There’s a scent I can still conjure in my mind: steeped rose petals in a porcelain teacup, faintly sweetened with rock candy. It was the smell of my grandmother’s living room in Tehran, just after the sun dipped below the Alborz mountains and before she tucked us under thick cotton blankets stitched by hand.
She didn’t call it a “wind-down routine.” She simply lived it.
My Iranian grandmother—Maman Ashi—moved through evenings like a prayer. Quietly, intentionally, slowly. Her world was one of rhythm, where every action whispered: “Come home to yourself.”
The Melon Ritual 🍈🍈🍈
Maman Ashi loved melons—soft, fragrant, and ice-cold from the fridge. Every evening, just as the sky softened into lavender, she’d cut them with quiet precision, blend them by hand, and pour the juice into delicate glasses she reserved just for nightfall.
“It’s nutritious,” she’d remind us, as if the sweetness needed justification.
And somehow, even that glass of chilled melon juice felt like an offering. Like something meant to prepare us for rest.
Her home was warm in the kind of way that made your body melt. Not just emotionally—physically. Even in the middle of summer, she’d insist on keeping the temperature high, claiming the heat was good for the bones. “It melts the tension,” she’d say, while I melted into the couch.
There was an old fan that hummed tirelessly in the corner—its blades slow, its breeze more symbolic than functional. It rattled and clicked like a sleepy lullaby, barely pushing the thick summer air, but somehow it made the room feel alive. Like even the stillness was animated.
Near her window, she kept a tiny jar—originally meant for pickles, now reinvented as a miniature sewing kit. Inside were threads in soft, faded colors, a few worn needles, and a jumble of mismatched buttons that I was endlessly fascinated by.
To me, they weren’t sewing supplies. They were tiny treasures.
I’d play with them endlessly, making up stories about buttons from magical coats or invisible dresses. She never stopped me. Just smiled from her cushion as she brushed out her long silver hair with a rhythm that matched the fan’s quiet hum.
And just before the tea was poured and the fan settled into its nightly hum, she’d sometimes burn esfand—wild rue seeds—in a tiny metal pan. The smoke would rise in slow, winding swirls, curling toward the ceiling like a spell being cast.
She’d circle the smoke around us, eyes half-lidded, murmuring under her breath:
“Cheshm nazani…” — so the evil eye wouldn’t follow us into our dreams.
The scent was sharp and earthy, grounding. It clung to the air, to the cushions, to my pajamas. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what it meant. I just knew I felt safer. Like whatever invisible things might be lurking had been kindly shown the door.
Even now, some nights when the world feels a little too heavy, I’ll light something fragrant—not always esfand, but something earthy and warm—and whisper a quiet wish for protection, for peace, for softness.
Because rest is sacred. And sometimes, it needs to be guarded.
Stories at Dusk
And always, without fail, came the stories.
She didn’t read from books. Her stories lived in her voice, changing slightly each time like waves reshaping sand.
There was the bunny who sneaked into a field and ate all the carrots, only to be caught red-pawed by a furious farmer—but he always found a clever, mischievous way to escape. Then there was my personal favorite: the woman who somehow got stuck inside a giant squash and had to wait until sunrise to find her way home again. I never quite understood how she got in there in the first place, but I never asked.
Because the point wasn’t logic—it was rhythm, safety, familiarity.
Her voice would grow softer with each line, her stories drifting like petals until our eyes grew heavy and the endings melted into dreams.
The Art of Slowing Down
In a world that moves too fast, I find myself craving her pace.
Maman Ashi’s rituals weren’t about productivity or biohacking rest. They were about soul-level comfort. Senses engaged, body safe, heart full. She treated bedtime not as a task, but as a transition. A ceremony.
And so now, I try to recreate that feeling in my own life. Not perfectly, but lovingly.
A cup of rose tea before bed. A warm robe that feels like an embrace. The flicker of a candle, just bright enough to remind me: you’re safe here. Sometimes, I even chill a melon, juice it, and drink it slowly at twilight.
And on the best nights, I whisper old stories to myself, unfinished and half-remembered.
A Legacy of Rest
Maman Ashi didn’t call it a ritual. But it was.
A sacred wind-down, passed down in whispers and herbal steam.
A language of rest written in tea leaves, melon juice, bedtime bunnies, and protective smoke.
She taught me that winding down isn’t about sleeping.
It’s about returning.
To your breath.
To your body.
To yourself.
And so, every night, when I press pause on the world and sink into softness, I’m not just falling asleep.
I’m remembering her.
And in some small way, maybe you are too.
