Monar Jomban (part 2 of 4)

Day two in Esfahan – we are back to the Imam Square to look around at a more leisurely pace. Nothing probably captures the feudal grandeur of Persia more than this square built for public gatherings, enormous in proportions – 500 metres by 256 metres, flanked by two of the most beautiful mosques of the world on two adjacent sides – the Mosque Lotfullah and the Imam Mosque, a magnificent palace on the third side and an imposing gateway on the fourth. Bazar-e-Bozorg (The Big Bazaar) runs all along the four sides of the square. The blue copper work of the perfect domes of the mosques set against the blue cloudless sky above, the sun reflected gloriously against their intricate meena work, can anything more magnificent be created by mortals? There is a small water body in the middle of the square – lined with lilies, a pack of white long-necked swans were washing themselves in the water with graceful languorous movements, oblivious of the morning bustle of tourists and the bazaar. The Bazar-e-bozorg is a veritable Alice in Wonderland – clutch on to your dollars and tomans and enter this magical world. A narrow covered alley with small shops on both sides, their wares hanging out in display – and what profusion of colours, every conceivable combination of pattern on sheets and dresses, delicate filigree work on gold and silver, stone studded jewellery, handicrafts from ancient Persia and wares recently brought from China, fruits and dry fruits, copper work and stone wares, it goes on for miles. You do come across an occasional book shop too – full of coffee table books on Iran. Every few hundred metres there are Bastani shops – ice cream parlours, the ice creams are all ice and sugar and no cream, but the Iranians – men, women and children of all ages, down them in voracious quantities. And then there are the carpet shops. I have read somewhere that dreams are woven into the Persian carpets and I see them in reality in display in Esfahan. Carpets to fit into every parlour, – whether it is for the Shah’s palace or just a rug for the hearth in front of the fire place. We have been already told with disdain of the machine made carpets, “Allah ought not to make any man so poor that he cannot afford a small hand made carpet”. But here in Bazar-Bozorg, we are informed that all the carpets sold are handmade, the shops need to have a government license certifying the same. One does not understand the carpets at the first glance, it seems all dazzle and colour, but slowly as you look closely beyond the constant chatter of the carpet seller – the beauty of these wonderful handicrafts seeps in. The intricate stitches, the delicate design the innate warmth and the lavishness of imagination with which the modest ones also seem invested is breathtaking – even to an uninformed onlooker. But it is not in our first leisurely stroll around the square that we meet the carpet seller. No – we actually meet him in a sweet shop, we were out to buy Gaz (the traditional sweet of these parts, a delicate white chocolate made with sugar and eggs and some other mysterious ingredients), and we were directed to this 100 year old Gaz factory at the Western entrance of the square. There we meet the carpet seller – he helps us choosing the right variety and it is so good that we buy four boxes of it. We are impressed with his English and he has time on his hand – it is the time for the ubiquitous afternoon siesta. The bustle of the morning activity has quietened completely in preparation, as we discover later, for the evening’s joie de vivre.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” he asks.

“No, I mean, are you sure it would not be too much trouble?” I say, all the while eyeing Kabeer who is really very tired and needs to rest.

“I can offer tea anytime – as they say here, my kettle is always boiling” he answers, “Do step in, this way.”

His shop is right next door and we have passed by it earlier – we remember because there was a very unusual man huddled on the steps. He had huge hunch on his back, big ugly boils all over the body and stumps instead of limbs – fingers attached to the shoulder, every once in a while he would grunt an animal sound. Kabeer was fascinated the last time he had seen him, but though he had looked questioningly at us he had not asked anything. It was different when he was younger everything was a curiosity to be explored, but I have noticed that since he has grown older he has learnt not to ask uncomfortable questions. Probably that is what growing up does to you; it makes you indifferent to ugly sights like the begging child or the ill-clad woman you come across so frequently in all public places in India. But this time around he wants to know more about this man and he asks me in a stage whisper loud enough for the carpet seller to hear.

“Oh! This man – he was born this way, he does not have a family, and nobody in the Bazaar wants him anywhere near their shop, so I let him stay on my steps.”

The shop we discover is a 10 feet X 10 feet room full with carpets – there are carpets on the wall, on the shelves, on the door and the windows and on the ceiling and the floor too. Every time the carpet seller is near any particular piece he would let his hand slide along its surface gently – like caressing one’s pet Cheshire cat. He does seem to have a unique bond with these wonderful creations. Around 40 years old, in a powder blue shirt and dark trousers he looks so like an Indian, actually no, he looks so like an Indian settled in the USA. Not the first generation Indians with firm determination and grim demeanour, striving hard to belong to the ‘land of their dreams’ as soon as possible, while trying harder to obliterate any traces of their native roots – accent, lifestyle and the works. No he looks like the second or the third generation settlers – unhurried, laid back, confident and mildly curious about everything including their distant roots, overall very poised and much more likeable than the ones described earlier. I had to know and so I ask simply, “do you have any Indian blood?”

