Except for a few exceptions,’ he said, ‘people enter this world alone and leave it the same way. Do you see? It shows that at heart we’re solitary creatures. We don’t really want to be with others, yet we’re forced into companionship: friends, spouses, family, all that.’
‘Philosophy won’t get you anywhere. Humans are social animals. Those who live alone are, in a way, ill.’
‘No, you’ve got it wrong. We only became ill when we were forced to live together. All the pleasantries, the lies, the pretence, they prove we don’t actually enjoy one another’s company. That’s our true nature. Sociability itself is the disease. Even now it’s clear that the only solution is to be alone, to keep our distance. Do you see?’
‘I’d say the present situation is the result of our own behaviour, not our nature.’
‘In my view, these forced gatherings gradually brought us to this pass. If we had lived according to our real selves, in solitude, we wouldn’t be facing all these problems today, and throughout history there would never have been a single war.’
He drained the last of his tea and said nothing for a moment. He toyed with the cup, then went on: ‘I heard today that Vahid’s been forced into it as well.’
I nodded. ‘It seems we’re slowly returning to our true nature. Do you see?’
‘Better to say we’re being dragged back by force. But have you noticed that ever since we were forced to abandon humour, life feels lame, as if it’s lost its meaning?’
I gave a wry smile. ‘What’s the use of joking? Mocking this person or that, saying meaningless things that annoy one and amuse another, what good does it do?’
‘I don’t know, but life without jokes has no flavour, no colour. It’s dry, lifeless. We’re gradually turning into dry, lifeless people ourselves, and I don’t like it at all. It’s as if human beings have become robots: emotionless.’
‘What difference does it make? For those who feel this way, it no longer matters. Sooner or later, as you say, we’ll all be forced into it, and then it won’t mean anything to us either.’
He shook his head with regret. ‘Do you remember Sohrab?’
‘Yes. You two were good friends.’
‘Were is right. He’s been forced into it too.’
‘Interesting.’
‘A few days ago I saw him and, as a joke, said, “Where’ve you been, mate?” He nearly took my head off. You know he never liked the word “mate,” and I always teased him with it. By the way, why isn’t anyone looking for a solution?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps everyone’s secretly content with the orders that have been issued.’
‘What a pity, what a pity. Those were the days. These days I hardly want to leave the house. I’ve got no one left but you. All my friends have been forced into it. Walk around the city and you either see fights or people who are utterly lifeless, no smiles, no joy. Is this what life has come to?’
‘I hope everyone’s forced into it soon. That way we’ll all be the same. Not a day passes without someone being killed somewhere over these tasteless, pointless jokes.’
He said nothing, toying with his cup again. Several minutes passed in silence. Then he stood up. ‘Well, I must be off.’ He seemed tired of my talk.
‘Fair enough. Come back soon.’
‘We’ll see. Maybe today or tomorrow I’ll be forced into it too.’ He laughed. ‘See you later!’
‘Goodbye!’
He left, and once again I was alone. I have lived like this for years. There are a few people I talk to, but I can’t call them friends. Most of them simply drop by. These days perhaps no one is as content with the new state of affairs as I am. That is why I spend most of my time out of the house. When my work is done, I walk home. It is delightful. No one jokes with anyone else. Mothers, sisters, and friends no longer insult one another under the guise of humour, no one gropes someone “as a joke,” and there are hundreds of other advantages I had always longed to see.
I remember that exactly a year ago the mother of the Supreme Leader died. A few days of national mourning was declared, and afterwards new orders were gradually issued. First, in deference to the Supreme Leader’s grief, television stopped broadcasting cheerful songs and programmes. Then they said the people must show restraint too. So all joyful gatherings, parties, and weddings were banned. Conditions changed little by little. Rumours spread of a disease called “the death of humour” that was spreading rapidly. The state media talked about it constantly, yet no one saw anything unusual in the streets or alleys.
After a while, people’s temperaments began to change. They say the first case, according to some, was a shopkeeper. When he opened his shop one morning, a neighbour who always joked with him made the usual remark. This time it displeased him and they quarrelled.
At the time no one took it seriously. “They’re old mates,” people said. “They’ll make up tomorrow.” It’s natural, after all, for someone to be out of sorts now and then and find an innocent remark irritating.
But the next day the very neighbours who had mediated between the shopkeeper and his neighbour, were quarrelling with their own friends. And so, gradually, the disease became an epidemic and the city fell silent. There were no more friendly exchanges, no jokes, no pointless laughter. The city, as an acquaintance of mine put it, had turned into a military barracks. Some believed, and still believe, that the government itself had invented the disease. Some insisted that no such illness exists or could exist. Others said a few sycophants around the Supreme Leader, eager to curry favour, had forced the rest of the population to pretend they were afflicted by the disease and that it had nothing to do with the decrees the government issued to contain sense of humour following the death of the mother of the Supreme Leader.
Yet, however fast the illness spread, no one could explain how it had arisen or how it was transmitted. It did not feel like a virus, so what had killed people’s sense of humour? To this day no one has answered that question, and indeed hardly anyone is left who bothers to think about it or investigate.
In the early days, people tried to keep their distance once they sensed the danger that lay in any humorous exchange. They stopped visiting one another and avoided jokes as much as possible. I would sometimes see people wearing masks. No one knew how the disease spread. But it was useless. Like a great wave it swept over everyone, and today you rarely meet anyone who has not been “forced into it,” as my acquaintances put it. The few who remain hide it out of fear.
In a sense, those who have not yet succumbed no longer have the heart for jokes, nor the courage to make them. Yet I do not understand why they cling so stubbornly to this faculty instead of letting go and becoming like the rest of us. Why, really? I have no answer.
