The Korsi
When I was a young girl, homes 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 with 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 neighbourhood. Thinking of that, I suddenly realize what a dismal life he must have led, yet he was a cheerful soul. As he went about his day, he hummed old Persian tunes. He was always cheerful, sometimes humming old Persian songs. But this story is not about him. It’s about Maryam Barbari and her cook. We will call her Ma’asoomeh, for I forget her name. Maryam Barbari managed the running of the house. She had a pleasant disposition. She was always calm. Her face was heart-shaped with a blue dot tattooed between her eyebrows. Her hennaed hair was covered with a large square of white fabric, firmly secured 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. They did not sleep on beds like we do, but preferred thick mattresses that they spread upon the tiled floor. I loved that room in winter, for instead of having a potbellied stove like we did, they had a square, low table underneath which a brazier used charcoal embers to warm the korsi. On top of that was spread a huge quilt. The korsi was surrounded by mattresses on all four sides with bolsters and pillows. It was warm and cozy. Our parents did not allow us to go to their room, but while the cat is away, the mice are at play. When my parents were out in the evenings, we would quickly scamper into their room and snuggle next to them. We begged them to tell us stories. The Brothers Grimm’s stories did not compare to theirs. Their stories were filled with djinnies, witches, and wolves with huge, long, sharp teeth, but the fairies always triumphed over their evil deeds in the end. Lying underneath the warmth of the korsi, by the time the stories were done, we were either quite drowsy or fast asleep. One of them would have gone to our rooms earlier and slipped hot water bottles between our blankets. Sometimes, in the early evening when we were either sleeping or drowsy, they would carry us to bed and gently tuck us in. We felt safe. We felt loved. We would sleep deeply until morning.
Maryam Barbari was a great knitter. As she told her stories, her fingers flew as she created the most elaborate designs in socks or sweaters. She and Mama insisted that we wear them, but we were always reluctant to do so. The woollen yarn she used was so terribly scratchy and irritating to our tender young skin that we came up with any and every excuse not to wear them, but they were beautiful. I was fascinated by how intricate the designs were. She did not use any patterns, and the colours were stunning. What talent she had!
I look back to those times and wonder at our trusting innocence. We never thought that anything would ever harm us, except perhaps for the djinnies, the witches, and the wolves, but the fereshtehs, the good fairies, would win the day. If they were unable to do so, an adult would open a closet door and firmly order them in. Then they would firmly close the door on them. By morning, by some magic, they would have miraculously vanished into thin air!
Sometimes, on a cold winter afternoon, Mama would be invited to a luncheon. That was another treat, for once more, we snuggled underneath the korsi. After having our lunch with Maryam Barbari and Ma’asoomeh, we snuggled underneath the covers of the korsi, nibbling on oranges or nuts or seeded pomegranates. What a treat that was. I smile as I think back on those times.
I return to the present. It is a quiet, chilly night. I shiver slightly and wrap myself more snugly in my dressing gown and wrap a blanket around my feet. I listen to my soothing classical music and remember those fleeting, innocent days of my youth, those ethereal days that have flown by like a dream.