Grandma started her day with a glass of water. If she drank her morning water at room temperature, she was up for a long session of makeup. I knew how to feast on her face. If she turned the samavar’s tap to warm up her water, she would keep taking long sights and had no energy to tell stories.
Her final day at our house after my mother fought with her, was my last opportunity to ask for a long story. My father had agreed to send his mother to my aunt. Instead of spending mornings with grandma, I was to be sent to school,
“Grandma, will you tell me a long story today?”
“Yes, dear.” her voice trembled and she took a sip of her tea and sighted.
I sat on her lap and she held my hand with her arthritic shaking hands.
The story she picked was that of Shahrbanu; the City Queen. The City Queen was the daughter of the last Persian Empire. When the Arabs invaded Persia, the king fled thinking he would not lose his empire to an army of nomads from the Arabian Peninsula. He was wrong, the Arabs took over and brought Islam. The king was murdered and the Empire crumbled. The City Queen, her beautiful daughter, was captured by the Arabs. The army chief sent her on a caravan to their Sultan as a slave. The City Queen ended up in the court of the Sultan as a slave. When the Prophet’s grandson saw her, he said to the Sultan:
“Great Sultan, thou shall not humiliate the noblities of the captured people.”
The Sultan thought deep and replied:
“Come forth, what is your name?”
“I am the City Queen, the Queen of all Queens.”
The Sultan shook his head and paused again.
“Thou are free to choose a man for yourself from my court to marry.”
The City Queen walked as she had always walked in her palace toward the Prophet’s grandson, Hussine Ibn Ali. Then she lifted her delicate hand like a princess who she was, placing it on the Prophet’s grandson’s shoulder.
The two married one another. The City Queen stayed with her husband. Her life for the time being was safe. A few years later, when her husband rebelled against the Sultan's injustice, the City Queen’s life once again was in peril. She stayed with her husband during all the wars. In his last battle, in Karbala, her husband and his army were vastly outnumbered by that of the Sultan. The couple knew this was a lost battle and he would die. On the night before the battle they had to say farewell.
“I’ll never be a slave again.” The City Queen told her husband. Their love was eternal but they both knew that was the last night of their life together.
The next morning, the City Queen in her tent prayed and held her hands up asking for a savior. During her prayer, her husband’s horse appeared outside their tent and shreeked. The City Queen knew her husband must have been dead now and his horse was there to save her. She jumped on the horse which had wings and feathers. They flew. The City Queen asked the horse to take her to Iran, her country. They traveled close to the Palace that once belonged to the Persian Empire. Close to the city, her horse landed next to a high mountain and took the City Queen up on the rocky road to the mountaintop. The Sultan’s army still followed them. On the way to the top, there stood a huge rock, making it impossible for the horse to climb. The City Queen was caught between the mountain’s rock and the enemy.
Grandma took my hand and brought it close to her heart. I had been frozen for the last few minutes.
The City Queen raised her hand to the sky to say Ya Ho (Oh, God save me) but she panicked and said Ya Ko (Oh, Mountain save me.) After that twist of tongue the large stone and the mountain broke into half, she entered with her horse. Immediately after, the mountain closed itself to the enemy. Her scarf was where the large stonewall had cracked open and closed.
“Grandma, a mountain never opens. This isn't a true story you are telling me.”
“Of course it’s true. If you don’t believe me, you should go and see for yourself the remains of her scarf. Many people, especially women, go on a pilgrimage to visit her shrine and see that piece of scarf.”
“Can I touch it if I go.”
“Of course, you can. ““You know, we all have guardian angels.” She whispered as she pressed me to herself.
“You must remember this story, this story has gone from chest to chest, from grandmas to granddaughters.”
She then stroked my hair and kissed me.
“I entrust you to your guardian angel. Like the City Queen, may you be protected, may the Queen of Queens watch over you.”
Little did I know this would be the last story I would hear from grandma. I would never see her again.
Years passed and I never fact checked grandma’s last story. In hard times, I too have wished for the mountains to open and take me in and remember the story of the CIty Queen. Especially since I learnt that the story of the City Queen had been an ancient legend. The City Queen was a Zoroastrian Goddess and her name was Anahita. Anahita, had another name; Queen of the sacred river. Among the ancient Persian, Anahita, the divinity of “the waters”, the source of fertility, healing and wisdom. I have a painting in my room of a lotus; a symbol of the City Queen. In the holy book of Zarathustra, the City Queen was the source of waters which flowed forth upon the earth.
As years passed and my life journey took me through times that I needed a horse with wings to rescue me, there is a sweet spot in my heart for the magic of my grandma’s stories.I feel her warm hands stroking my hair, as I curl under her arms, cuddling my favorite dull, I become the City Queen and ride on a horse with wings that takes me to the place I belong.
Comments