I read Arash Hejazi's Keykhosrow when I was in my 20s, or maybe even younger. I am not sure, because there is this long, calm, uncertain but secured period in my life that made me, me and made me conscious and this book was inside that period.
I don't even recall the exact story, there's just one scene that has stuck with me throughout my whole life. Keykhosrow, the main character from the past is lost in modern Iran, he doesn't know what to do or how to make sense of anything, so he decides to reach to his pocket and just use whatever he already has. That's all he could do. I have found myself using the analogy a few times in critical points in my life, and now that I can see how real science works in our lab, I came to the same realization: I don't need to know everything about everything, I just need to know what our lab is good at and what I have access here and use them, that is it.
Here is Claude's translation of the passage:
He thinks about the old man. Maybe he's mad, but he liked him. Go and see what you've got, he'd said. Usually that's already a lot. And then: "A man can't know where to go until he knows what he has."
What do I have? One kidney and a whole world of freedom. My darling overcoat, and whatever's in its pocket. That's it.
What he owns is about enough to get him to the graveyard. He empties his pockets. An empty wallet, a fistful of sugar cubes, the card from the flowers, and the phonecard Khanom Maleki gave him.
The phonecard — the only thing worth any money. Could you actually sell one of these? The card says: credit 50,000 rials. But he doesn't know how much is left on it. Finding out costs nothing. He walks to the first public phone booth and feeds the card into the slot. A few seconds pass, then the display says: Credit 1,000 rials. Khanom Maleki really spared no expense. Two calls with this card, maybe three. But to who? Who does he have to call?
He takes the card from the flowers out of his pocket and looks at the small handwriting, a few digits across it. He has a phone number. Maybe there's someone on the other end — someone who sent him flowers and wanted to make him happy. Who? It doesn't matter. For the first time in a long time he wants someone to talk to, and more than someone to talk to, somewhere to shelter.
He holds the card up in front of his eyes and starts to dial.
It rings. Nobody picks up.
He hangs up and dials again.
Ringing again.
He goes to take the card out, then thinks: one more time. If nobody answers, I'll throw the card away.
And he dials the number for the last time.
My pocket has grown.
And hey, Zahra, I am proud of you for providing me a bigger pocket, I am grateful of these people and my access.
Well done, well done.
