Bidad

Bidad

By Pedram Lalbakhsh

Bidad was a true tyrant. The kind whose heart's warmth had frozen solid, with compassion, kindness, and sympathy buried under layers of ice and snow. From the very first moment we saw him, we all, with a fair degree of certainty, concluded that Bidad, true to his name, would make our lives miserable and perhaps mark the hardest month of our lives.

Contrary to expectations and quite the opposite of what one would anticipate from someone in his position, he neither had a proportionate and well-formed physique nor muscles that would indicate he was seasoned in his role. With his average height, protruding belly, and untrimmed salt-and-pepper beard, he was a very ordinary person. Perhaps more ordinary than anyone you could imagine. However, his piercing green-blue eyes, which peered from behind small, round glasses like a precious treasure, penetrated deep into one's heart, carrying Bidad's imposing presence into the deepest recesses of it.

Bidad, like us, was not a native of this town and had arrived just two days before. In fact, we were all strangers who had gathered to train under Bidad, who, until that moment, was an unknown figure to us. Our goal was to succeed in the final practical exam, which assessed our skills, and obtain a certificate of completion so that we could return to our own towns and cities. Opportunities like this were rare in those days. It was not like today, where countless classes and centers are available, allowing you to receive training whenever you want and at whatever quality you desire, mastering every nuance and skill.

There was no internet to provide millions of videos, where creators used various lenses and filming techniques to teach the most delicate and complex skills. There were not even mobile phones that, with every little notification, could inform you of related information and keep you updated on events, news, and advertisements from different companies and organizations. None of these existed to provide even the smallest pieces of information easily and conveniently. The only means of communication with organizations, offices, and companies were the news and announcements on radio and television, and what was published in magazines and newspapers. Those times were about physical presence, and without it, you missed out on a lot.

It was through such continuous and daily presence at the pool that we learned, via a damp and faded notice stuck to the entrance door, about a month-long lifeguard training course being held in the neighboring province. This course offered us the chance to fulfill our long-held dream of obtaining a lifeguard certification, provided we succeeded. It seemed like a simple task. All of us had trained under the best instructors in the city and had mastered various swimming techniques. Unlike today’s world, where everything has a virtual counterpart, back then everything was real. Instead of spending hours tapping on bizarre and nonsensical links that lead you into a confusing maze of truths and falsehoods, we spent our time swimming and engaging in extensive practice.

Given these circumstances, spending a month swimming in a province with a warmer and more pleasant climate seemed not only appealing and delightful but also exciting and dreamy. However, despite our swimming experience, we had little life experience, and we were naively optimistic that the upcoming challenge—if it could be called a challenge—would be full of joy, fun, and memorable moments. We had yet to fully understand the words of our literature teacher, who had explained, “Come, O cup-bearer, pass around the cup and let me enjoy the wine, for love seemed easy at first, but later turned out to be full of difficulties.”

The world of those days was not one where many things could be seen from afar. The moment our literature teacher recited Hafez’s poetry with his sweet Tuyserkani accent, he didn’t realize that the word "love" would catapult our minds into a realm of fantasy, making us oblivious to the later parts about the "dark night, fear of waves, and the perils of disgrace." Upon hearing the word "love," our minds would conjure up images of the beautiful and coquettish neighbor girl, or some relative or our parents’ colleague. We would spend the rest of the class lost in thoughts of her ebony curls and the colorful depths of her eyes. Our minds lacked the courage to leap and travel; we had not been taught to leap. The world of those days was confined to the tip of our noses because there were no tools to help us see further. For us, with our stubborn heads and fervent spirits, it was difficult to grasp what those, who had seen and experienced, were saying.

Thus, upon hearing about the lifeguard training course, I, along with two other poolmates, went to the physical education department to register. After a couple of hours of waiting, we received an introduction letter signed by the director-general and stamped by the department, listing our names and details. We were introduced to the director-general of the neighboring province's physical education department for the course. The letter was thoroughly sealed and handed to us, and we were told that it would also secure our accommodation, ensuring we wouldn’t be without a place to stay during that month.

