Everything in Tehran is getting gentrified, from the city streets to convenient stores and services. The latest technological gadgets can be seen everywhere. Stores are brimming with consumer products. Local products are competing with their foreign counterparts. Seminars and conferences are held daily in newly built luxury halls. Prized contests and lotteries are abound (land, house, cars). Powerful foreign companies ostentatiously parade their services. Mechanized pedestrian escalators are going up at every major intersection. Half-priced tickets are now available for cinema and theater halls. All kinds of fast food restaurants have cropped up with glittering lights and excellent services.

All these give us a sense of comfort. But this comfort is not for everyone, and I am not sure how much of this “gentrified Tehran” is for those with lower means. I’ll start with myself. I don’t have a car. I use public transportation (bus, metro) but what I get in return is the flu-infested air breathed by hundreds of fellow commuters crammed in closed quarters. I am not a beneficiary of all those BMW billboards. Tehran, with all its comforts, doesn’t belong to me, neither its sparkling storefronts nor the vacuumed products of its department stores. I can’t even buy books any more. I can neither complain nor apologize. My share of Tehran and its services is NASIM toothpaste, which I can buy in the hope of winning a Nissan MAXIMA in return.

Dear friends who get excited about clean toilets in newly opened restaurants, you may consider these useless naggings. Indeed, when the late {Samad Behrangi} spoke of these things, he was called a lefty politico. If you speak of them today, you will be called outmoded, cause everyone has joined the bandwagon of comfort. But for someone like me, they represent despair and hopelessness.

Dear friends who raise fuss about the drowning of Persepolis, who are concerned about the ancient culture of this land, there are many whose ideas have putrefied because they cannot put them to work. Beloved Tehran with all its festivals, advanced educational courses, galleries, and so many publishers and investors and sponsors has no place for me and my foul existence.

Not long ago, though, I got this SMS, which reminded me of what day and age we live in, “I know how you feel, that no one appreciates your being, that your talents are going to waste, but you should know that in India they worship you.” I took a drag from my cigarette. I couldn’t smile to this harmless joke. The message was clear – I was a cow. I got up, took faith in the message, and let go.