Page 16 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

H— NARIN

By the River Tigris, 2014

‘ G randma, those winged giants that you said Leila saw in her youth, what happened to them?’

‘The lamassus ? They’re gone.’

‘Where?’

‘Who knows – Europe, America … Now they’re kept in big houses called museums. They’re not in their native soil any more, although one or two might still be around, so keep an eye out. But all the others were borne away – tied to rafts and boats and ferried to rich countries. So I heard from my grandmother and now you heard from me.’

The child blinks in incredulity. It is hard to know what to make of Grandma’s stories sometimes. As much as she adores the old woman, and loves listening to her, the idea of huge hybrid creatures sailing their way from Mesopotamia to America fails to convince her.

‘I know you don’t believe me, Narin, but a story is a flute through which truth breathes. And these are your family stories.’

‘I understand, Grandma.’

‘Remember, child, never look down upon anyone. You must treat everyone and everything with respect. We believe the earth is sacred. Don’t trample on it carelessly. Our people never get married in April, because that’s when the land is pregnant. You cannot dance and jump and stomp all over it. You have to treat it gently. Do not ever pollute the soil, the air or the river. That’s why I never spit on the ground. You shouldn’t do it either.’

‘What if I have to cough?’

‘Well, cough into a handkerchief and fold it away. The earth is not a receptacle for our waste matter.’

Grandma says an elderly Yazidi woman, a dear neighbour of hers, migrated with her children to Germany, where the family settled in the 1990s. The woman was puzzled and saddened when she learnt that people over there filled a bathtub with water and then sat in it to soap themselves. She could not believe that anyone would be senseless enough to plunge into clean water without having first washed themselves.

Grandma says one should also pay homage to the sun and the moon, which are celestial siblings. Every morning at dawn she goes up to the roof to salute the first light, and when she prays she faces the sun. After dark she sends a prayer to the orb of night. One must always walk the earth with wonder, for it is full of miracles yet to be witnessed. Trees you must think of not only for what they are above ground but also for what remains invisible below. Birds, rocks, tussocks and thickets of gorse, even the tiniest insects are to be treasured. But as a water-dowser, it is the Tigris that the old woman holds in the highest esteem.

Narin watches Grandma sweep out the stove as she speaks, the old woman’s slender fingers carefully collecting the ash gathered at the bottom on a tray. Ash is precious, essential for many cures. Sometimes Grandma dips a clove of garlic in the powdery residue and draws symbols on the forehead of an ailing patient. No one can touch that person until the mark completely wears off. At other times, Grandma takes a coin and bends it into a crescent. Then she drops the metal into a bowl of pellucid water, which she places under the bed of a sick person.

Numbers are important and Grandma’s favourite is seven. In order to process an emotion, be it good or bad, you must allow seven days to pass. So if you fall in love, with a lightness to your moves like the speck of pollen on the wing of a butterfly, you have to wait seven days, and, if after that period you still feel the same way, then and only then can you trust your heart. Never make a major decision unless you have spent seven days contemplating it.

If you are cross with someone, or are on the verge of breaking ties with them, once again, you must delay any reaction for seven moons. This is the only way to ensure you will not be led astray by rage or revenge. A deal ought to brew for seven days before it is sealed; a house has to be blessed in seven corners before anyone moves in. You cannot bake a loaf of bread unless the yeast has rested for seven cycles. A newborn baby must be guarded from evil spirits for seven sunrises. There are seven days in a week, seven sages walking the earth, seven regions in the human body, seven sleepers in a cave escaping persecution, seven cardinal sins for which seven doors to hell have been reserved.

Of the seven days, Wednesdays are the most propitious. That is when Grandma prepares her balms, ointments and tinctures, because, as everyone knows, Melek Taw?s descended on this venerated day, making it the most auspicious time to do good. If you have a hidden wish, something too intimate to share, you may just as well whisper it to a flowing stream, preferably on a Wednesday. The current will take care of it. Equally, if you wake up from a nightmare in the middle of the night, turn on the tap and tell it to the water. It will soothe your pounding heart, wash away your fears.

Grandma says one should be kind to every living being, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, for you can never know in what shape or form you or a loved one will be reborn.

‘Yesterday I was a river. Tomorrow, I may return as a raindrop.’

Rivers have personalities. Some calm down with age, winding ponderously across fertile plains and meadows; others become bitter, surging with rage, tumbling through steep gorges; while yet others remain agitated and confused till the end. No two rivers are alike. The Tigris is, and has always been, ‘the mad one’, ‘the swift one’. Not like its twin, the Euphrates, which, having a gentler disposition, courses at a slower pace, taking its time, absorbing its surroundings as it passes by. These two mighty currents – though both spring from the womb of the Taurus Mountains in Turkey and run parallel for most of their lengthy peregrinations until they perish together in the Persian Gulf – are strikingly dissimilar – much as two siblings can be very different, despite sharing the same parents.

