Khosro

Having left plenty of time, I find myself wandering the streets in danger of missing my train.  It is beginning to rain.  I hail a cab.  'Union station?', I say.  'Of course', the driver replies.  I pile my bags into the back.

'I got lost', I say.  'I don't know where I am'.  The driver shakes his head.  'You should never say that to me', he says.  'I'll take you for a ride'.  He is tanned with grey hair.  'Please don't take me for a ride', I say.  He laughs.  'Of course I would never do that', he says.

Originally from 'Persian Iran', he moved to America twenty-one years ago.  I ask if he likes Chicago.  'I like it for holidays', he says, 'but when you have to make money no place is fun anymore'.

We approach the station.  It is not far.  'I drop you at the back so I don't have to do any monkey business', he says.  I agree that monkey business doesn't sound like a good idea.

As I pay, I ask my question.  'Ken', he says.  'That doesn't sound very Iranian', I say.  'Ah', he replies, 'you don't want to know my real middle name'.  I assure him that I do.  He gives me an answer and I repeat after him.  He corrects my pronunciation and gives me a spelling.  'He was a king', he says.  'Look him up'.

(I do look him up and the closest that the internet provides is Kai Kosrow, a legendary king from the Persian epic, Shahnameh.  His father was killed by his maternal grandmother and, as a child, he was trained in the desert by a wise vizier.  A popular king, he was not fond of the trappings of monarchy and gave much of his wealth away to widows, orphans, the sick and poor.  To his successor he offered the advice, 'Lohrasb! The King is like the water and can clean the things but if itself becomes embarrassed then nothing could become clean!')