Melahat took me upstairs. The central staircase curved around and away from the landing. On the first floor there was another hall and on the right a door into an enormous turquoise-carpeted room that looked as if it belonged in a palace. They called this exquisite place the ‘mirror room’. Today I can look at pictures of the Sa’ad Abad Palace (the home of Qajar monarchs and 20th century shahs) with its sparkling, mirror-lined pillars, walls and ceilings, and its glistening chandeliers, and I am taken back to this room at Golnar’s house. The contrast with the complete lack of decoration in my own house could not have been greater.
Melahat and I became friends and explored the expanse of the property together. Apart from the main house there were at least three other buildings separated by acres of formal garden. The gardens at the back of the property were so distant from the house that I felt a little scared being down there. They were truly secret gardens. Nearby was the bathhouse – a smaller but more luxurious version of the public bathhouses around the city. Melahat told me it was hardly ever used as they had baths inside. There were two pools closer to the main house. One, at the rear, was a formal pond with a large fountain in its centre. The other was deeper and intended for swimming. I later heard that Golnar lost one of her children to drowning in this pool. It was near another building, oval in shape, which was where Melahat and her siblings had their rooms. One of my most vivid memories of this building was of the bathrooms, which smelt rich with the fragrance of soaps and perfumes. It was due to these that much of the surrounding opulence existed: Golnar’s husband, Hadi, had built a fortune in the manufacture of luxury toiletries, eau de Cologne and after-shave. Before bed every night we would clean our faces using various lotions and lots of cotton balls. The cotton balls always ended up black!
Over the years we visited Golnar and her family a number of times. We were also invited to weddings, of which there were quite a few as Hadi and Golnar had seven daughters. Sometimes Melahat insisted that I stay overnight, which I did but only ever for a night or two. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to stay, but I didn’t want to impose myself. My mother always said that we shouldn’t touch things, make a nuisance of ourselves or eat too much. I felt shy about eating their delicious pastries, even though they had an endless supply and probably would not have noticed – but what if they did notice and criticised me? For the same reason I always allowed Melahat to take the lead in how we spent our time – going through her wardrobes or wandering the grounds or visiting the kitchen or another room or building. I later realised that Shahin was doing the same thing: she always allowed Golnar to take the lead and always agreed with whatever she or any of her sisters said.
On calm evenings garden furniture would be set outside, near one of the pools, and we would all eat, drink and talk. The only noise was of chatter, bird calls and cascading water; there was none of the ever-present clamour of the city at home. The atmosphere was of generosity, wealth and openness. I was always surprised at how often Melahat and her siblings answered their mother back, though their father Hadi always had the last word. We knew we were not at this family’s level of society – not anywhere near it – but they never made us feel ‘lower’ than them and we did not feel inferior in any way. In any case I eventually realised that intellectually at least we were on a par. The conversation was always about family issues or travel; I don’t remember anyone talking about politics or ‘big issues’. Golnar’s children may have looked smart, always being dressed à la mode, but they were, in general, empty-headed. And they weren’t any more ‘free’ than we were. When we were older, Melahat always had to argue with her parents if she wanted to go out. (Her younger sister Arezoo found a way around this: she would wear a headscarf and present herself as religious, thus gaining her parents’ trust and more readily getting permission to go out. They had no idea what she got up to, including meeting up with my brother Mansoor.) Despite the wealth, there were no more books in this mansion than there were in our house, that is to say, none but the obligatory copy of Hafez. That hardly counted as every home in Iran had one of those, used for ‘opening a faal’: opening to a random page with anticipation about what it would mean.
Sometimes at the end of staying over with Melahat, I would be taken home in one of Hadi and Golnar’s two Cadillacs. One was jet black; the other, my favourite, was a metallic pistachio-green. To ride in these cars was to glide through the streets of Tehran in virtual silence – such a contrast with the bouncing and shaking of my father’s cars. I felt like royalty, and as we drove there were many stares from ‘ordinary’ people in the streets.