‘They speak to each other, you know, the Tigris and the Euphrates. When the wind blows this way, you can hear them.’

Narin scoffs. ‘Really – can you hear them now?’

‘I can, actually,’ says the old woman, craning her neck. ‘Listen, they’re gossiping again, those two. They are very chatty. Euphrates is complaining. She says: “Why are you so restless, my Tigris? You’re tiring everyone – and yourself. Why this endless rage of yours?”’

Narin draws closer. ‘And what does Tigris say?’

‘Tigris says, “Why’re you asking, my Euphrates? Even if I were to explain, you’d never understand. You’re blessed with calmness of spirit. I’m not like you. It’s so hard to be me – it’s hard to have to fight all the time.”’

‘And how does Euphrates reply?’

‘Let me see …’ Grandma says, her head bent in concentration. For a while she listens, nodding. ‘Umm, hmm.’

‘Tell me!’

‘Oh, Euphrates says, “But you’re mistaken about me. If you only knew how difficult it is to be calm and composed. If you only knew, it takes a fierce fight inside to remain peaceful on the outside.”’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That tranquillity does not come easily.’

The child is silent for a moment, her lips compressed. ‘Which river is wiser do you think, Grandma?’

‘Well, if you promise not to mention it to our Tigris …’

‘I promise,’ Narin says instantly.

‘Good, in that case I’ll tell you. Actually, I agree with Euphrates. Better to be a gentle soul than one consumed by anger, resentment and vengeance. Anyone can wage war, but maintaining peace is a difficult thing. Because of this, I respect Euphrates more, but let’s keep it from our grumpy old Tigris, eh? No need to enrage him any further.’

Inadvertently, the child casts a quick glance in the direction of the Tigris, splashing in the background – the waves breaking on the boulders, ripples and rapids imprinting the riverbed. By contrast, when Grandma speaks again, her voice comes in such a soft whisper that the girl almost misses what she says.

‘Whether turbid or placid, in this land where the stones are ancient and the stories are spoken but rarely written down, it is the rivers that govern the days of our lives. Many kings have come and many kings have gone, and God knows most were ruthless, but here in Mesopotamia, my love, never forget the only true ruler is water.’

The room where the old woman and the girl sleep is sparsely furnished. At night they spread mattresses on the floor, unless it is very hot, in which case they go up to the roof. Two low divans sit opposite each other, piled with cushions stuffed with goat’s hair – orange, scarlet, purple. A potted ivy climbs up by the window, reaching the ceiling and creeping along the cornice.

Every evening Narin sits on the floor so that Grandma can brush and braid her hair. As the old woman applies almond oil to the child’s dark chestnut mane, she relates magical tales. She says one should never claim to know a story but merely to carry it. For that is where chiroks must be kept – cradled in the warmth of your breast, close to your beating heart.

‘Grandma … does every sickness in this world have a cure?’

‘It does, my love.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because I trust God – He would not give us a stomach ache without growing mint nearby.’

‘Then why can’t you heal me?’

The wrinkles on Grandma’s forehead deepen. ‘Just because I do not know the remedy, does not mean there is none.’

‘But you know everything.’

‘I’m half as wise and twice the fool as everyone else.’

‘That’s not true!’ exclaims Narin, appalled that anyone could say such a thing about her grandmother, even if it were the old woman herself.

‘Wisdom is a mountain capped with snow. I’ve yet to meet the person who’s given it a hug.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means no matter how much you know, there is far more that you don’t. So you must always make an effort to keep learning. Did I not tell you the story of the angel Gibra’il?’

Her hair nicely braided and oiled, Narin shakes her head. ‘You can tell me now.’

‘All right, then. In those days, in those far-off days, in olden times … there lived a famous sheikh. One morning, he woke up and declared he’d studied everything worth knowing. He’d nothing left to learn! That same afternoon the angel Gibra’il appeared to him disguised as a dervish.’

‘What’s a dervish?’

‘A humble seeker of truth,’ replies Grandma. ‘Now the dervish and the sheikh walked to the shores of the Tigris. When they reached the river, they watched a swallow swoop down, scoop up water and fly away. The dervish said to his companion, “Tell me, did the river sink any lower when the bird drank from it? Knowledge is a vast expanse of water, and you’ve managed to take in no more than the swallow’s beakful.” The sheikh understood his mistake and realized that no matter how much one knows there is a lot more one does not.’

Most of Grandma’s stories feature water – surging, searching. She says, just like two drops of rain join on a windowpane, weaving their paths slowly and steadily, an invisible thread connects those who are destined to meet.