Bibi and Hadi as a married couple.
5
A Giant Broken
The End of the Ottomans
(1917–1918)
AS BIBI EMBARKED on married life in early 1917, Mesopotamia had been at war for three gruelling years. The British forces were slowly but steadily advancing along the Tigris, creeping ever nearer to Baghdad, yet people still struggled on with their lives in the areas that remained under Ottoman control. In Kazimiya, the war manifested itself predominantly in the continued influx of refugees from southern towns, where many of the battles between the Ottomans and the British raged. In these turbulent days, there were more refugees in Kazimiya than there were visitors to the town’s famous shrine.
While Hadi continued to work for the military in Baghdad, Bibi busied herself with setting up her new home. The novelty of marriage overwhelmed her at first, as she adapted to her new family and surroundings. She tried to accustom herself to her new role as a wife; she was the ward of her husband, even if he was out of the house all day, and she had to behave accordingly, giving him and his family the respect that was due them. From sharing a room with Hadi to waiting up for him if he came home late, she had to get used to life in this large house, which was composed of several annexes. Each was effectively a set of living quarters for a different section of the Chalabi family. This represented a great change from her mother’s house, which was smaller and was occupied only by her mother’s little household.
As elaborate as the most intricate Persian carpet, the Chalabi household was patterned by its many different personalities. There was Bibi’s dour grandmother-in-law Khadja, who had not forgotten Bibi’s ‘eavesdropping’ episode and who consequently scrutinized her every move; her parents-in-law Abdul Hussein and his meek wife Jamila, and their five children; as well as her uncle-in-law Abdul Ghani and his family.
Bibi missed her mother’s house. She had become used to a smaller household since her father had died, one that was organized and quiet, and in which a great deal of emphasis was placed on food and its presentation. By contrast, the Chalabi household was a bustling hive of activities and disparate demands.
She also missed her former independence terribly, and realized that she had failed fully to appreciate it while living under her mother’s roof. She was now answerable in all things to people who were scarcely more than strangers. Such were the customs by which a young wife was bound. Khadja ranked above all the other women in the household, and never let anyone forget it. These were the customs for everyone, but Bibi loathed them.
Unlike Rumia’s sheltered home, the Chalabis’ was an open house. Abdul Hussein still ran an active dawakhana, receiving guests daily, and Bibi disliked the commotion this caused, especially as custom dictated that she and the other women had to stay out of the sight of men to whom they weren’t related. She often found herself secluded in the andaroun, the private quarters shared by all the family.
The visitors to the dawakhana often loudly aired their grievances about the declining state of Baghdad in the war, or were otherwise boisterous. At first, Bibi was more irritated than impressed by the social prominence of her father-in-law, and responded to his status by glorifying her own father’s house and her mother’s impeccable management of it, initially to herself. She conveniently forgot all of her criticisms and any discomfort she had felt while living there.
A more pressing concern was the cuisine of the Chalabi household. The kitchen catered for many people, and the cooks didn’t have the refinement or talent of Rumia and her staff. Such was Bibi’s longing for her mother’s cooking that she arranged for Rumia to send food to her secretly. Saeeda would visit with bundles hidden under her long black abaya so as not to offend the in-laws.
Although Rumia liked Hadi and was happy for her daughter, she found the Chalabis’ lifestyle too chaotic for her liking. She worried about Bibi becoming lost in such a crowded house. Shaking her head, she would complain to Saeeda, ‘I don’t like to speak ill about people, but that house is so busy, there are so many people coming in and out, and their food, my dear … well, it might do for an army, but it’s certainly not tasty.’ On the other side of town, Bibi ate her secret supplies with relish and wistfully nursed her sense of loss.
Bibi was very aware that her entire raison d’être now was to produce an heir quickly. It was expected of her, as it was expected of every married woman. Until Bibi was able to fulfil her part of the bargain by falling pregnant, preferably with a son, her insecurities and fears of failure overshadowed all else. If she could not produce a child, she feared that Hadi might divorce her and find someone else to marry. She was less concerned that he might take a second wife, as polygamy, although lawful, was frowned upon in his family.
Despite her worries, the issue of motherhood was not a subject Bibi felt comfortable discussing with anyone else in the household; she had not known any of the women long enough to engage in such an intimate conversation with them. But her obsession with conceiving was like a sore tooth that she couldn’t leave alone, a wound she was forever probing. She would immerse herself in dark thoughts, praying to every conceivable saint and visiting the Kazimiya shrine regularly, pleading with the Imam to grant her wish. She imagined bringing shame on herself and her mother, becoming socially ostracized. Barren, barren, barren.
She was disturbed when one evening Jamila told her the tale of Hadi’s dead aunt Burhan, the Nawab’s first wife. Shaking her head at the awfulness of it all, Jamila explained that Burhan had died young from an infection; apparently her illness had been caused by an infertility remedy prescribed by a backstreet quack.
On a visit to her mother’s house Bibi gave vent to her worries. Saeeda had to calm her down, holding her when she started to hyperventilate. ‘You must be patient, my child,’ Saeeda said softly. ‘You mustn’t do this to yourself. Have faith in God; you will become pregnant.’
Bibi groaned in despair and would not be comforted, so Saeeda suggested that they visit Imam Musa at the shrine again. Saeeda firmly believed that he was the granter of all wishes. Bibi was less sure; the Imam hadn’t listened to her prayers so far, even though she was his relative. As one of the Ahl-ul Bayt, she was a descendant of the Prophet and the twelve Shi’a Imams she prayed to.
Saeeda tried another approach. She suggested that Bibi go to Samarra, to the malwiya, the spiral tower at the Great Mosque, where she should climb all the way to the top. Then she should make her wish and throw her abaya to the ground below. ‘Like Fahima did, and she was pregnant soon after,’ Saeeda said confidently.
Bibi burst into tears. It was impossible for her to go to Samarra; if she did the Chalabi family would surely guess her predicament, and she would never recover from the shame. Even so, she spent many sleepless nights debating the pros and cons of such a trip, before finally deciding against it.
In spite of her anguish at not conceiving a child and her reservations about her new home, a warm relationship began to develop between Bibi and her husband’s family, who came to view her very fondly.
She developed a particular bond with her father-in-law. Rather than shy away from him like the young bride she was, Bibi engaged Abdul Hussein in conversation, finding in him an attentive ear to her stories and questions. She was hungry to learn about the world outside, and he indulged her curiosity. With her humour and quick wit, she soon gained a place in his heart and he embraced her as one of his daughters. Just as he had bought his daughters shares in the Kazimiya Tramway company that he now chaired, he bought Bibi some too, so fond of her had he become. At the time, shares were an unusual asset compared to land, which both men and women could inherit or own.
Hungry for paternal affection, Bibi became very attached to Abdul Hussein, and enjoyed his company tremendously.