We were so overjoyed that we didn’t realize how long the three-hour journey to the land of our dreams took. You have to be seasoned in the ways of water and the pool and captivated by its allure to truly understand what it means to be a "lifeguard." A lifeguard was the general of the pool, the undisputed commander of the aquatic realm. Without his permission, no one entered the water, and no one dared to linger a moment longer after hearing his whistle, which was like the trumpet of Israfil announcing the end of the world.

During swimming, he dictated what you could and could not do. Like an eagle perched high above, he would sit on his unique tall metal chair, overseeing a world where only his word ruled. He would signal with a finger or a short whistle to permit or prohibit flips, dives, and ducking friends underwater. He even acted like the morality police, commenting on the appropriateness, tightness, looseness, and even the color of swimwear, offering warnings and guidance.

For us, whose hands were too short to reach any of the dates hanging from the palms of this strange world, becoming a lifeguard was like being the captain of an aircraft carrier.

The sun had not yet reached its zenith when we arrived at the physical education department. We proudly presented our letter to the gatekeeper and gained entry. We took the letter straight to the director-general's office and stood waiting to know our fate. Our expectation was that the letter would be taken inside, shown to the director-general, and some instructions would be issued.

However, the secretary of the director-general, whose haughty demeanor and fragmented glances were incomprehensible to us, tore off a corner of the envelope. He then removed a spoon from his half-finished sweet tea, licked its end, and used the handle to tear open the rest of the envelope. With a swift motion, he pulled out the letter, gave it a quick glance, and then extended it back to me, the one who had handed it over, and said:

"They need to call."

"Who needs to call?"

"The physical education department from your town."

"Why do they need to call?"

"To confirm that they've recommended you."

"But hasn't it been stated here?"

"It has. But they still need to call and say it."

"Why do they need to say it? It's written here, isn't it?"

"Just as I said, son. It won't work this way. They need to call."

We were dumbfounded. It was the first time we had seen that, in the bureaucratic structure of our country, words could take precedence over documents. It was strange, but there was nothing we could do about it. I had learned from my father not to argue with bureaucrats. There was always the possibility that the person you were dealing with could turn out to be difficult and drag a two-minute task into two days, two months, or even two years, or put an obstacle in your way that even Rostam couldn't remove.

Reluctantly, we pooled the coins we had in our pockets and, with great difficulty, managed to use the payphone across the street to call our own physical education department. We explained that Mr. So-and-So needed to tell Mr. Such-and-Such that we were telling the truth and that our letter of introduction was legitimate.

The next day, armed with a new letter of introduction based on the original, we presented ourselves at the pool. It was strange. The pool manager treated us with great respect, especially me! It was as if he had known me for years. He was so excited to see me that he lost his composure, immediately calling over several of his colleagues, who we later learned were his brothers. They all greeted us with kisses on the cheek and showered us with honor and respect. We were dumbfounded. After the bizarre behavior of the secretary, the conduct of the pool staff was even more bewildering and left us utterly confused.

Tea, sweets, bananas, and syrups were passed around and placed before us. Yet, more than feeling happy and enjoying it, we were filled with fear and worry about what outcome awaited us after this calm and blissful period before the storm. Everything was fine until the eldest brother, who was the heaviest and most robust of them all, opened the letter to handle the administrative registration for the course. Still astonished by their behavior, I kept my eyes on the letter, anticipating something to happen. From the sudden change in his facial color and the furrowing of his brows, I realized something was wrong. Trouble was brewing, ready to seize us by the throat and sink its teeth deep into our necks.

As he lifted his eyes from the letter, he raised his head and, with a mix of caution, slight doubt, and a touch of hostility, asked:

"You're not Mr. Ahmad Reza, are you? Abedzadeh? The goalkeeper for ... Esteghlal?"

The piece of banana I had in my mouth felt like a piece of hot stone at the back of a piece of freshly baked sangak bread that stuck in my throat. I suddenly realized the blunder these brothers, who were not unlike the Daltons, had made and whom they had mistaken me for. Admittedly, I bore a slight, just a very slight resemblance to Abedzadeh from a great distance, but not nearly enough to be confused with him.

