An Unforgettable Yalda by Sam Kandej

In a small Iranian village, a solitary hike during a family celebration leads to a dangerous but meaningful encounter.

Image generated with Leonardo.ai

We left Tehran an hour before dawn on December 20th, eager to reach my grandparents' home in time for breakfast. As the city slowly awakened, we looked forward to spending Yalda night with them in their quaint, peaceful village.

We arrived at 8:35. Everyone was already eating, greeting us with mouths full of bread and cheese. I kissed my two aunts' cheeks and shook my uncle's hand warmly; I hadn't seen him in exactly two years. He lives in Germany and only visits for Yalda every other year. My cousin Babak was also there, speaking in simple, broken Persian - he's always emphasized that Farsi isn't his favorite language. But I believe he's just hopelessly dumb. Our sweet language is simply beyond him.

Breakfast at my grandparents' home has always been my favorite part of Yalda. Nothing comes from a supermarket. The bread is warm from the village oven, the milk is fresh from their neighbor's cow, and the cherry jam is from last summer's harvest. My grandma's homemade bread melts on the tongue, and her cakes are dense with fresh cream and walnuts.

After breakfast and talking with my uncle for about an hour, I asked Babak if he'd like to go hiking with me. "I just want to play PlayStation," he said.

I stared at him. "You haven't changed at all. I wish I had a cool cousin." And I left the house right away.

For about twenty minutes, I saw some familiar faces on my way to my favorite trail near the village, but soon I found myself completely alone, hiking up the mountain. It was both scary and exciting. I was finally away from the air and noise of Tehran. Miles away from the capital.

Around 2:05, I reached the peak where I could sit silently and see a vast area, including the village. My dumb cousin was down there playing video games, and I was up at the summit, breathing fresh air into my lungs.

I could see a river on the horizon and a motorbike moving fast toward the east. The sun was right above me, and the sky was a pale, periwinkle blue. It was the last day of fall, and a chill hung in the air. Some birds were flying high above me. I thought about them for a few minutes. Birds live and die. The ones I was watching might be gone soon, but a new generation would replace them.

I was lost in thought when I heard something moving towards me. I turned and saw it there, walking gently in my direction. I froze. I thought of running but knew it wasn't a good idea, so I tried to sit perfectly still.

A young Asiatic cheetah was now looking into my eyes. I dropped my gaze, hoping not to provoke her. She sat so close on my right side that I could feel the warmth of her body.

I was too scared to look directly but did my best to keep her in my sight. I don't want to die young. I'm only twenty-two. How painful will it be? She'll probably tear my throat out first. For ten minutes - that felt like ten hours - I thought of death and the end of my short life. My body was cold, and I was scared to move even an inch.

Then something very strange happened. Whether it was a rush of hormones or something else, I suddenly felt ready to go, ready to leave the world. Now that I'm going to die soon, why not die like a brave man? Why not just experience the moment?

I sat there in peace, hearing the cheetah's breath, wondering what she was thinking. I was used to dogs as pets, but this was my very first time sitting side by side with a wild cheetah, not knowing how to act.

Thousands of years had passed between our species, and there we were. The great-grandchildren of ancient lineages. For a second, I fancied touching her fur, but it was too risky. I could lose my life in an instant.

The cheetah stood up. I froze again. My end was near. But to my surprise, her eyes met mine for a second, and then she walked away. I watched her going down the dirt road like a queen, leaving me in my solitude.

It took me two or three minutes to come to my senses before I finally ran toward my grandparents' house. I had a strange feeling. My heart wanted to spend the rest of my life with that cheetah as a friend, while my brain ordered me to run.

As soon as I arrived, I told the story to my grandpa. "Are you sure it was a cheetah and not a big dog?" he asked.

"I'm completely sure. I watched a documentary about them last summer. I know it was a cheetah, Grandpa," I said.

Grandpa Jamal thought for a few seconds. "Well, in that case, we're very lucky we still have you here to celebrate Yalda together."

"Do you want to play PlayStation with me, Arash?" Babak asked, shocked by my story.

"Yes! Yes! Let's play soccer, dummy," I grinned.

That night, we ate pomegranates, red apples, oranges, and lots of nuts. I learned that my cousin isn't as dumb as I thought. He can play the guitar and sing gracefully in both German and English. He treated me kindly the entire night, trying to help me forget my encounter. But he didn't know that deep in my heart, I wished to be out there again, sitting side by side with that cheetah, looking at the stars and the moon.