Déjà vu
After driving through the crowded morning streets, I circled the block for the second time and victoriously
slipped into the ultimate parking spot—the one right across from my office. This unprecedented event
brightened my morning. As I was locking the car door and grinning to myself I noticed a small-framed man
standing on the sidewalk looking through the window of an office supply store.
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a peculiar sentiment. I felt like a school boy again, a lazy pupil with
homework full of mistakes, a student waiting for a severe punishment. My palms stung from the soul-
piercing pain inflicted by the angry strikes of the ruler. Confused and shaken by this sudden event,
cautiously I took a few steps closer to the man who was calmly standing there, utterly unaware of my
suffering, gazing at the contents of the stationery shop showcase. I knew what he was after, the ruler with
the metallic edges. It was his favorite, the very kind that inflicted the most pain on my young hands.
I was then in the third grade. It was the last day of the New Year holidays and my family had just returned
from the vacation in Shiraz. In the midst of commotion of packing, I’d forgotten my homework. How do I
answer to Mr. Azari? Will he believe that I actually finished the homework? I wondered. I wouldn’t blame
him for not believing a word of mine; I lied to him at every opportunity I had.
The man staring into the store window was my third grade teacher, Mr. Azari. This was the man who
frequently slapped me and shouted, “You are a mule who will never make it! You will end up pulling a
carriage!” Now the same man, smaller, slimmer, and wearing a kinder face was here before me after over
thirty years. The same man who posted my failing grade on the blackboard, forced me to stand next to it,
and ordered all my classmates to shout, “Lazy, stupid, failure. Lazy, stupid, failure.” This humiliation was
my daily routine.
I battled through the third grade and passed the exams Napoleonic style (the lowest acceptable grade).
After the last exam to celebrate my victory, I burned my books and performed an Indian dance of joy
around the fire. Summer arrived and I had three months to enjoy life without school. More importantly, I
was rid of Mr. Azari, the torment was over. My exhilaration did not last longer than that summer. On the
first day of fourth grade, the principal gave us the news, “I am sorry to inform you that your teacher has
passed away. But you will not be without a teacher for a single day. Thanks to Mr. Azari, who has
graciously agreed to teach fourth grade.”
Normally the death of a teacher was not bad news to me, but this was horrible! My daily routine from the
third grade was repeated another year. But I managed to finish the fourth grade too. Thank God my father
was transferred to Tehran that summer. We moved to the capitol for good. I was convinced that if we
stayed in that school and went to fifth grade, our new teacher would die and I’d end up with Mr. Azari again.
After that year I never again saw my teacher until today. But the nightmare of those years haunted me
forever. For many years after I wished to face Mr. Azari again. I’d planned many evil schemes; the
completion of every one of them would have meant a happy ending to my lifelong torment. Now I had the
opportunity to do it.
Mr. Azari wasn’t too old, but his back curved slightly. His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets. I stood
frozen, contemplating what to do. I had to do something! I had to write the ending to that painful chapter of
my life. I cleared my throat and nervously approached him. As I got closer, he sensed my presence,
turned around, and squinted in an effort to recognize me. I stared at my newly-polished shoes. My heart
was pounding under his intense gaze.
“Hello, Mr. Azari,” I said.
He responded to my greeting warmly, “Hello, I am terribly sorry, but I don’t recognize you. What is your
name?”
I introduced myself but he didn’t remember. I spoke eloquently, like a pupil making a presentation to the
class. “I am one of your old students. One of the worst and most wicked. I am so glad to meet you again
after all these years. You don’t teach anymore?”
“I’ve been retired for many years. I served in the Culture Ministry for 36 years and I am looking for a job.
The teacher’s salary was not enough, now you can imagine how it is with a tiny pension and without health
insurance. I can’t afford to put meat on our table every day. To hell with meat, how do I pay for rent and
utilities? Only God can save us now!”
I stood still, not knowing how to respond.
He sighed, “Please forgive me for talking too much but my students are like my children. Tell me about
yourself. How much education do you have? Oh, is this your car? You must be doing well. Nothing makes
me more proud than seeing my students become successful. Tell me, what do you do?”
“I am an architect. The building on the other side of the street is my company. What a coincidence you are
looking for a job; we are looking for office help. We could use someone like you. If you have time right
now, I’ll take care of it.”
Mr. Azari followed me to my office as a child runs for candy. I instructed the Human Resources manager to
hire him immediately. Mr. Azari thanked me profusely for the opportunity and promised to be at work the
next morning.
I went home early, excited yet confused by the day’s events. I was hungry but didn’t have an appetite. I
went to bed early but couldn’t sleep. I felt as if I hadn’t done my homework. I felt as if I’d done something
wrong and must face Mr. Azari in the morning. The sound of his vicious slaps echoed in my ears. My
cheeks flushed red and hot. What had I done wrong this time?
I woke early, showered, meticulously clipped my fingernails, put on my best suit and carefully combed my
hair. I wanted to do everything right and face my teacher without fear. I went to work earlier than usual and
anxiously waited for his arrival.
Mr. Azari didn’t show. He’d never been absent from class but that day he did not come. He never came.
Later I heard he died that morning.