That was Iran as it existed and Iranians as I knew them. I love Iran and I have extreme adulation for their culture. I remember the lazy coastal town of Chaloos that I had fallen in love with – one of the most beautiful places with green mountains on one side of the road and caspian on the other.
I remember huge sacs of fresh pistachios that landed at our doorstep by happy patients of father. I remember our Iranian friends, so very cultured and yet extremely modern. I remember walking with my dad, mom & sisters on Pehlvi Street, Tehran eating my favourite – bastani falioda. After five laborious years, the Urma that lived in my mind metamorphed into a novel.īefore delving on the novel itself, I would like to answer a question that I have been often asked i.e. And not to forget the frustration that seemed to stretch till eternity as words eluded me. Urma, again rose like a phoenix from the tangle of my everyday existence, nurtured by a lot of love, labour and sacrifice. It was yet another life changing moment that drove home my father’s advice of following one’s dreams, aspiring and working towards achieving them. The first sketch of Urma was etched on the paper during the summer of 1989 and yet lost in the vagaries of everyday life, as I jostled studies, career, marriage and later motherhood. Urma, my protagonist was born the moment I exited Iran – a country that was not my birthplace, and yet my home. I think the tenor of my life changed with the advent of the Iranian revolution, when as a ten year old I lost the exuberance of childhood and the warmth of my loved ones.
Fiction is to the grown man what play is to the child it is there that he changes the atmosphere and tenor of his life – Robert Louis Stevenson
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