No, I Was Not Dreaming

Something extraordinary happened to me last night, so strange that the following morning I did not dare tell my husband or children about it. I was certain that my husband, being a sensitive man who worried easily, would become so concerned that he would suggest I ask my friends to recommend a good psychiatrist. My carefree son and daughter, on the other hand, would probably laugh and say, “Mum, dreaming again? Well, let’s hope it’s a good omen!”

Nevertheless, I am quite certain that I was not dreaming, and I feel I must tell someone what happened last night. I hope you won’t mind listening.

Well, I was fast asleep when a tapping sound suddenly woke me. At first, I thought it was the wind. But when I listened more carefully, I realised that someone was actually tapping on our bedroom window.

Frightened, I switched on the bedside lamp and looked at the clock. It was one o’clock in the morning. I wanted to wake my husband, but I couldn’t bring myself to disturb his sleep. You see, he had recently been suffering from stomach pains, which made it difficult for him to sleep at night.

I told myself it couldn’t possibly be a burglar. After all, burglars generally prefer to remain unnoticed. They don’t usually knock on people’s windows at one o’clock in the morning to announce their arrival!

Then something occurred to me. How could anyone be tapping on our window when our bedroom was on the second floor?

Perhaps I had imagined it. Yet the tapping continued, leaving me no choice but to get up and investigate.

I opened the window quietly and, in the moonlight, saw a man of medium height wearing a pointed hat with a bell at its tip and a large, golden-coloured coat. He was seated at the front of what looked remarkably like Father Christmas’s sleigh. Another man, dressed exactly like him and so similar in appearance that they might have been twins, was sitting at the back, close to our window.

I thought perhaps our local Father Christmas had devised some new scheme for collecting charitable donations.

“I’ll bring you my humble contribution straight away,” I whispered politely. “But I must say, this is hardly a convenient way to collect money for charity!”

Before I could say another word, the man nearest the window seized my hand firmly and gestured for me to climb into the sleigh.

“But why? What’s all this about?” I protested.

The man at the front, who was holding the reins, replied rather rudely, “Because His Excellency, the benevolent Santa Claus, has summoned you!”

I could hardly believe my ears and gave a disbelieving laugh.

“His Excellency Santa Claus has summoned me? But why? I’m not even a Christian!”

“Stop wasting our time,” snapped the man holding my hand. “Come along. We must go!”

By now, I was thoroughly indignant.

“Excuse me! Who do you think you are? I was under the impression that we lived in a democracy, in a country where people couldn’t simply be summoned in the middle of the night in such a rude and high-handed manner. What a fool I’ve been!”

“You talk too much,” the man interrupted. “There’s no point telling us any of this. We’re only agents carrying out orders. If you have any complaints or opinions, you can express them in the presence of His Highness Santa Claus.”

The moment he said the word agents, I realised there was little point in protesting further.

He was quite right, of course. An agent is an agent, and the nature of his duties is perfectly clear. He is not expected to exercise common sense or question his instructions. He simply carries out whatever orders he is given. Nor is there anything particularly surprising about his rudeness. Whether he represents the Inland Revenue, the police, a prison or, as in this case, Santa Claus himself, an agent remains an agent.

Reluctantly, I climbed into the sleigh, and one of the men moved aside to make room for me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to sound calm and polite. “You’re quite right. I understand your position. But could you please tell me how long this meeting with the honourable Santa Claus is likely to take? If it’s going to be a long time, I really ought to let my husband know what’s happening. He’ll be terribly worried if he wakes up and finds me gone.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” the man replied confidently. “It certainly won’t take more than an hour or two.”

There was nothing more I could ask, although I had no idea what lay ahead. Nor did I particularly trust his reassurance. After all, who can trust the word of an agent?

I was becoming increasingly agitated. You may remember how bitterly cold it was last night, but I was so distressed that I felt positively feverish.

The man paid no attention to my discomfort. Taking the reins, he gave the reindeer a gentle flick with his whip, and the sleigh began to rise into the night sky.

