“But this is different, sir, we are talking about the honor of your wife.”
“We are also talking about a poor man’s life.”
“What mockery is this?” an old advisor who was too angry to keep his opinion to himself exclaimed. “You are the son of Tamerlane, for heaven’s sake, and must have some degree of his audacity and determination in your blood. Drag the man out. Execute him publicly before he dies of this misconceived infatuation. Make an example of him for the world to see.”
“I will do so when the queen consents to such action,” the king said, resolutely.
A small number of people in the court of the King expressed their sympathy with Lady Goharshad, yet even those few wondered out loud why she was so adamantly protecting this young man’s life and placing not only her own reputation but the entire country’s honor in jeopardy.
Rumors began to follow the royals like birds of prey circling a dying man. They ranged in breadth and depth and included outrageous notions such as, “the queen being a sorcerer has placed a spell on the king that has deprived him of his wits and ability to make decisions.”
Lady Goharshad could hardly leave the castle. Everywhere she looked there were mouths that talked and eyes that rolled in disapproval. She is ruining her husband’s character, they said. He must be a great man to endure it. She is older than the young man who has fallen for her, therefore wiser, and must know better. She is risking the empire’s status over a childish infatuation. They say she is the one who seduced the poor boy. Now she has asked him to pray in the new mosque. What mockery of religion is that?
Rumors ebbed and flowed like a restless torrent, threatening the foundation of Shahrokh’s Timurid Dynasty and feeding the imagination of idle minds with no other care or concern except counting their riches and finding faults in others. Shahrokh was a tolerant man, but even Lady Goharshad’s empathizing husband had his limits. He said that he still supported her decision, but rumors had reached him, and his advisors insisted that he take action.
“Divorce the queen!” the more brazen of the advisors said. “You can have any other woman on the face of the earth,” he added. “Why allow this to get out of hand,” the others insisted, “when the answer is so simple.”
This was not a simple matter for the royal family. Invitations to participate in events began to drop, and foreign dignitaries reduced the frequency of their attendance. After all, royals without a good reputation were as unwanted as bankrupted men of trade. Rumors grew to a tidal wave and carried the message of trouble in the land of Tamerlane to the far corners of the world. Enemies of the kingdom began to see this as a sign of weakness, and plots began to take root to overthrow Shahrokh.
Lady Goharshad opened the door to her chamber in the castle with a new surge of determination. “Summon the old woman who approached me regarding her son,” she demanded from an aide. “I have an urgent message to convey through her.”
The old woman came and seemed quite happy to carry the news of the queen’s plan to her son. Color returned to the young man’s face as soon as he heard Lady Goharshad’s decision.
“She would be yours, of course, there is no doubt,” his mother assured him.
“I promise,” he said, “I shall do as she has requested. I will hold this vigil for forty days or forty years if I have to for her hand in marriage.”
Chapter Nine
The Reflection
Workers at the construction site had access to a mirror mounted on a wall at the entry to the mosque. During the forty days of Jamal’s confinement, however, the other workers received their wages but could not enter the premises. Construction ceased, and the usual sounds of renovation became silent.
After praying for a full five hours with his mind wandering in all directions and mostly asking God for a chance to be united with his beloved, the lad settled for a meager meal of bread and cheese and some hot tea, provided to him twice daily. He then started walking around the nearly finished mosque and stopped at the entry where the hexagonal mirror reflected his image.
The mirror, crooked around the edges and chipped at corners, was mounted to reflect the average height. A very tall man had to bend his knees to see a full reflection of himself in it. Jamal’s height, however, allowed him a good view without having to raise himself or bend his knees to lengthen or shorten his stature.
A beam of light streaming through the transom window bounced off the mirror. Jamal stared for a moment or two at his own reflection. He certainly looked handsome. His brown hair curled onto his sunburnt skin, making the whiteness of his eyes appear like ivory encasing brown irises. If the date written on the cover of his mother’s Quran was correct, he was now exactly one and twenty years of age. His feet ached; no, when he thought of the queen they burned as if he had walked through a field of fire.
His mind was young, vivacious and unyielding, ready to explore the treasures of the world. He had embraced the altar of worship rather than the gallows, for his choices were clear when on one side stood the Angel of Death and on the other, a chance to be united with the queen. The mere idea of the grand prize before him brought a surge of happiness to his veins.
He knew his youth would eventually wither like petals of cut flowers, and only dullness of old age would remain. All that he wanted to attain, all that meant anything to him, all his hopes and dreams were bundled up and left beyond his reach. What meaning did his life have without her in it? The moment he had laid eyes on her, her majesty, her beauty, her grace, captured his heart. She embodied perfection. It mattered not if they plucked him like a fresh bloom, as long as he could proclaim to the world the love that had engulfed him and by doing so unburden his aching heart.
He may have lacked education and wisdom, but he was never deficient when it came to yearning, a sensation he had lived with all his life; yearning for the luxuries he could never have, yearning for a life that would never be his, and now yearning for a woman who would never accept him. But no, he adamantly refused to allow yearning to become his constant companion in life.