He laughs – a beautiful laugh with the laughter slowly reaching right up to his twinkling eyes, “Yes, I think I do have some Indian blood from my mother’s side, but I am really a mixed breed, I may even have some Red Indian blood somewhere along the line, who knows, only I feel I am a global citizen and I am an Iranian by choice – I love to live in Iran and I am passionate about my carpets.

His young assistant who all this while is busy getting the tea ready, came up with tray of sparkling tea in dainty cups – the carpet seller sure seems to have taste and the money to indulge in it. The cups go around and I notice that one cup is also put next to the misshapen man on the steps. The assistant pour out some of the golden liquid on to the saucer – the man makes this curious slurping sound as he greedily licks the tea. Kabeer who is revived by this opportunity to rest his legs awhile, eats with gusto the luscious dates that came along with the tea. The tea is good and its warmth slowly seeps in to our tired bodies.

“Tell us about the carpets – we have been seeing them since the morning, but do educate us about them – we may not be able to afford any but would love to know more about them – they are so beautiful.”

“Do not apologise – I do not care if I sell even a single of them, I just love them so much that I would want to be near them always, were I penniless – which I am not, I would have been a shop assistant to a carpet seller, I would have even settled for being in the position of my friend on the steps. And I believe not everything beautiful need be possessed, beauty is for admiration first and foremost – respect for the creator and awe for the creation. Come let me show you my collection.”

He keeps down his cup on the tray and continues, “There are two kinds of hand-woven carpets – the pre-designed ones which have a set pattern, premeditated to its minutest detail. The weaver is handed over the pattern and design along with the wool and the silk, and the craftsmen and craftswomen weave the carpet on the premises of the owner – like a job any other job. They are faultless work of art but capture nothing of the weavers’ mood – only the unparalleled skill. They are usually bought new, and the patterns are meticulously worked out by a team of experts with the foremost concern for the taste of the patrons – it changes every season. They reflect more of Europe and America than of Iran.”

All the while he is showing us specimens of the type. After unhurriedly finishing the last sip, his assistant also joins him to lay out the exquisite pieces. Spread out one over the other – carpets of varied colours and patterns, this season’s favourite seems to be geometrical patterns and patterns of flowers and birds, set of against light muted colours like beige, peach and cream as the background and contrasted with brown, crimson and maroon. And they are beautiful – each one of them.

He pauses for a while and then dramatically continues. We observe that the assistant has already started to stack the carpets away in neat piles, again making place in the centre of the shop – the usual space for displaying the carpets.

“And then there are the other kind – they are the nomadic carpets. Iran has several hundreds of nomadic tribe who have steadfastly resisted all attempts to integrate them to the urban economy, in spite of all the money and all the oil and Inshallah! Let them remain so. These tribes of Mashad and Kashan, Tabriz and Yazd, Hamadan and Quom, they roam the desert and the unfriendly terrain of our land with their animals – sheep, camels and horses. The tribal women are probably the most fascinating and the most hardworking people that I have ever come across – and I have seen the world, believe me. While the men are away with the dogs and the sheep these women set the tents, stitch the clothes and the sheets, fetch the water, collect sticks for the kitchen fire and some extra for the winter to keep the cold away. They cook the food, make the pickles and nurse the young and tend to the old. And then, when they have some time after all the chores they weave. They weave in a group in festivity and they also weave singly toying over some private grief. It often takes months to complete a carpet. There are no pre-worked out designs on which these women work – it is all in their head and the mood of the weaver may change with the passing season, and hence they are never faultless. They are matchless though, every single one of them, they are matchless because of these very flaws. The flaws of the carpets capture the mood of the weavers – elation and grief, ecstasy and anguish, they capture the expected and the unexpected, and they capture the time. After over months of nurturing the lifeless wool, the carpets that evolve are something ethereal, magical, alive almost, they are not material anymore. I try to find the story behind every single piece.”

We are bewitched, we have spent the whole morning admiring these works of art without really understanding them, even this brief acquaintance make us realise their worth.

“But what do the tribes use them for – is it for sale?”

“No! Oh No! The tribes make them for their own personal use – they use it for the floor of their temporary settlements or as a rug for the horseback, a bed for the infant near the fire and so on and so forth. Some of these are 30, 40, 50 and even 100 years old. Though I do not keep the really old ones in the shop – they are too expensive.”

“And how do you acquire them for the shop?”

“I track the tribes, every once in a while they come near a town for provisions – salt, sugar, needle and such like. I get a mobile message and I immediately rush. I stay with them awhile, build up their confidence in me – they are fiercely protective about dealing with strangers. One has to approach the whole transaction with tact, unhurriedly. I spend around three months every year with them – some tribes I have known for long and they trust me and they contact me themselves whenever they want to have any exchange with the market. I have associations that go back for decades.”