I was completely bewildered.

How could this sleigh fly without an engine?

Of course, I knew that in fairy tales Santa Claus’s sleigh could travel anywhere, across the ground or through the sky, drawn by his reindeer. But this was no fairy tale. I was not dreaming.

Then a possible explanation occurred to me.

It must be another Japanese invention!

The Japanese, I thought, had a remarkable talent for adapting the traditions of different nations and turning them into marketable wonders. They drew inspiration from local customs, then created fashionable, modern versions of whatever might appeal to the people concerned.

After all, hadn’t the Japanese introduced us Iranians to the rice cooker and the electric korsi¹?

It stood to reason that these flying sleighs must be their latest lucrative invention for the Christian world.

What amazed me was how faithfully they had reproduced the sleigh of people’s imaginations. Beneath its enchanting exterior, however, there must surely be some remarkable Japanese engine powering the whole contraption.

While I was absorbed in these thoughts, I suddenly realised how far we had travelled. We were now soaring at an astonishing height.

The moon looked enormous, and the sky was filled with so many brilliant stars that, had I not been so anxious about what awaited me, I might almost have wished never to return to earth.

But thoughts of my husband and children, and my longing to be with them again, weighed heavily on my heart and brought me back to reality.

I began wondering what offence I, or anyone in my family, could possibly have committed to justify such an extraordinary summons.

I could think of nothing.

It certainly couldn’t be income tax evasion, since my husband was in the habit of paying his taxes months in advance. None of us, not even the few friends we had made in this country, had any connection with political organisations, espionage or terrorism.

I had even remembered to send Christmas cards to all my Christian friends, wishing them every happiness.

But perhaps that was the mistake!

These days, one could never be quite sure. The world had become so unpredictable that it was difficult to know what was permitted and what was forbidden.

And we were planning to have a Christmas tree that year. Perhaps that was an offence too!

I had said to my daughter many times, “Shirin, darling, we’re not Christians. There’s really no reason for us to have a Christmas tree.”

And each time she had replied, “But Mum, if we’re supposed to sympathise with people of every nation, whatever their religion or culture, and share their grief and sorrow, why shouldn’t we share their happiness and celebrations too?”

Once again, I was lost in thought when I suddenly realised that the sleigh was no longer in the sky. We were now travelling along a tree-lined path beside a wood.

Eventually, we stopped before a magnificent palace. Escorted by the two men, one on either side of me, I entered the building.

We passed through a long, spacious corridor lined with more men wearing pointed hats adorned with bells, and finally reached a vast hall, brilliantly illuminated by countless chandeliers.

At the far end of the hall, seated on an enormous throne decorated with golden cushions, was His Highness Santa Claus himself.

He was rather heavily built and wore a white fur hat and a large red coat.

I was so overwhelmed by the splendour of my surroundings and the imposing presence of Santa Claus that I began to panic. I had no idea what I was supposed to say or do.

As I approached his throne, I started bowing repeatedly, rather like the Japanese.

I have no idea how many times I bowed before the two men took hold of me and straightened me up.

“That’s enough,” they said. “Stand properly so that His Highness Santa Claus can speak to you.”

I obeyed.

But Santa Claus said nothing. He merely fixed his large eyes upon me and stared.

At last, I summoned enough courage to speak.

“Would Your Highness be kind enough to tell your unworthy servant why she has been summoned?”

Santa Claus cleared his throat.

“First of all,” he said, “let me assure you that you haven’t done anything wrong.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and silently thanked God.

“Then perhaps Your Highness would be so kind as to explain why I have been brought here in the middle of the night?”

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” Santa Claus replied sympathetically. “I’m afraid I had no alternative. You see, there’s a certain matter on which I need your advice. And please, do try to relax when you speak to me. I really don’t care for all this pomp and ceremony.”

I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.

I was neither a Christian nor a citizen of one of the world’s powerful nations. How could someone as magnificent as Santa Claus possibly wish to consult an insignificant person like me?

