In Kazimiya, the courtyard of the shrine was the first port of call for anyone wanting to find out the business of the day, from crop prices to political intrigues, to the state of the river. It was, therefore, an indispensable meeting place for any influential man in the town. As with the other shrine cities of Mesopotamia, there was a strong Persian influence in Kazimiya, and the beauty of the shrine owed much to the piety of the Iranian and Indian Shi’a, whose financial and artistic contributions had flowed into it through the ages. Unlike other Shi’a shrines in Mesopotamia, Kazimiya’s boasted four golden minarets on the outer side of the larger square complex that contained it, and two golden domes. They gave a dramatic dressing to the building, dominating the skyline.
The shrine housed the bodies of Imam Musa Ibn Ja’afar, the seventh Imam, and of his grandson Muhammad Jawad, the ninth Imam, who were direct descendants of the Prophet through his daughter Fatima. The seventh Imam had lived during the golden age of Baghdad, before being poisoned by the Caliph, Harun al-Rashid, the notorious figure mentioned in the Thousand and One Nights.
Abdul Hussein and Sattar entered the shrine through the silver-gilded main gate, the Bab al-Qibla, which opened onto a vast white square courtyard. Immediately they veered right under the arcaded, turquoise-and-yellow-tiled gallery. They were recognized by one of the many children who virtually lived at the shrine, and the boys dashed over to them, tugging at their robes. It was well known that Abdul Hussein always carried numihilu, lemon-flavoured sweets. He didn’t disappoint them, but reached deep into his pockets and gave each child a sweet. They tended to know better than his adult friends inside what the news of the day was, and they never hesitated to repeat what they had heard that morning.
In turn, Abdul Hussein took pleasure in gently scolding them. ‘You again? I thought I told you to go to school, ya razil, you rascal! What will loafing about here with your friends do for you when you grow up?’ He would hold up his hands in mock horror. ‘Yalla, don’t come back to me for a sweet if you don’t go to school!’ Part of him knew such chastisement was futile. These children had no compass in life. It wasn’t their fault – their parents were no better – and there weren’t enough schools in the locality to take on all these children.
Leaving the clamouring children in their wake, Abdul Hussein and Sattar crossed the courtyard. The shrine was half-empty. It was late morning, and the seminary students who occupied several of the alcoves in the arcade galleries were sitting, legs crossed, listening to their teachers. Their black and white turbans, indicating their lineage, or lack thereof, to the Prophet, moved up and down as they looked from their books to their teacher and back again.
Abdul Hussein’s friend the Kelidar, the shrine’s hereditary overseer, was standing with a group of men near the main entrance to the tomb room. Several old ladies in thin black abayas were seated nearby on the tiled floor. They leaned against the outer wall of the tomb room, chatting. Against the yellow brick, the patterned tiles shone turquoise, white and navy in the sun.
Before he could join the Kelidar Abdul Hussein felt his attention drawn to a well-dressed older man sitting alone in a corner, weeping. Puzzled by this distressing sight, he walked towards the man. ‘Assalamu alaikum – peace be upon you, my friend,’ he said courteously.
‘Wa alaikum assalam – and upon you,’ the man replied, brushing tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand.
‘Khair, what is the matter with you? Why are you crying?’
‘What can I tell you, ammi? Life has dealt me a cruel blow,’ the man said, pulling himself upright. He cleared his throat and explained: ‘God blessed me with a good fortune and I decided to divide it between my three sons. And now their mother has died and they don’t want to see me. I go to my eldest son and he barely offers me tea, the second one is always travelling and the third one is too scared of his wife, who doesn’t like me.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I’ve always been a good Muslim, praying, fasting and giving alms – and I can’t believe this has happened to me. I’ve been left all alone. What kind of children are these?’ he asked in despair.
Abdul Hussein nodded gravely. ‘Don’t worry, my friend; there is a solution for everything.’ He promised to discuss the matter further with him once he had concluded his business with the Kelidar. Politely, he took his leave and crossed the courtyard.
‘Hadji, good that God brought you!’ the Kelidar exclaimed. The two men greeted each other warmly. ‘And how is the child?’ the Kelidar asked. Earlier that week Abdul Hussein’s son Hadi had given refuge to a little lost soul who had been haunting the shrine. The small boy had been found sitting in a corner of the shrine, crying and refusing all offers of help, even turning away a glass of water. But Hadi had broken through the boy’s misery, established that his name was Ni’mati, and offered him a place to stay under his father’s roof. Abdul Hussein assured the Kelidar that the child was settling in well.
‘That’s wonderful news, I can’t thank you enough!’ The Kelidar then proceeded to business. He explained that the town was organizing a welcoming committee to accept the gift of some new carpets which were arriving from Iran the following week, having been purchased through the Oudh Bequest. The result of a complex diplomatic agreement, the Oudh Bequest involved the political authorities of the Indian Raj and the Shi’a religious powers of Mesopotamia, and benefited the shrines in the region with regular improvements and maintenance. However, the mayor of Kazimiya had fallen out with the Nawab family, the Indian Shi’a notables who were in charge of administrating the bequest. One of them, Agha Muhammad Nawab, was Abdul Hussein’s brother-in-law, and the Kelidar hoped that Abdul Hussein could smooth the way for the ceremony.
For Abdul Hussein the request was a godsend; it meant that he could safely ignore the many other matters that the Kelidar hoped to raise with him, on the pretext of hastening to undertake this vital errand. He brushed his moustache with his thumb and index fingers, and said, ‘Zain – fine. I’ll undertake this without further delay.’ He excused himself and made his exit from the shrine, sending Sattar home ahead of him to prepare the landau for the short journey to the Nawab’s house. Following on Sattar’s heels as fast as he could, he huffed his way through the heat to the stables next to the house. ‘Bring me some water, quickly!’ he called out into the courtyard.
His son Hadi’s new friend, Ni’mati, came out carrying an engraved copper pitcher of water and a matching copper cup on a tray. Abdul Hussein smiled at the boy and rested his fez on one knee while he mopped the sweat from his brow. Then he drank deeply while his carriage was readied. Refreshed, he took his place on the left-hand side of the carriage seat. Accompanied by the steadfast Sattar, who never left his side outside the house, Abdul Hussein was soon on his way.
The palatial home of Agha Muhammad Nawab, Abdul Hussein’s brother-in-law, lay outside Kazimiya, south towards Baghdad. Abdul Hussein liked to take the picturesque route to it that ran closest to the river. There was one field in particular that he adored because of its wheat and reed sheafs, which stood nearly as tall as him. Their golden hue when the sun shone upon them was one of his favourite colours, and a momentary sadness always surfaced in him when the time came to cut them down.
The carriage drew up in front of the house and Abdul Hussein dismounted. Standing placidly in the waters of the rectangular pool was the new addition to the estate: a life-size stone statue of a deer. Abdul Hussein clapped his hands and repeated ‘Ayaba, ayaba’ in admiration as he walked back and forth around the pool, studying the stag from all angles.
Some of the garden staff and stable boys drifted over to watch, amused by his uncustomary excitement. They explained to him that the deer had arrived yesterday as a surprise gift for their master’s wife. Praising it, Abdul Hussein supposed that the Nawab had bought the statue to remind him of Hyderabad; there, deer hunting was a noble sport often portrayed in exquisite Mughal miniatures. In giving Munira the stag as a gift, the Nawab was also bringing a little of his home country to Baghdad.
A gardener told him that the stone deer had made the journey in a large wooden crate, travelling from Bombay