Efraim is honestly one of my favourite characters to write and think about from TCM.
From the start I wanted Efraim to be more than just an overbearing, ambitious, intimidating father. This conversation was meant to showcase his personality: his academic seriousness sometimes tempered by a private goofiness, the generous pride for his children’s achievements, and ultimately, his priority for his children’s well-being, which just happens to manifest as tiger parenting.
This scene is where Efraim speaks the most, so for 2026, I updated his dialogue to have a more academic tone.
↓ Transcript
Efraim coughs. His steel-blue eyes flutter momentarily. “Have you studied today?”
Before Zeynel could reply with an honest and obedient “No…”
“I would like you to read a hadith, to be recited to me tomorrow.” Efraim looks at his son, with gentle firmness. Kind, but serious. “You mustn’t slack simply because of our travels.”
Zeynel passes his baby brother from his arms to his sister, Zahra. “Yes, baba.”
Zeynel leaves the room without disturbing a single soul or object, failing to notice that Ayse, witness to this interaction, is now bringing her father's attention to it.
--
An hour later, Selim scratches the edge of his white beard on his cheek. He asks his daughter, “You think this will work?”
They glance behind the curtain into the parlour. Efraim is alone, seated on the floor by the table, pouring through a recently-borrowed book from the local madrasah.
Ayse whispers at Selim, “Yes, I do!” She puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him into the parlour. “Go, go, go!”
Selim takes a moment to think. He is amused at how quickly Ayse has changed her mind about Zeynel, the boy whom he adored at first sight. When she told him of Zeynel’s budding potential as a carpet merchant, and that she wanted to help him realise that potential, Selim has no doubt. Zeynel has proven his ability to speak well and make others feel at ease in his presence. Paired with his intelligence, Selim could easily see Zeynel as a successful merchant, holding his own with the elite and the poor alike. An advantage in a city like Istanbul. An equal worthy of his darling daughter.
There is one thing Selim has not told Ayse, which he has no plans to amend. It is this: he has a hunch. The hunch began when he saw them meet for the first time, and never left Selim since. The task that Ayse has requested of him in Zeynel’s favour, he now believes is simply one of his divine duties. It isn’t often that he would personally meddle with God’s matchmaking, but if it is going to be happening in his house, he is going to do whatever it takes to smoothen it.
With a theatrical flourish, he approaches his old friend in the parlour, and greets him with a voice full of charming grandiosity. “Salaam, ulema!” Selim winks.
Efraim looks up from his book, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips, and scoffs. “Oh, Selim! Don’t tease. Sit, sit!” Efraim waves his friend to join him on the floor. “No need for the formalities. I’m still the same old ‘Raim you threw oranges at. Remember that?”
Selim laughs. “Oranges? I thought they were apples.”
Selim sits near Efraim. He inspects the astronomer’s visage. Efraim is greying, and his figure has whittled down into a middle age carved by frequent travel and intense studying. His already-harsh angles, of his nose, his cheeks, shoulders, wrists and all, now seem harsher. But those grey-blue eyes (which none of his children have) still possess a kind of magnetism, which has not abided in age. Those eyes, earlier in serious thought, now glitter in boyhood joy.
Selim leans in. “Enjoyed your stay so far?”
Efraim replies, fingers steepled in pleasure, “Yes, indeed. I absolutely love this town. And even more so, your home.”
Selim smiles. “We are glad you and your family are here with us, old friend. Speaking of which…” Selim moves closer. “Can I speak to you about your son?”
At the mention of Zeynel, Efraim is proud. “Ah, masallah. I'm pleased my Memo was of help to your big sale.”
Selim scratches his beard. “So am I. Ayse tells me he enjoyed the experience. It gave him a chance to, you know, open up, chat…”
Efraim wonders where this conversation is going, but he continues, tapping his steepled fingers together gently. “Mmm, yes. Zeynel always had a gift for speaking and entertaining, even as a child. That is why we made him Hafiz. Best in class, too.”
Selim nods. “Masallah, he’s a good boy. But… pardon me if I impose - I’m wondering if you'd be keen on him exploring the world of business? With all due respect, have you considered letting him try other things... on his own?"
Before Zeynel could reply with an honest and obedient “No…”
“I would like you to read a hadith, to be recited to me tomorrow.” Efraim looks at his son, with gentle firmness. Kind, but serious. “You mustn’t slack simply because of our travels.”
Zeynel passes his baby brother from his arms to his sister, Zahra. “Yes, baba.”
Zeynel leaves the room without disturbing a single soul or object, failing to notice that Ayse, witness to this interaction, is now bringing her father's attention to it.
--
An hour later, Selim scratches the edge of his white beard on his cheek. He asks his daughter, “You think this will work?”
They glance behind the curtain into the parlour. Efraim is alone, seated on the floor by the table, pouring through a recently-borrowed book from the local madrasah.
Ayse whispers at Selim, “Yes, I do!” She puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him into the parlour. “Go, go, go!”
Selim takes a moment to think. He is amused at how quickly Ayse has changed her mind about Zeynel, the boy whom he adored at first sight. When she told him of Zeynel’s budding potential as a carpet merchant, and that she wanted to help him realise that potential, Selim has no doubt. Zeynel has proven his ability to speak well and make others feel at ease in his presence. Paired with his intelligence, Selim could easily see Zeynel as a successful merchant, holding his own with the elite and the poor alike. An advantage in a city like Istanbul. An equal worthy of his darling daughter.
There is one thing Selim has not told Ayse, which he has no plans to amend. It is this: he has a hunch. The hunch began when he saw them meet for the first time, and never left Selim since. The task that Ayse has requested of him in Zeynel’s favour, he now believes is simply one of his divine duties. It isn’t often that he would personally meddle with God’s matchmaking, but if it is going to be happening in his house, he is going to do whatever it takes to smoothen it.
With a theatrical flourish, he approaches his old friend in the parlour, and greets him with a voice full of charming grandiosity. “Salaam, ulema!” Selim winks.
Efraim looks up from his book, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips, and scoffs. “Oh, Selim! Don’t tease. Sit, sit!” Efraim waves his friend to join him on the floor. “No need for the formalities. I’m still the same old ‘Raim you threw oranges at. Remember that?”
Selim laughs. “Oranges? I thought they were apples.”
Selim sits near Efraim. He inspects the astronomer’s visage. Efraim is greying, and his figure has whittled down into a middle age carved by frequent travel and intense studying. His already-harsh angles, of his nose, his cheeks, shoulders, wrists and all, now seem harsher. But those grey-blue eyes (which none of his children have) still possess a kind of magnetism, which has not abided in age. Those eyes, earlier in serious thought, now glitter in boyhood joy.
Selim leans in. “Enjoyed your stay so far?”
Efraim replies, fingers steepled in pleasure, “Yes, indeed. I absolutely love this town. And even more so, your home.”
Selim smiles. “We are glad you and your family are here with us, old friend. Speaking of which…” Selim moves closer. “Can I speak to you about your son?”
At the mention of Zeynel, Efraim is proud. “Ah, masallah. I'm pleased my Memo was of help to your big sale.”
Selim scratches his beard. “So am I. Ayse tells me he enjoyed the experience. It gave him a chance to, you know, open up, chat…”
Efraim wonders where this conversation is going, but he continues, tapping his steepled fingers together gently. “Mmm, yes. Zeynel always had a gift for speaking and entertaining, even as a child. That is why we made him Hafiz. Best in class, too.”
Selim nods. “Masallah, he’s a good boy. But… pardon me if I impose - I’m wondering if you'd be keen on him exploring the world of business? With all due respect, have you considered letting him try other things... on his own?"
