The Korsi
When I was a young girl homes were not were not heated with radiators and air conditioners, instead we had potbellied stoves that heated our rooms with kerosene in winter and electric fans to cool us in summer. In winter there was a man who filled the stoves once or twice a day, depending on the weather. Each morning he would climb up to our third-floor apartment carrying two containers filled kerosene several times. Up and down he went until he had filled all the stoves in our ten-room apartment.
As I read what I write, I did not realize what a back breaking job that must have been. That’s all he did, from morning till night; he filled up all the stoves in all rooms in all the apartments in the various buildings in our neighborhood. Thinking of that I suddenly realize what dismal life he must have led, yet he was a cheerful soul. Sometimes he hummed some old Persian songs as he went about his day. But this story is not about him. It’s about Maryam Barbari and Ma’asoomeh, the cook. We will call her Ma’asoomeh, for I forget her name.
Maryam Barbari managed running the house. She had a pleasant disposition, always calm, with a heart-shaped face and a tattooed blue dot between her eyebrows. Her hennaed hair was covered with a large square of white fabric securely fastened with a large safety pin underneath her chin.
Ma’asoomeh and Maryam Barbari shared a room and a bathroom in the same part of the house as the kitchen and the storage room, preferring thick mattresses over beds. In winter, they had a square low table underneath which a brazier using charcoal embers warmed the korsi, surrounded by mattresses on all four sides with bolsters and pillows, creating a warm and cozy space. Our parents did not allow us to visit their room, but when my parents were out, we would sneak in to listen to their enchanting stories filled with djinnies, witches, and wolves.
Maryam Barbari’s knitting talents intrigued us, creating intricate designs on socks or sweaters without patterns, using stunning colors. Despite the scratchy wool causing discomfort, we admired her skill. We lived in trusting innocence, believing in the magic of good fairies triumphing over evil. Sometimes, Mama’s luncheons brought treats of oranges, nuts, or pomegranates.
As I return to the present, enveloped in classical music, memories of the korsi nights and the magic of youth flood my mind, fading like a dream in the quiet chilly night.