“Your Highness,” I said nervously, “who am I to deserve such an honour? May I respectfully remind you that although I come from a country whose classical literature is rich in beautiful and reverent references to Christ, the messenger of love, I am not myself a Christian.”

“That’s perfectly all right. Don’t worry. I’m well aware of that,” Santa Claus replied. “In fact, that’s precisely why I want your opinion. To tell you the truth, I ordered a draw to be held among people who aren’t Christians, and your name was selected.”

“What an honour!” I exclaimed, delighted yet apprehensive. “How extraordinarily fortunate I am to have been chosen! I shall certainly do everything in my power to help you.”

Santa Claus looked rather troubled.

“You see,” he began, “I feel that the world is no longer what it used to be. In so many places, including this country, there are endless reports of poverty, crime, cruelty and violence. One might almost wonder whether any true Christians remain.

“There seems to be so little compassion or kindness towards others. Everyone thinks only of themselves. Neighbours neither know nor care about one another’s troubles. The genuine friendships of former times seem to have disappeared.

“Greed and selfishness govern people’s lives. The atmosphere has become so dark and polluted that the light of kindness can scarcely shine through it.

“My helpers and I have become so disheartened that we’ve lost much of our enthusiasm for celebrating Christmas.

“And so we’ve asked you, as an impartial non-Christian, to tell us whether you think we would be justified in abandoning this place before Christmas arrives.”

My heart sank.

For some time, I sat there in stunned silence, unable to believe what I had heard.

At last, Santa Claus broke the silence.

“Well? I’m waiting for your answer.”

I looked at him sadly.

“Your question seems very strange to me,” I said. “It’s almost as though you’re asking whether, because people already endure so much misery and suffering, we should take away their dreams and hopes as well.

“Wouldn’t that turn every human being into a barren, lifeless desert?

“I come from a country where, for centuries, people have endured the cold of winter, whatever hardships they may have faced, sustained by the hope that Amu Nowruz² would come and bring with him the warm breath of spring.

“And now that circumstances have brought me to this country, where the sun so seldom shines, how could I possibly agree to your taking away its light as well?

“What have innocent men, women and children done to deserve the loss of their dreams?

“Take, for example, a dear Christian friend of mine. She’s eighty years old, and her doctors have told her that this Christmas may be her last.

“How could we deprive her of the hope of celebrating it? I wish you could see how eagerly, despite her failing health, she looks forward to Christmas and to seeing her grandchildren once more.

“No, I cannot agree to what you’re proposing.

“These people are innocent. Why should they suffer for the corruption of the world? They’re not the ones who have destroyed love and kindness.

“The causes lie elsewhere, and I’m sure you know that far better than I do.

“How could it possibly be right to leave people in a void, stripped of their hopes and dreams?”

My voice broke, and I could say no more.

Santa Claus seemed less troubled now. Then, in a powerful voice, he addressed his helpers.

“We shall continue with the celebrations!”

And so, just as in previous years, Santa Claus’s helpers began filling his sleigh with countless presents and fastening bells around the reindeer’s necks.

On the return journey, as I travelled home in the sleigh with my two escorts, I noticed the path outside the palace beginning to glow with coloured lights.

Then the trees in the wood lit up, one after another, until finally the entire city was illuminated.

It was as though the flowing light had restored the pulse of life to the darkened streets.

Even my escorts, those formidable agents, seemed gentler now. Their earlier harshness had softened.

I climbed back into our bedroom through the window and switched off the bedside lamp.

Lying quietly beside my husband, I thought once more of Nowruz³.

In my mind, I could see the dazzling spring sunshine falling upon the snow-covered peaks of the Alburz Mountains⁴. I could feel the freshness and radiance of spring, and breathe in the scents of the northern mountains and the southern plains.

As I lay there, surrounded by memories and dreams of my homeland, I wished with all my heart that I might once again hear the joyful laughter of my compatriots.

My throat tightened with tears. My eyelids grew heavy, and I fell asleep.

The End

London, December 1988