The expressions on the faces of the other four brothers changed colors, and their heads turned towards me, their eyes fixed on my trembling lips. Stammering, I said, "No... I’m not Abedzadeh... My name is there... number...". It no longer mattered to them who I really was. They had their answer, and the matter was settled. It was as if they believed we had tried to deceive them and pull the wool over their eyes; their manner of speaking and behavior changed instantly. First, they removed the bananas from before us and then politely excused us, telling us to return to the pool at eight o'clock the next morning.

The next day, at the appointed time, we went to the pool to start our training. Contrary to our expectations, we were not allowed in. No matter how much we repeated that we had been there the day before, registered, and submitted our introduction letter, it was to no avail. The attendant said, “They’ve said the pool is for local use only and foreigners should not enter.” He pronounced "foreigners" with such emphasis and elongation as if borrowing the term from German or Italian, reminding us that we didn’t belong there.

I recalled my father’s words about his early years of service in the education department in this town, recounting strange stories of the locals' behavior. "Foreigners" was a term these people used for anyone from outside their province's borders whom they didn't like. It was truly bizarre. We couldn’t believe that in our quest to achieve our goal, we had to navigate such whirlpools and overcome each twist and turn.

With the intervention of the director-general’s secretary and a series of mutual pleadings in the local dialect, they finally agreed to let the "foreigners" participate in the course. It was decided that we would start going to the pool the following day.

Bidad had a peculiar habit. If you did what he asked well and met his standards, he would shout, "Excellent! Bravo! Well done!" But if you made a mistake, he would throw a heavy, meaningful quip your way, one that took five minutes to fully understand. Interestingly, these quips were never repeated; it was as if he pulled each one freshly from the depths of his vocabulary in that very moment. This habit of his eventually got us into trouble and marked the third ordeal of the course.

To gauge each of our abilities, Bidad ordered us all to enter the water and swim four lengths of the pool using the four main strokes. For us, this was simpler and sweeter than swallowing a piece of Turkish lokum, but unfortunately, two of the swimmers—two of those Dalton brothers—did not know any of the main strokes. They could only manage to stay afloat and, as they put it, flail about with doggy paddle.

Watching the ridiculous and laughable swimming of these two brothers made Bidad's blood boil. He shouted:

"Which idiot said you could become lifeguards? You think you can save someone with doggy paddle? Out. Get out, now."

We felt a sense of vindication, trying to let Bidad win our hearts, but we soon remembered that the early exit of the two brothers marked the beginning of our prolonged hardships and bitter end.

The next morning, the pool was closed again. We were not allowed in, nor were Bidad and his assistant. Even the secretary of the director-general had been convinced that because Bidad had shown favoritism in teaching the lifeguarding skills and disrespected the city’s veteran swimmers—those two incompetent brothers—the course should end right there, and we should return to our cities.

It took Bidad from morning until noon to finally get a meeting with the director-general and persuade him to order the pool to be reopened and our training to resume. However, this time there was a condition: Bidad was not to show favoritism in teaching and had to respect the veterans. From that day on, praises and accolades were reserved for the two brothers, while Bidad’s curses and scorn were directed at us.

With every mistake we made, his shouts were so loud that our skin would crawl, and we would gulp a mouthful of pool water out of fear. Worse than all of this were the meaningful and vengeful glances from the two brothers that pierced us to our core, intensifying our hatred for Bidad with each passing moment.

Things remained the same until the final day when we had to take the practical exam and save a mock drowning victim. It was a terrifying day. We feared that Bidad, in order to appease the administration and the veterans, would fail most of us, rendering all the effort and suffering we had endured worthless. Bidad’s stern face and military discipline showed no signs of leniency or overlooking our mistakes. He asked:

"Is there anyone who wants to volunteer to be the first to take the exam?"

One of my persistent habits, which I still haven't kicked, is making impulsive, emotional decisions in the heat of the moment. That day, driven by a spontaneous surge of emotion and youthful pride, I raised my hand like a beacon, sacrificing myself without considering the consequences. Bidad's assistant, a seasoned swimmer with a tough and resilient body, jumped into the water and pretended to be a drowning victim for me to rescue. I focused all my attention, dove into the water, and swam towards him.