We are fascinated. What a wonderful story – these breathtaking carpets seem to come up alive because of the carpet seller words. They surely are priceless – worth every cent of their exorbitant prices. But how much of these dollars go back to the tribe, I wonder aloud.

“Oh! Rest assured on that count – they are savvy, they have become so over the years. They have learnt to negotiate and they know the prices these carpets fetch. Actually many of them have mobiles and are so to say ‘connected’.”

I have this imagery of a shepherd, skinny-dipping in a cold mountain stream while working out a deal on his mobile. Somehow it seems to break the spell woven so far by the carpet seller.

“And yet you say they prefer their hard uncertain lives?” I ask.

“Yes they do. The desert is where their heart is – they would not give it up for the world – when I go there I too live like them. That lifestyle – this being one with nature instead of continuously resisting it, purifies you. I have the same feeling when I go to Tibet – I go there every two years, as part of an international delegation to protest against the Chinese occupation. I do not believe in Allah or any other form of God – but I believe in a sublime supreme spirit, and I am always in search of it.”

This is a huge departure from our hitherto discussions with any Iranian in Iran. The carpet-seller actually said that he does not believe in ‘Allah’ and I have to know more.

“I am so surprised to hear you say so freely of your belief. We are atheist ourselves and in our country we proclaim this in public, but I was told Iran was different.” (I hope his assistant understands less than what his congenial expression betrayed.) “Aren’t you bothered that you can be politically persecuted?”

“No, I am not – I am very well-connected here, my family is one of the oldest in Esfahan. I am a world citizen though – and I have a Belgian wife – she is Christian, a confirmed Catholic and everybody knows. In Iran you have to have connections and then the clergy lets you be. I take care not to opine on the local issues and they leave me alone.”

I am intrigued, but decide to probe no further, I am not sure that I should, instead I ask, “Where is your wife?”

“She is in Belgium – she is in the ministry of external affairs.”

“And so you live apart?”

“I do go there every year for a few months.”

“So when do you sell carpets? When are you in Esfahan?”

“I am here only for four months of the year – only the international tourist season, starting somewhere now. I met Elsa here three summers ago – she was here with her stepmother and a friend – and she got very unwell. Food poisoning after she had food in a kababi. I took care of her and then went over to Belgium a few months down to meet her. We married last year in Belgium.”

“And this year is she coming down?”

“No we have decided not to meet in Iran. We are going to Bangalore this year to be with a German friend who is starting a big centre for the visually impaired in India. Did you know there were …… million (I forget the exact figures, and who needs to be exact while talking about the deprived in India, any estimate is an underestimate) visually impaired children in India?”

I do not, and I am not thinking of them either. I am getting an assessment of another kind of Iranian – the global Iranians. Some of them like our friend the carpet seller of Esfahan are lucky to bypass all the local intrigues and turmoil. They belong everywhere and hence nowhere – they are as much at home in the nomadic tent as in the Claridge’s in Paris or is it the Hilton’s? And of course many of them, like our friend, are very likeable individuals. But the most distinguishing feature, common to all of them, probably is the fact, that all of them have money, in dollars and pounds and marks and francs, to support their extreme mobility and completely apolitical charity. For them are not the dictates of the ‘Mullahs’, or, that of George Bush, either. And they are temporally mobile too – from the antiquity to the most modern they traverse with ease – and yet they are happy if the world remained in some kind of an elongated time capsule – each period frozen to their context. They actually romanticise about it. They do not see the world divided; the economic disparity to them just reflect the individual choices, which could be readjusted if necessary by individuals like him who have access to all the different worlds – the Tibetans and the nomadic tribes, blind children in India, a Belgian wife and the Imam Square of Esfahan. They buy the carpets from the deserts of Iran and travel with their wares a thousand miles and a thousand years to the capitals of the world – Paris, London, Geneva and Brussels. And they do the backward journey too traversing all those miles and all those centuries bringing back cellular phones to the solitary woman weaving carpet into the desert evening. The sun is setting she needs to check with the husband when would he be back with the sheep – he needs his broth boiling hot. She puts down her needle and picks up her mobile –‘hopefully husband has not switched it of’. Somehow the imagery seems grotesquely funny – this criss-crossing in time across millennia.

Time for another round of tea – the man huddled outside is grunting again, he probably wants tea too. Slowly the Square is coming alive - the horses are tied back to the carriages all spruced up for joy rides, and the pool fountains are dancing again and fathers, mothers and children – infants, toddlers and in their teens, all in their colourful best fill up the vast open space – with laughter and joy. Soon I know the – the lights would be on, several thousand light bulbs, everything would lit up –the mosques, the square and the shops. We are ready to say goodbye.