Last Saturday, 19 April, was our twentieth wedding anniversary. Long ago we had decided to buy new wedding bands to commemorate the anniversary, so last Monday we went to the Grand Bazaar of Tehran to look for a pair of simple wedding bands.
The Grand Bazaar of Tehran is a warren of covered narrow alleys developed over the years into a maze. I only know two entrances and can come out the same way, but those who work there seem to know it like the back of their hand. In the middle there is a mosque, formerly known as the Shah’s mosque, with the gems bazaar and a jewellers’ alley nearby. This gem bazaar is my favourite destination and a pole of attraction for foreign tourists, who come here in search of agate and turquoise rings, gem worry beads, antique silver jewellery and small decorative items made of lapis lazuli and other semi-precious stones.
Similar traders are grouped together in the alleys: once when I went in search of black fabric, I managed to end up in an alley selling only black chador fabrics. The quality and the price range was simply amazing: I never thought there would be so much variety in what seems to be, simply, a black covering.
So Hossein and I went into the underground main gold bazaar, specialising in wedding rings, second hand jewellery and gold coins (we came across an Elizabeth II gold sovereign, retailing at about £170 at today’s prices). The current fashion in wedding rings is white gold with little diamonds for both men and women. Row after row of shops displayed a variety of this theme: a mix of shiny and matt gold, some D-shaped, some rounded squares, some angular, but almost all of them set with diamonds. But no simple wedding bands anywhere.
We came out of the underground bazaar and went into the alley next to the gems bazaar. Same thing all along. We were beginning to consider buying silver rings, when I saw exactly what we were after. We went in. The amazing thing was that there were two identical rings in their tray and they were both in exactly our sizes, as if they were waiting for us.
We paid for them and came into the gems bazaar in search of an engraver’s stall. While he sat down to work engraving our names and the date of our wedding, the old man next to him offered us some peanuts. I declined the offer, but in true Iranian fashion, he insisted so much that I took the peanuts, not because I felt like eating them, but because I didn’t feel like refusing anymore (that happens to me a lot).
We then walked off in the direction of the alley selling small electrical appliances, munching on the peanuts. As Hossein was looking at a twin tea-maker, I coughed once, tried to swallow something that I felt was stuck in my throat and felt that I couldn’t draw breath. I was so short of breath I couldn’t tell Hossein what was happening. I panicked, not knowing what to do. I fanned myself with my hand; closed my eyes, which filled up with tears at the precariousness of life, tried to calm myself. Hossein found a stool. I sat down and bent my body forward. After several deep breaths, the discomfort eased, but I wasn’t comfortable until late at night.
As I lay in bed that night trying to sleep, I remembered what Seneca called his frequent asthma attacks: Meditatio Mortis, a rehearsal of death. At least when death comes for real, I will know what to do: nothing.