Despite Bidad's harshness and foul language, he had taught us the techniques so well and had made us practice so much that I made no mistakes in the rescue. I pulled him out of the water with precision and skill. My friends were excited, and the sound of their whistles and cheers filled the air. Panting, I climbed out of the pool and looked around. The veteran brothers' eyes were blazing with fury, and I could clearly see the smoke rising from their heads like volcanoes about to erupt, mingling with the blue steam rising from my own head.

I was elated to have volunteered and taken the lead in the battle, crushing those two hollow generals in their own domain. I was so overjoyed that I could hardly contain myself, envisioning myself as the new lifeguard of the town's pool, watching over my domain like a sharp-eyed eagle from above.

But once the commotion died down, Bidad, heartless as ever, bellowed like a town crier, listing a long array of unforgivable mistakes and errors that I, poor soul, had never committed. He reprimanded me so harshly that I could no longer stand and sank to the ground to catch my breath. I couldn’t believe it. Everything I had built in my mind suddenly came crashing down on me. Like a wounded snake, I slithered to the edge of the wall, leaning all my weight on it. The gleam in the eyes of those two notorious brothers was blinding. They could hardly contain their joy, elated by Bidad’s ruthless takedown of me.

What pleasure could be greater than witnessing an own goal by the opposing team in the last minute, especially when their goalkeeper was a counterfeit Abedzadeh? For me, everything was over. Everything.

Both brothers, who had now learned to swim reasonably well by the end of the course, entered the water one after the other, performing a rather unimpressive display of lifeguarding. Yet, this earned them praise and admiration from Bidad, leaving no doubt that he was even more tyrannical and unjust than his name suggested. He said they demonstrated great strength, remarked that their performance was surprising, and told us that we should learn from watching those who execute the techniques properly.

We were humiliated. We didn't dare protest. We weren't built for such overwhelming whirlpools. We were kids floundering amidst the tricks, schemes, and childish games of the adults, slowly tasting the subtle and not-so-subtle slaps of life. We had a long way to go before we could understand how adults thought and behaved.

After the last person completed their test, Bidad recorded the score and then, after a moment, turned to the rest of us. His gaze was fixed on the eldest brother as he said, "If you permit, let's give this young man who dared to go first another chance. Perhaps he can succeed this time."

The eldest brother glanced at the younger one, then surveyed the expectant faces of everyone around. He lifted his head, and like a tribal leader pardoning subjects who had narrowly escaped a public punishment, he granted his approval for me to retake the test.

I plunged into the water again, but this time recklessly. I was so stunned, bewildered, and lost in the turmoil of my own inner chaos that I couldn't remember which technique to use or when and how to execute it. To my surprise, Bidad's assistant, unlike the first time when he slipped away like a fish, was now more like a lifeless corpse than a drowning person fighting desperately to stay afloat and take in air.

He surrendered himself to me like a docile lamb, and with every slight movement I made, he adjusted and acted as if my unskilled attempts were actually succeeding in saving him from certain death. I remember even squeezing his throat so hard that I nearly strangled him for real, but the seasoned swimmer was too skilled to fall victim to my anxiety and panic.

That night, when we went to thank and say goodbye to Bidad, he maintained his usual sternness and asked a few questions about our situation and work, while also reminding us of some technical points. Then, he reached for a small gift-wrapped package on the chair next to him, extended it toward me, and said, "This is for you. You should be proud of yourself."

Just as we stood up to say our goodbyes and return to our dormitory, through the veil of tears welling up from the spring of my emotions and blurring my vision, I saw the physical education department’s form on the chair beside Bidad. He had signed it, and next to the names of six of the eight trainees who had spent a month under his tutelage learning lifeguarding techniques, he had written "Pass" in beautiful green ink. In front of the names of the two brothers, however, there was a small red cross with the words "Retake course" written next to it.

Toronto, Aug. 2021

 © 2021Pedram Lalbakhsh