My abiding memory of Golnar is of a generous, warm-hearted, fair-minded lady who was always caring and always willing to help when needed. She ran a very efficient household, always attended family functions, including those of her ‘poorer’ relatives, and often did things to help those less well off, including paying a monthly allowance to her step-sister Alam-Taj for over 20 years. Golnar (and her sisters) never showed any sign of looking ‘down’ on their less well-off relatives. Indeed, later when I was studying for a diploma, she would use me as an example to her own daughters, none of whom gained much education.
My mother, likewise, never showed any level of resentment at how well this branch of the family lived compared with her mother or herself. Theirs was a very different life, but to covet or begrudge them for it was not the Persian way and not something that would ever have crossed Shahin’s mind. She was proud of her aunties, and I grew up sharing that pride.
~
Shahin was 13 or 14 years old when Alam-Taj and Abol-Ghasem had a visit from Laya and her third husband Aboo, neighbours from their time in Ghal-e. Laya had decided to find a wife for her eldest son Asghar, then 20 or 21, and remembered Shahin’s family as quiet and Shahin as a good-natured young girl. Shahin’s mother was a bit shocked. ‘But she is not ready,’ she said, by which she meant that Shahin had not yet had her first period. She also worried – though she did not share this – that they did not have enough money to prepare for a wedding, including buying the traditionally expected household gifts which would enable the new couple to set up house. Although Alam-Taj was poor, she still held on to the expectations of her wealthy background and felt ashamed not to be able to meet them. In the end Laya suggested that they wait one year, which was agreed.
Over the next 12 months Alam-Taj did her best to prepare Shahin’s ‘glory box’. Laya visited her and Shahin on a number of occasions, each time contributing a pair of seamed American stockings, beige in colour. Also collected were a samovar, a tea set, two bowls, a set of plates, a large serving dish, a cooking pot. There was a complete set of bedding, a bath set, a wash bowl, a set of curtains and a suitcase, two pairs of shoes, two sets of clothes, a chador, a manteau (a long, loose coat with long sleeves), a night gown, two petticoats, two sets of underwear and one lipstick. That lipstick would last at least 20 years! Her aunt Golnar also helped, providing toiletries, a bath set, two boxes of make-up, a pair of gold earrings and a large chest for the storage of clothes. She also gave Alam-Taj a beautiful oil lamp of bronze and green crystal with a marble base. Worth around 25 toman it would be the most expensive item in Shahin’s home. Golnar made it clear that she did not approve of the match, especially as Asghar, an apprentice tradesman at the time, was only earning five toman per day. However, Laya and Aboo guaranteed that Shahin would never want for food and clothing, while Abol-Ghasem said that it was really none of Golnar’s business. Alam-Taj became more and more worried as time went on, and her seizures more frequent as a result; she knew that when Shahin married she would effectively become Laya’s daughter and Alam-Taj would rarely see her again.
Shahin was only just 15 when she married Asghar, who was by now 22. She was a shy young girl – certainly not yet a woman. When she moved in with Asghar she took her toys – knitted dolls and a tea set – and continued to play with them when she could. She told me once that for 12 months she could not look into Asghar’s eyes. Their wedding exemplified th
e strange dichotomy of Shahin’s world: they were married in her aunt Farzaneh’s house – which was on Eisa Khan’s enormous property – in front of a small group of family. They then celebrated with traditional dishes of rice, khoresh gheymeh, fruits such as apple and pear, tiny cucumbers, traditional biscuits and pastries. A small group of women played the violin, tar (a plucked string instrument) and zarb (small drum), while another woman danced. They played well-known songs like ‘Gol-Pari Joon’, which means ‘Dear Gol-Pari’; in the song a man asks Gol-Pari to marry him but she says no, so he sings again and again. It is a lovely, rhythmic song still played at Persian functions today. Laya, as the mother of the groom, paid 300 toman for all of this, including the hire of the wedding dress and the purchase of two simple gold wedding bands worth 20 toman each. Also hired were the ayneh va shamdan, a set including a mirror with crystal candlesticks on either side, something seen at every Persian wedding. Laya saved some money by not hiring gloves, which Farzaneh said were not necessary, claiming her niece’s hands were ‘so beautiful they do not need gloves’. (This was true: Shahin was always proud of her flawless hands.) My mother never forgot that there were no coloured lights decorating the venue, as was normally the case at an Iranian wedding, the lights being an indicator of the happiness in the air. Perhaps Laya’s budget didn’t extend this far. Early in the evening, as was the tradition, Abol-Ghasem placed Shahin’s hand into Asghar’s and then Shahin’s parents went home.
