My am’mah has often told me that back in 1940’s Iraq, when women would get married, they would turn into furniture. Some women would become a little bit more like a lamp, and glow in the dark. Other women’s bones would become a little more wooden, like a chair. Some women’s hands would become cooking spoons, and they could paddle their children’s behinds in the same moment as they stirred some stew.

Like lamps, tables, vases, and chairs, they had little say in when and how they would be moved or given away. Most Iraqi girls were married off as soon as there was a spot of dark red between their legs. But at the time, my grandmother was almost fourteen years old and still was not married— even though her body had bloomed like an orchid two years earlier. She looked very different from other Iraqi girls. Her hair was as red as a pepper, and her eyes, green as a dark oak leaf.

My grandmother’s father— my great-grandfather— bought wholesale fabric to resell at retail prices. He flew back and forth on a magic carpet from Basra to Baghdad for business. One day while in Baghdad, he stood on a cabbage cart and asked if anyone knew of a man who was looking for a wife. Someone shouted that they knew of a fiddler who was in his forties and bald. “Bald,” my am’mah said as she recounted the story, “Not even a memory of hair.” What was even worse, my am’mah recounted, was that he had a turnip growing from the top of his head. Everyone called him Turnip Man, and he played the fiddle so beautifully that birds would gather around him and sit on his shoulders to sing to the sound. An hour after my great-grandfather had first heard of the fiddler, he heard him play. “Too bad you have a turnip growing from your head,” he said, “or you would be more known for your fiddle playing. You can marry my daughter. No dowry.”

The fiddler bowed his vegetable head and told my great-grandfather that marrying his beautiful daughter would be more than enough. They shook hands and the marriage was arranged.

When my great-grandfather returned home, his wife anticipated hearing about a young and rich groom for their daughter. When she heard that he was an old fiddler with a turnip growing from his head, she was as silent as a cup. When my grandmother heard that her future husband was a bald fiddler with a turnip growing from his head, she wept and wept. Her siblings teased her. “Turnip-lover!” they said, “Turnip-lover! Maybe you will turn into a vegetable basket!” No amount of crying swayed her mother, who was practically a cabinet at this point.

The day finally came for my grandmother’s engagement ceremony. Her mother gave her a dress that was too big and it hung from her body like loose, white flags. Her mother fetched a piece of rope and tied it around her waist as a belt. News spread through the city as if it was a fairytale come to life. “The redhead is marrying the Turnip Head!” they all said, “I wonder if their children will grow beets from their ears!”

Soon, people went in and out of my grandmother’s house in swarms to congratulate the family, and to get a good look at the bride-to-be before she turned into a lamp or a vase. My grandmother’s aunt scoffed at my grandmother’s loose dress and rope: she brought her a dress that was weaved with wildflowers and tied strands of gold into my grandmother’s long, red hair. She smeared thick eyeliner on the tops of her eyelids. At this point, my grandmother was so beautiful that the law of gravity had untethered from her. She floated in the air, holding onto the old rope that was tied around her waist before. Now, it was tied to a table. She held on fearfully, wishing for the first time in her life that she was uglier.

Eventually, word spread all the way to the office of a young man who would eventually become my grandfather. At the time, he was in love with a woman who lived in Egypt. They mailed each other love letters and baklava in sealed, paper envelopes. By the time it arrived, the letter would be soaked in sweet syrup and crumbs. Still, he had heard the rumor that my grandmother was so beautiful, she floated in the air like a fiery cloud. He decided to see her for himself.

My grandfather arrived at the house and was welcomed in for tea. When he saw my grandmother, his heart rushed like the Euphrates. At the time, to claim a woman, you had to spread a mark of turmeric on her face. No one noticed when he went to the kitchen, dipped his fingers into a jar of the golden spice, and went to touch her face. When my grandmother's mother saw that my grandmother’s cheeks were yellow and bright, she began to scream for everyone to get out. My grandfather then stepped up, his fingers the same shade of yellow on my grandmother’s face.

My grandmother’s mother told my grandfather that there was no dowry, and that they had to get married right here, right now. Once my grandmother’s ring was placed on her finger, she would be as good as a lamp.

But my grandfather was different. He knew women weren’t just lamps or tables. He refused to marry my grandmother because he thought she was much too young. He negotiated. “I’ll marry your daughter today,” he said, “but after, she has to go home and live with her family for the next year. I’ll visit her often so we get to know each other first. Then, when she turns fifteen, we’ll throw a big wedding party and she’ll come and live with my family and me.”

My grandmother’s mother agreed, and she ran with her sister all the way to Basra’s rabbi’s house to have him officiate. “Now is not a good time,” he said, “I have to prepare for another ceremony later today.” They dragged him out of the house with their begging. There’s a lot of dragging in this story, my am’mah always says.

A few minutes later, my grandparents were engaged.

Soon after, the rabbi said he needed to leave right away to prepare for the other engagement ceremony; it was for an engagement of a fiddler with a turnip growing from his head. They all danced around, shouting, “That fiddler will not get married today, that fiddler will not get married today!”

My grandmother still floated in the air, beautiful as the sky, hanging onto the piece of rope.

Maia Zelkha is an Iraqi-Jewish writer living in Jerusalem. Her work has been featured in publications such as the Jewish Book Council, Parabola, Furrow Magazine, Vision Magazine, and more. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Yad Mizrah Magazine.