Bibi and her husband never had any children. When she became a widow she lived by herself. Yet, she was never alone. She had made herself the grandmother of the neighborhood. She was the community cook who made ceremonial foods, like kachi for women who have either just given birth or girls who have just had their first period. She was the on-call babysitter and assistant to the midwife. If someone needed an extra hand she would only have to ask Bibi. But this was not all. Besides being a good cook, midwife assistant, and helper who could clean the entire house in no time, Bibi knew all about Persian traditional medicine. From indigestion, and lactose intolerance which in those days no one knew anything about, to taking care of minor burns and cuts with homemade ointments she had the treatment.
Bibi was the oldest daughter of a large family and was her mother’s right hand raising eight children. She had learned a great deal of knowledge and know-how from her mother and grandmother, both of them were community medicine women. In the 1960s Tehran many people no longer believed in traditional medicine. Yet, many continued to follow Bibi’s first aid. She could even handle dislocated joints if it was minor. Her specialty was women’s health. She knew about which herbs were best to ease menstruation, menopause, and postpartum, the latter completely unknown at the time in the medical profession.
Bibi’s home, like all the other aspects of her life had an open invitation for anyone to drop in, stay the night, or if need be a longer time. She never locked her front door. Not even at night. Someone was always staying with her because of some kind of health crisis, while her family would be going back and forth. The only time she locked her door was when a man was beating up on his wife. Any woman in that situation knew where to take refuge. No man dared to come to look for his wife in anger. Bibi had put an end to it when for the first and last time a man dared to bang on her door looking for his wife. Bibi had received the battered woman and locked the door to her husband. Everyone knew that when for the first time, Bibi’s house had turned into a woman’s shelter, she had come out in the yard and yelled at the misbehaved husband, and the entire neighborhood was ready to rush into her house to fight, defend and protect the battered women. Bibi was an army.
Today, thinking back, I wondered about the effectiveness of her herbal mixes, ointments, and remedies. Did they really possess such a huge healing effect or were there plenty of placebos? Everything Bibi offered worked and was soothing. Perhaps their effectiveness was partly because she always complimented her remedies with stories about how wonderful they were. In those days when advertising was a small industry Bibi knew how to sell alternative and preventive healthcare on demand. She charged people just enough to finance her modest living. If she received more than her modest need she would give it away and have helped many charities.
On top of all her hands-on skills, Bibi was the very person younger women run to ask for advice -seeking her pearl of wisdom. She was indispensable.
Who was this woman who everyone loved and treated as their own mother? What was herstory. How did she become a widow? It was difficult to imagine Bibi who was now in her sixties might have one day been someone different. It was hard to think of her as a young woman who cared about her hair, or what she wore and she had a man in her life. It was ineffable to see her as a woman who only wore something other than what was handed down to her. Bibi was once young of course but did she ever wear something new, or something to please a man’s eye? Bibi only used henna on her nails and hair and that was all she did for her appearance.
In those days, as a teenager, I was curious about her life. I kept insisting to hear her story and one day she gave in. She told me the story of her husband.
“It happened on a morning like today.” She started.
Then she swallowed her saliva and sighs deeply and continued.
“We had been married for a few years. He was older than me and we did not have a child. But we felt having a child would not bring something missing in our lives. I suppose in today’s language we were in love with each other. We took joy in the simplicity of our lives and thought if we wanted a child and I could not conceive, we could always adopt one. So many children need to be in a loving family. “
Bibi took a sip of her marshmallow, borage, and dried lime tea, her favorite, and continued.
“ I asked him to rush and buy a freshly baked nan for breakfast before the bakery would be closed. When he returned it was still warm and some of the sprinkled sesame seeds were falling on the carpet. I was preparing an omelet with spinach, freshly chopped and fried tomatoes added to fried onion and garlic with small cubes of feta cheese. Our favorite brunch for the weekend. Then he told me that he was feeling a little tired and was going to rest. I turned off the stove and followed him. Soon after he lay on the bed it looked like he had fallen asleep, but he was not just sleeping, he had gone into a coma.”
As she told the story of her beloved husband, her usual smile faded. Bibi’s eyes always shined except when she told me how her husband never recovered from the coma and died two days later. I gave her a big hug. Oh, Bibi, I am so sorry. I wanted to say but something was stopping me. She was not someone to feel sorry for, Bibi was a fighter and a winner.
Today and several decades later, I realize Bibi had a great deal of love in her life. She had a large family, who adored her and cared for her. She had a neighborhood of daughters and grandchildren. I have forgotten all about her recipes for remedies, ointments, and herbal mixes. I only remember her stories or rather how I felt when I heard one of her stories. She was the best storyteller. Her stories like her own life story were filled with beauty, love, and healing. Memories of her stories keep her alive in my heart. To this very day, I crave her soothing stories.
Bibi is alive in my heart. She was the best storyteller I have come to know. As a child, I loved her fairytales, which took me to places I had not been. As I grew older, I kept wondering about my longing for her. Is it because we live in a different world where older people try to hide their age? A world in which growing old is something to be ashamed of? Is it because I need her pearl of wisdom? Is it because just like everyone else I need stories from those who have seen life and are able to put a happy spin on the currents of events? Or all of the above?
I crave her stories, just like when I was a little girl. I have a deep yearning for her stories, reminiscent of the time I used to put my head on her knees while she stroked my hair narrating them. The older I get the more I need her stories. I need her stories about how snakes and dragons die or are killed and life becomes happy ever after.
Bibi’s storytelling was a flying carpet, picking up the listener, and taking her to another place where there is nothing but peace, serenity, and tranquility. Stories that carry the listener through storms to a safe place. Stories that show hurricanes that come out of nowhere pass as quickly as they have appeared. That after every hurricane we pick ourselves up and life goes on.
Now that I am writing my own life story, I wish I could tell her that she has been my inspiration. It was she who taught me that stories, heal our wounds deep as they may be, they disperse our fears, worries, and hardships. Stories can ground us so that we can feel safe. I wish I could share with her like her I want to tell stories that pick up the reader and take her/him to the sky to see that we may only see the clouds but over and above them the sun is shining every day.
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