My mother told me that for most of her wedding day she had no idea what was going on. On her wedding night she had even less idea. The females at the wedding placed a cloth on the marital bed. The following morning the cloth was displayed to prove the bride’s loss of virginity, bringing much chirping from a few local women and relatives who came to congratulate and celebrate. One person who was left out of this scene was Nahid. Though she was an aunt of Shahin, being one year younger it was felt she was too young to witness such an event. After two days of welcoming visitors, Asghar, Laya and Aboo returned to work and Asghar’s two younger brothers went to school. Shahin spent her third day as a wife alone, cleaning, cooking abghost (a working class stew of meat, potatoes and chickpeas), and washing blankets, quilts and heavy clothing by hand.
My parents were so young that neither had any idea what married life was supposed to involve. When Laya told Asghar that he should give her an allowance to help with living expenses, he complained that he was only earning five toman and could not afford to. After that, Laya told him that if he just bought their bread and meat she would provide all the other groceries they needed. This set a pattern. From that point on Shahin relied on Laya for household supplies while Asghar spent nearly all his wages on himself or saved them. To the outsider, it could easily have appeared that Shahin’s joining the family had given Laya a new daughter rather than Asghar a wife. Shahin remembered only one time when she and Asghar went out together, to the cinema, after which Laya locked them out of their yard. Asghar was forced to jump over the gate so that they could get in and go to bed. ‘A man who takes his wife to the cinema is not good,’ Laya scolded her son. ‘You have done a bad thing.’
Shahin spent her days doing housework for both herself and Laya. Apart from cooking and cleaning, one of her jobs was to prepare a mangal, a small barbecue of hot coals, on which Aboo would heat his opium. In the mornings she also prepared their samovah. Her only real recreation was to read the Tehran Mosavar magazine – the equivalent of one of today’s women’s magazines.
Aboo had an Andrea wireless radio and one day Shahin woke to the sound of it blaring out Shir khoda, a traditional Persian song with a prominent drum beat. Worried that it would wake the neighbours as well, she went into Aboo’s room and turned the radio down. Then she started her morning chores including making tea for Aboo. Aboo came out of his room after a short time and, without saying anything, made to go straight out.
‘Where are you going?’ said Laya.
‘What does your daughter-in-law think she is doing touching my radio?’ he said.
‘Ah, it is nothing,’ said Laya. ‘What does it matter to you, you big man?’
On hearing this Shahin was horrified and ashamed that she had offended Aboo. She retreated to her bed where she cried and cried. It wasn’t my business. It wasn’t my business. Why did I touch the radio? she said to herself over and over. It would not be the last time she admonished herself for having to apologise for her actions.
About two years after their marriage, when Shahin’s first child, Malihe, was starting to walk, Laya and Asghar again argued over expenses. Shahin and Asghar then got their own single-room house opposite Laya. Their room measured two by three metres and, like all the other houses in Ghal-e, it had no electricity or running water; they used a toilet shared with seven other similar ‘homes’, including Laya’s. For a time Laya did not speak to them – Shahin remembered her telling little Malihe to go back to her own home – though this did not last. Laya always loved Shahin and each of her children.
~
Shahin’s father Abol-Ghasem died when he was only 40 years old. By this time, he had given up cooking and hairdressing at the hospital and was working at a tea house. One day he became sick, after which he didn’t go to work for a week and then suddenly passed away. Shahin remembered her great-aunt Robabeh (the sister of Alam-Taj’s mother) coming to Ghal-e to tell her the news.
