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Out of My Hands

Come on, come onPut your hands into the fireExplain, explain As I turn and meet the power This time, this timeTurning white and senses direPull up, pull upFrom one extreme to another —“Into the Fire” (13 Senses)

Pulling a match out of the tiny box on the corner of my stackable dresser, flush against thewall, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the TV. I strike the match on the dotted ignition onthe side of the box, holding it in one hand, the candle in my left. Both are bent at angles sothat the now charred tip of the matchstick will meet the curled black wick of my periwinkle

buttercups and bellflowers

candle. The flame climbs the rest of the three inches of wood Ihold between my fingers, threatening to singe the tip of my thumb nail.Once lighted, I place the candle back on the low drawer set, taking two steps back till thehinds of my legs hit the edge of my bed. Farther from the TV, I can see the slats of light fallacross its face, peeking in from my window blinds. I place both hands behind me, pushingmyself up onto the bed in a faux-gymnast move so I sit facing the dresser. I lean over to mybedside table on my left to pick up the small blue book with a gold-embossed

atash

on thecover. My hair towel is still wrapped around my wet hair from the shower, so I won’t have tofind another head covering.When I first began daily prayers in my apartment I used to worry that my roommatewould catch a glimpse of me through my cracked open door and think I was worshipping the TV in some devil’s tongue. She just wouldn’t see the Avestan script I held in my hands (withEnglish on every left page to prove their innocence) and the candle hiding next to thecomparatively big screen.

As I open the prayer book, a laminated photo of Zarathustra sits paper-clipped to the firstpage. In the likeness of making the sign of the cross, I gently touch the picture, my head,and my

asho farohar

necklace all with the same three fingers. This is just one of the manyrituals I have picked up watching my parents, my family, other Zoroastrians in their dailypractice.When my mom and I would visit

agiaries

in India, she would perform rituals like thisin front of the

atash

, kneeling in front of the large metal container of fire, her knees flushwith the low-to-the-ground square marble frame around it, her hands resting on the coolstone. She would lift her fingers to brush her forehead, and they would return to the marble.She did this three times, then pressed her hands together and brought them to her chest asshe gently bowed and pushed the balls of her bare feet to lift her up. Watching this I wouldstand in awe of these seemingly everyday motions that gained such fantastic meaning atthe fire temple. I used to get mad that she would know what she was doing and I wouldclumsily follow, miscounting my movements, moving too fast, losing my balance for kneelingover too far. Without any understanding of my jumbled actions, I felt out of place in my ownhouse of worship. My mom would try to explain to me that it didn’t matter exactly what youdid—everyone finds his or her own way to connect with God.Whenever I’m driving and I see a stalled car or an accident or someone walking on the sideof the highway or waiting at a bus stop, I have a small gold-colored emblem of Zarathustrastickered just underneath my stereo—I touch it, then my chest and reaching for mynecklace, whisper “

Dadar Hormazd”

under my breath, as a blessing for those people. As Ipress my eyes shut, like a genie making a wish come true, I know it’s the only moment I’msafe to be ‘somewhere else’ while driving.Before these little moments became a habit, I remember sitting with my best friendin middle school trying to come up with our own version of the Sign of the Cross. Wedecided the image we wanted to emulate was our

asho farohar

. One afternoon we sat inher room, walls covered with idols of the pop-culture persuasion, our legs spread across the

floor, trying out all different orders of movement in an attempt to trace the shape of a manand two outstretched wings, on our upper torsos.“No, we can’t do up, down… that’s what they do.”“How about up, down,

right

, left? …Because they do left, right.”“So we’re doing head, bottom wing, right wing, left wing?”“Maybe we should do the bottom wing last.”“Yeah, I think so.”***My favorite part about prayers is watching the flame dance. Prayers are never recitedwithout a fire. White Barn Candle Co. isn’t the typical provider of fire—compared to thetraditional two-piece silver tea-light holder, complete with a carving of Zarathustra’s faceand an intricate garden of ivy patterns around it; or the mini-

atash

shaped just like the largesilver bowls in

agiaries

, set atop a pedestal, that house enflamed sandalwood, ashes, andmatches.

Buttercups and bellflowers

just happened to be sitting in the corner of the drawerI opened when I decided I wanted to start saying daily prayers.I hadn’t taken the candle out since I moved into my new apartment and it wasstashed next to the translucent yellow scarf with bright coral flowers speckled across it. Iwas digging through my belongings to find this scarf, one I had bought in high school towear as a belt. But I never did wear it like that; the first real purpose it served was as myhead covering when I rushed home to attend my grandfather’s funeral. It was the only thingI had wide and long enough to tie under my chin. Since then it’s what I use every time Ineed to cover my head for prayers.Saying the prayers myself, rather than listening to a recitation, doesn’t allow as muchspare time to keep the flame in my peripheral vision. I’m too busy reading my prayer book,concentrating, making sure I pronounce these intricate Avestan words as best I can. Themorning I consciously noticed this, I walked out of my bathroom to jot down the observation.As I rounded the corner to my desk, the dresser in front to my left, I naturally looked at thecandle next to the TV before I sat down. For the first time, the flame was dancing.