If you ask them, they say they are resisting tyranny, a baseless claim. Their resistance has its own curious forms. They secretly install large speakers in remote corners of the city and play cheerful, humorous music. Listless citizens rush towards the speakers in fury and smash them to pieces.
A few months ago I heard that some of those who still possessed their sense of humour had formed secret societies and held clandestine meetings. I myself attended one. Their fear struck me as very strange. They had built a large hall that was completely soundproof and windowless. At least fifty or sixty ordinary-looking people had gathered. If you had seen them outside, you would have thought they had no sense of humour at all.
The way they vetted newcomers was amusing. To prevent infiltration by government agents, they had placed a man at the door who joked with every arrival. If someone reacted angrily, they knew the person was not one of their own. It was not particularly logical, but it was simple, and the invited guests knew the game. Who knows; perhaps even some officials were tired of the new order and needed such gatherings, which is why they sometimes came.
Anyway, the programme began on time and suddenly everyone launched into crude jokes, groping, and behaviour that even in the old days, when humour still existed, would be frowned upon. I endured only the first few minutes, then made an excuse and left. I never returned to such frightening meetings.
There were also societies formed in the name of “defending human dignity” whose members gathered to issue statements against humour. Once they even tried to burn books of satire and comedy.
These stories have made some people anxious. There are rumours that those who still have their sense of humour are being identified and that their homes will be attacked. Nothing of the sort has happened yet, but even talking about it is terrifying.
One of my acquaintances rang a few days ago saying he wanted to move to another city or country and suggested I join them. I thanked him and said I was comfortable here. I have heard nothing more of him and I am not sure if he’s left or is still around.
My phone rings. Another acquaintance. Their tasteless jokes have become tiresome. I am about to reject the call, but I answer to see what he wants: ‘Hey, how are you?’
‘Bless you. You all right?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘They’re putting up signs all over town and…’
‘What signs?’
‘They’ve changed the city entrance signs too.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re installing signs praising the absence of humour. The signs at the city gates says: “Humour-Free Zone”! Ridiculous.’
‘Well, what do you expect me to say?’
‘Don’t you find it suspicious?’
‘What’s suspicious about it?’
‘Aren’t these people supposed to have a problem with the very word “humour”?’
‘So?’
‘I mean they’re strangers to it. So why are they so afraid of the word? It’s obvious they’re behind the whole conspiracy. I knew from the beginning there was no disease.’
‘They’re not strangers to it. They simply don’t have it any more. Besides, they’re issuing warnings so nothing goes wrong. It’s not a bad thing.’
‘No! These people are suspicious.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t see anything suspicious.’
‘By the way, I heard you’ve been forced into it too?’
‘Me?’ I was startled. ‘Who said that?’
‘One of the lads mentioned it yesterday.’
‘No, that’s not true.’
He burst out laughing. ‘Only joking!’ He laughed again.
I controlled myself and said calmly, ‘That was unkind.’
This time we both laughed (mine forced).
‘Oh, did you hear Shafiq has gone?’ he asked.
‘He rang a few days ago and said he was leaving.’
‘He’s gone with his family. We’re thinking of going too. This place is no longer fit to live in. Believe me, sometimes I think they’re listening to our phones.’
‘Has Stalin come back to life?’
He roared with laughter. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am there are still people brave enough to make allusions and jokes. No, I’m serious, I’m suspicious. These people are no better than Stalin. All dictators are the same.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no connection. You’re exaggerating. A few people get together and say something, and you blow it out of proportion. They’re not that bad.’
‘Honestly, what can I say? It’s not just me who distrusts them. The rest of the lads think the same. Being in the minority is painful. I believe it’s all a plot. There is no disease, they spread the rumour and brought the people to this.’
‘You’re imagining things. No, it’s nothing of the sort.’
‘Anyway, we’ll be leaving soon. If you change your mind, give me a ring. See you!’
‘Goodbye!’
Several weeks have passed and there is no word from my acquaintances. It seems they have gone. I am more content than ever, because there are no longer any nuisances, though sometimes I feel the need to talk to someone. Still, life is more pleasant this way.
I switch on the television. It shows small, scattered groups of people, migrants who have fled the country. According to the state media, they are the last remaining carriers of the sense of humour. These migrants have set up an independent news channels outside the country and they still favour humour. They constantly broadcast old comedy series, satirical programmes, and jokes. They hold panel discussions about humour and sometimes portray those without it as a kind of enemy, though they believe the Supreme Leader and his circle have imposed these conditions on the population.
I stare at the images on the television. In my heart, I pray that I might spot one of my acquaintances among the migrants. It is useless. The shots are taken from above and at a distance; the faces are indistinct.
I think to myself that these migrants have nowhere to go. Most countries, although they call the disease “the dictator’s joke,” are cautious and make it very difficult for them to cross their borders. Sometimes I hear rumours that they want to form an independent country of their own. How and where, no one knows.
I turn off the television and step out onto the balcony. I rest my hands on the railing and look out. It’s peaceful outside; life goes on without humour. People move about with serious purpose. There is no visible fear, no social distancing. No one interferes in anyone else’s business, and even the secret groups I mentioned earlier have disappeared. Society has become uniform, just as I wanted, just as I had always dreamed.
I sit on the chair and pick up the flask of tea I had brewed. I pour myself a cup. Out of habit I glance at it and enjoy its greenish colour. I hold the cup between my palms. Its warmth is pleasant. The air is turning cold and the best part of the year is approaching.
It seems that this year winter will bring not only the cold, but absolute solitude as well.
