Senejan strangers never knocked on your door to ask for your daughter’s hand. Marriages were arranged by matchmakers – older women who set up meetings between the groom and the family of the bride. These visits usually took place on cold winter evenings.
Some families did without a matchmaker. In that case the women in the family donned their chadors, the men put on their hats and the group set off to pay a surprise visit to a family with an eligible daughter. Families with unmarried daughters didn’t want to be caught off-guard by an unexpected knock, so they made sure they were always ready to receive visitors.
Such evenings were filled with long conversations about gold and carpets, the basic ingredients of the bride’s dowry and about the house, plot of land or sum of money that the groom would have to give his bride if the marriage foundered.
After the men reached an agreement, it was the women’s turn to talk. They discussed the bridal clothes and the jewellery to be presented to the bride during the ceremony. Wristwatches were currently a novelty at the bazaar in Senejan, so every bride was dying to have one.
On cold winter evenings, when the lights shone in the neighbours’ windows longer than usual, you knew that they were conducting marriage negotiations. Their living rooms were warm, and their windows steamed up from the hookahs. But those same winter evenings were a torment to the many families with an eligible daughter but no likelihood of a groom.
In the house of the mosque the imam’s daughter, Sadiq, was old enough to marry.
The family waited in silence. Perhaps someone would knock, perhaps the phone would ring. But winter was nearly over, and there hadn’t been a single suitor.
Finding a suitable husband for the daughters of the house wasn’t easy. Not just anyone could ask for their hands in marriage. Ordinary girls had enough young men to choose from: carpenters, bricklayers, bakers, junior civil servants, schoolmasters or railway employees. But such men were not suitable for the daughters of the house of the mosque.
The shah’s regime was corrupt, so anyone who worked for the government was automatically excluded. What about secondary school teachers? That was a possibility. But when all was said and done, only the sons of prominent merchants were considered suitable.
With winter almost over, the girls who hadn’t received a marriage proposal knew they’d have to wait another year. Luckily, however, life doesn’t always follow tradition, but carves out a path of its own. And so one evening there was a knock on the door.
‘Who’s there?’ asked Shahbal, the son of Muezzin.
‘Me,’ called a self-confident male voice from the other side of the door.
Shahbal opened the door and saw a young imam in a striking black turban standing in the yellow glow of the streetlight. He wore his turban at a jaunty angle and smelled of roses. His long dark imam robe was so new that this was obviously the first time he’d worn it.
‘Good evening to you,’ said the young imam.
‘Good evening,’ Shahbal replied.
‘My name is Mohammad Khalkhal,’ said the imam.
‘Pleased to meet you. How can I be of help?’
‘I’d like to speak to Imam Alsaberi, if I may.’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s late. He doesn’t receive visitors at this hour. You can see him tomorrow morning in the mosque.’
‘But I wish to speak to him now.’
‘May I ask what it’s about? Perhaps I can be of assistance.’
‘I’d like to talk to him about his daughter Sadiq. I’ve come to ask for her hand in marriage.’
Shahbal’s jaw dropped. For a moment he was too stunned to reply. Then he collected himself and said, ‘In that case you need to speak to Aqa Jaan. I’ll tell him you’re here.’
‘I’ll wait,’ the imam said.
Shahbal left the door ajar and went into Aqa Jaan’s study, where his uncle was busy writing. ‘There’s a young imam at the door. He says he’s come to ask for the hand of Sadiq.’
‘He’s at the door?’
‘Yes. He says he’d like to speak to Alsaberi.’
‘Do I know him?’
‘I don’t think so. He’s obviously not from around here. And he’s not your average imam either. He smells of roses.’
‘Send him in,’ Aqa Jaan said as he put away his papers and stood up.
Shahbal went back to the door. ‘You may come in,’ he said to the imam, and he led him into Aqa Jaan’s study.
‘Good evening. My name is Mohammad Khalkhal,’ the imam said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
‘No, not at all. Welcome! Do sit down,’ Aqa Jaan said as he shook the imam’s hand.
Aqa Jaan noticed that Khalkhal was indeed different. He liked the fact that, like the imams in his own family, the young man was wearing a black turban, since that meant that he too was a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad.
Aqa Jaan had in his possession the family’s oldest genealogical document: a parchment scroll tracing the male line all the way back to Muhammad. It was stored in a special chest in the treasure room beneath the mosque, along with a ring that had once belonged to the holy Imam Ali.
‘Would you like some tea?’
A while later Golbanu came in with a tea tray and a plate of dates and handed them to Shahbal. He poured the tea and placed the dates in front of Khalkhal, then turned to go.
‘There’s no need for you to leave,’ his uncle told him, so Shahbal took a seat in the corner.
Khalkhal popped a date into his mouth and sipped his tea. Then he cleared his throat and came straight to the point: ‘I’ve come to ask for the hand of Imam Alsaberi’s daughter.’
Aqa Jaan, who had been about to take a sip, put down his glass of tea and glanced over at Shahbal. He hadn’t expected the subject to be broached so abruptly, not to mention that a man didn’t usually come on his own to ask for a girl’s hand. Tradition demanded that the father of the groom did the talking. But Aqa Jaan was used to dealing with all kinds of people, so he replied in an even voice, ‘You’re welcome to my home, but may I ask where you live and what you do for a living?’
‘I live in Qom and I’ve just completed my training as an imam.’
‘Who was your supervisor?’
‘The great Ayatollah Almakki.’
‘Almakki?’ Aqa Jaan said in surprise. ‘I’ve had the honour of making his acquaintance.’
When he heard the name Almakki, Aqa Jaan knew that the young imam was part of the revolutionary anti-shah movement. The name Almakki was virtually synonymous with the underground religious opposition to the shah. Though many of the young imams who studied under Almakki shunned politics, anyone who had been trained by
