[ the potlights are terrible. the look that kaveh sends midnight for them is equally so. but they're settled like birds along a skewer, slowly at risk of roasting along an open flame, and so there's nothing to do but to lean back beneath the awning yellowed lights of them and contemplate the circumstances. kaveh hadn't wanted to have this conversation, he knows. neither did midnight. once again, the blame falls somewhere between happenstance and circumstances outside of kaveh's control, but if kaveh were to be honest, it had been him who cornered them both the moment he had decided on this course of action.
it is, in fact, kaveh's fault, kaveh concludes. and it ought to be.
the rum is tacky on his tongue. kaveh's fingers scrape across the uniform, uninspired labeling. ]
I was nine when I'd learned about the interdarshan competition. [ kaveh begins at the beginning, slowly, with the care of someone who has traced the path of this story enough times to know its rise and fall and cadence, and still know to brace for it. ] That's a competition between different schools of study, where each will compete in various trials and challenges for the prize - a diadem donated by an alumnus of some fame, along with a monetary reward. I hadn't known about any of this, nor did I care, not at the age of nine - all I knew was that it was a competition, and I wanted my father, whom I looked up to, to compete and to win. I told him so.
So he did. On my whim, he competed - and of course, he lost. We're not a family blessed by some prophecy or meant for some ultimate destiny. We were a normal family of three in a city of scholars. He competed, and he lost, and he was despondent.
[ an understatement. but kaveh sifts through his memories, and finds the right words for it: ] I hadn't cared if he won or not, in truth. I'd just wanted my father to be a part of something that I felt was terribly exciting. But he took it to heart, I think. He wasn't the same after. He became listless, and depressed. He withdrew. And then, one day, he went on a research project to the desert, and he never came home.
no subject
it is, in fact, kaveh's fault, kaveh concludes. and it ought to be.
the rum is tacky on his tongue. kaveh's fingers scrape across the uniform, uninspired labeling. ]
I was nine when I'd learned about the interdarshan competition. [ kaveh begins at the beginning, slowly, with the care of someone who has traced the path of this story enough times to know its rise and fall and cadence, and still know to brace for it. ] That's a competition between different schools of study, where each will compete in various trials and challenges for the prize - a diadem donated by an alumnus of some fame, along with a monetary reward. I hadn't known about any of this, nor did I care, not at the age of nine - all I knew was that it was a competition, and I wanted my father, whom I looked up to, to compete and to win. I told him so.
So he did. On my whim, he competed - and of course, he lost. We're not a family blessed by some prophecy or meant for some ultimate destiny. We were a normal family of three in a city of scholars. He competed, and he lost, and he was despondent.
[ an understatement. but kaveh sifts through his memories, and finds the right words for it: ] I hadn't cared if he won or not, in truth. I'd just wanted my father to be a part of something that I felt was terribly exciting. But he took it to heart, I think. He wasn't the same after. He became listless, and depressed. He withdrew. And then, one day, he went on a research project to the desert, and he never came home.