visit.

She married young. I can’t remember how young. But very young. The story goes she and my grandfather were in love for years before they were married.

She was a great beauty. Everybody says so.

And they stayed in love until the end. The night of his death, he woke up in the middle of the night, took her hand and kissed it. She found he was gone when she woke the next morning.

I was her favourite grandchild. She admitted it. She really did.

This is how it went:

“Maman, just admit it. I’m your favourite grandchild. Just say it.”

She looked down, shook her head, trying her best to suppress an ear-to-ear grin, her voice trembling, trying not to laugh, “You are. I just don’t know why I love you so much.”

It was because I was the first.

My sister has a PhD in Physics, spent a couple of years working at CERN for crying out loud. One of my cousins is a doctor, who takes care of his mom and dad, with his brother—the banker—also chipping in. The third brother was born slow, a most lovable, kind, gentle man; too shy to speak because he knows he’s different.

But I was her favourite by the virtue of being born first.

It’s not like I’m a complete fuck-up. But I’m no great success either. I can take care of myself. But that’s about it. I live well. A little too well sometimes. Not in a Ferrari or Lamborghini kind of “too well,” more like a fois-gras and champagne in a rented apartment with a roommate in my late 30s kind of “too well.”

I told that story about being her favourite when I spoke at her memorial. I also told another:

She was in Toronto visiting my mom in a 1-bedroom condo.

I would go visit every day – almost.

We started to run out of things to say – a couple of hours every day is trying even with a best friend.

So I started bringing entertainment. On Thursdays, I’d grab a brand new NOW! Magazine. I would look through the reviews, read the horoscope, try to pass the time.

Except this one day.

I went to the bathroom.

When I came out: there she was

standing with the magazine in her hand,

mouth wide open in shock,

eyes bulging in horror.

It took me half a second to realize what happened.

She must have casually opened it, as people often do in waiting rooms, out of mild curiosity. But she opened it backwards (Persian script goes from right to left. Books and magazines are opened the other way.)

There, in the back pages of that magazine lay the stuff nightmares are made of – things no good Persian grandson should let his maman bozorg see.

Adult ads. Extremely graphic adult ads. Like, “Take your pick. What are you into? We cater to every kink, and here are the pictures to prove it” type of adult ads.

You don’t need to be able to read English to know it was capital F Filthy.

She sees me get out of the bathroom. She turns the paper around, showing me, confirming I was right.

‘What IS this?’

Right then, it was as if thousands of years of evolution had gone into preparing me for that very moment. Instinct at its rawest. I lunge forward faster than a ninja and I rip that paper from her hands, and toss it across the room on the dining room table.

“It’s nothing Maman. It’s nothing.”

I could have tried to explain. But that? That was a lose-lose situation.

The people there at that memorial loved those stories.

But this is now going to take a turn.

What I didn’t tell them was another one

about my last conversation with her

how I let her down,

and how I broke her heart.

Let me set the scene here.

This is a few months before she died.

I’m having lunch with a cousin – this one a dentist – but from my father’s side.

We’re in a fancy restaurant in Old Montreal.

It’s the kind of place where tables are spread far apart,

where it feels cold no matter what the temperature.

The wait staff is all business.

And it’s really quiet, even with every table full.

That soft jazz?

It only adds to the tension.

My phone rings just as the food arrives.

It’s a call from Iran.

‘Allo?’

It’s my grandmother.

She very rarely called. We only spoke on special occasions.

She had braved the 8.5-hour time difference – stayed up late to catch me at a good time.

Her timing couldn’t have been worse.

She’s yelling into the phone, the way my entire family does on long distance calls, and for good reason. The phone lines are shit in Iran. Same with the Internet.

It’s contagious. I’m yelling back.

The pleasantries are brief. She gets straight to business.

‘I want to ask you for a favour.’

She had never asked me for anything before.

Pause.

‘Yes?’

‘Talk to your mother. Do it for me. Please. Forgive her. Just let it go. End this business.’

I had been fighting with my mother – our worst fight ever. I hadn’t spoken to her in months despite her trying to make peace over and over again. She did something I considered a great betrayal and I was vengeful.

I look across at my cousin. He’s looking down at his phone; his food untouched, pretending not to notice. Same with everyone else, even though I’ve been the loudest thing there by far.

‘No. I can’t do that.’

‘Are you turning me down?’

‘Sorry Maman.’

‘Really?’

‘No. Forgive me.’

She didn’t press anymore. We said our goodbyes and I went back to my lunch, feeling even more uneasy than before.

And that was that.

But in the end, she got what she asked for.

My war with my mother ended a few months later.

And it was all because of Maman.

If only she knew.

All it took was one text.

‘Please call me. It’s about Maman.’

This time my mother knew I would respond. She was right. Absolutely. No question about it.

She was devastated.

I couldn’t stay mad.

She flew to Iran as fast as she could.

And held that memorial when she came back. I helped her with it.

I later found out that the call I took in that horrible restaurant in Montreal?

It came after my mother –

Maman’s oldest daughter –

tried to end her life,

because I wouldn’t talk to her.

Now tell me if you’ve made it this far.

How would you live with that kind of guilt?