After this Alam-Taj was left alone. Her son had gone away, having joined the navy; her daughter was married and had effectively become the daughter of another woman, Laya. Her fears were realised as she rarely saw her daughter any more. If Shahin did come to visit, it was only very brief as the walk to and from Ghal-e took too long – she had housework to attend to at home and would not let that suffer for her own benefit. And she always felt a strong pull of loyalty back to her new family.
In poor health and with no income, Alam-Taj was again taken into the care of her aunt Robabeh. By now Robabeh was no longer living her previously well-off existence. When her husband had died, she had effectively been penalised for not having had any children of her own. Inadvertently, her husband had failed to transfer the title of their house to her before he died, which left her at the whim of the inheritance laws. These did not allow a wife to take over her husband’s property so, as she had no children, the house was passed on to her husband’s brother. All she inherited were some belongings and 6000 toman. She invested this amount and received a monthly income of 100 toman, with which she provided for both herself and her niece. There was also a small amount of money that my mother’s aunt Golnar gave Shahin every month to pass on to Alam-Taj (though sometimes Shahin kept this money for her own family). Another amount came from Alam-Taj’s son Abdollah. But in total their income was meagre.
Eventually Robabeh and Alam-Taj moved to Mashhad in the far east of Iran. While my mother saw Alam-Taj only rarely in Tehran, she saw her even less often after this move – she always felt that she let her mother down in this regard. We never fully understood why they moved so far away. It could have been for religious reasons, given the religious significance of the city, but neither of the women had ever been particularly devout. More likely is that Robabeh, being a proud woman from a substantial family, did not wish to be seen living a hand-to-mouth existence. The two women had great respect and love for each other – while bickering often – and lived out their days in a single room with almost no belongings, conditions a long way from where either of them had started.
4
Accepted destinies
Attitudes towards education were changing by the early 1960s and I was blessed with a full education as a result. It started with preschool when I was five years old. Laya or Shahin – never my father – would walk the half-hour journey with me. I’d be carrying an enamelled lunch box set with rice in one half and khoresh – a casserole – in the other. It was a small kindergarten with perhaps 20 children and we spent most of our time playing in the yard or doing typical preschool activities like painting.
My mother was determined that I would not start school late as she had, so the next year I was immediately enrolled in primary school. I was a shy and timid child, and have few memories of that time. I do remember singing a song, on my own, to the whole school. The song was a conversation between two parrots and was greeted with lots of applause by the students and teachers, and many calls for me to sing it again. I ended up singing the song over and over, perhaps ten times.
Perhaps motivated by trying to run his taxi business, my father also went to school at around this time. He took some adult education classes in the evenings to learn some basic literacy and numeracy. I remember him laboriously writing words onto a sheet of paper as my mother dictated simple sentences.
Towards the end of my primary school years we moved to a bigger house. This was my mother’s idea; she argued that our rooms in the Takht-e Tavoos house were overcrowded now that my two younger brothers and younger sister and I were all growing up. My father sold his share of the house to his brother and bought a larger two-storey house on a block about two kilometres away in the suburb of Yusef Abad. The new house was on the street surrounding one of Tehran’s many underground water reservoirs or manb-e abb; the reservoir was covered and the surface used as a grassed reserve, with trees around the boundary.
After buying the house my father was in debt, so there was very little left to spend on making the new house comfortable. Initially, with no heating, it was like a concrete icebox in winter. My father stayed with his mother and brother at the old house while my mother and siblings and I huddled around the korsi – a low, rug-covered table with a coal-fired heater at its centre. The idea is to sit on a cushion with your legs under the table absorbing the warmth. (More modern korsi use electric heaters.) It’s strange that we never saw the cold as a burden; it was just something that was there. We bore it without even realising that there was anything to bear. Once, when Mansoor, then seven years old, became very ill, we went back to the warmer Takht-e Tavoos house for a few days. Otherwise, as the Persian saying goes, ‘We carried the load without even bending our eyebrows’. This notion seems difficult to understand from a comfortable 21st century Western perspective.
Scattered Pearls Page 4