Splotches of gray marred the surface of the looking glass. Staring at himself in the mirror made him a bit uncomfortable. Something about his reflection bothered him. He felt as if he was staring at a hypocrite.
That very afternoon, his prayers had a note of sincerity to them, and he tried to shed some tears. But when he returned at dusk to where the mirror stood, cracks here and there made the image distorted, particularly with a taper lit on a nearby alcove. He looked into the mirror, and all he could see was hypocrisy. Why? What has become of me? Am I a fraud, insincere in what I profess as love?
As days turned into nights and nights into days, he maintained the same routine. Praying and worshiping for five hours, eating his meal, walking to the mirror and staring at himself. And each time he looked into the mirror, the image became more and more distorted. Was it the mirror or what he perceived in the mirror that had become distorted? He knew not. The bizarre image looking back at him irritated him, yet he had a hard time looking away from it. The polished surface stoked the greatest fears in him. Or was it that he had come to know his true self now that he had had a chance to contemplate his life, in solitude? How could he have desecrated the name of such a virtuous woman with his vile attempts, knowing full well that he could never fulfill such a desire?
The mirror reflected the deep recesses of his mind. It was not him but a vile reflection of him as if a sadistic painter had made a bizarre depiction of his face. The reflection reproached him, mocked and ridiculed him. The image haunted him, even after he slept. The repugnant face took center stage in all his nightmares. He wanted to rip off and throw away all that defiled his soul. He felt infested, diseased, an impurity that no scrubbing could wash away covered his heart and mingled with his soul; the extent of the damage done by his misconceived passions overwhelmed him. He had brought ill repute to a kingdom that stretched to the horizon in vastn
ess and reached the skies in grandeur.
“What right had he to her?” the image in the mirror seemed to ask.
He began to despise the mirror, hate his own reflection. Yet like a magnet, he was drawn to it, every morning and every evening as he performed the same ritual. He came to believe that an invisible hand altered the image, for each time he peered into the mirror, the expression on his face looked scarier. Each time he returned to the altar, his supplications became more profound, his tears more sincere. Through prayer, he sought relief for his tormented soul, a lifting of the burden of guilt that he now felt upon his shoulders.
How hideous he had been beneath the veneer he wore as a face, a mere façade to fool others. Was it love, truly love, that he felt for the fine woman or was it vanity, his desire to own what could not be his? She embodied everything he lacked: beauty, wealth, power and majesty. He understood that very well now. She had not reciprocated his love but recoiled from it. Were it not for her forgiving, benevolent soul, he would not have been given even this short respite, and they would have surely taken him to the gallows. He envisioned his body swaying on a noose for all to see, his soul descending into the eternal fire. He shuddered at the thought. The noose was still there, waiting for him.
He shed tears as he contemplated his wrongs for thirty days and thirty nights. He wore himself thin. His face turned pale. Tears became the holy water that washed away the impurities of his soul. He refrained from looking at the mirror, the instrument of his torment, but rather sought the light within his remorseful heart as his supplications continued.
In the lonely corner of the mosque where rays of light coming from a window of multi-colored glass illuminated the sacred niche, the young man kept vigil until the blue thread of his prayer beads tore, and its green globules rolled all over his prayer rug wet with tears of piety. For more than a month now, he had shed tears of repentance, cried in defiance, and bowed in submission, until his heart filled with the love of the Creator, displacing his obsession with the queen.
He felt pure as the day he was born. The light that filled the enclosure was not from an external source but from within his soul. He felt the ecstasy of innocence and the joy of rejuvenation. He felt as if he had a far keener sense of his surroundings.
Hours turned into days until the forty days were up. On the last night of his seclusion, he stayed up all night and fell asleep right after his morning prayers, exhausted from entreaty before the Almighty. When he woke up, the sun illuminated his chamber. As he opened his eyes, the most incredible sensation of serenity filled his entire being. A feeling of innocence, of being loved by a higher power who cared for him. “Is this God?” he wondered aloud.
As he wiped away his last tears with his wet hands, an overwhelming, overpowering feeling of lightness and warmth, of kindness and purity overcame him. He felt one with the universe, each minuscule part of his being, the exact identical copy of all living and non-living things around him. They all spoke the same language; a language he now understood. He could sing in that language, raise his voice and join the chorus of life. He fell to his knees before the King of Hearts, the King of Souls.
He stared at the staircase that led to the immaculate structure that held the sacred body. The door above it was kept locked, preventing him from entering the mausoleum. The stairs weren’t built right. He began imagining how he would redo them, and a wonderful sense of relief came over him. His occupation would become his salvation.
Finally, a knock at the door to his place of confinement announced the culmination of the forty days. When the door opened, a middle-aged man with spectacles entered who introduced himself as the Hakeem.
Jamal had such an unearthly countenance that the Hakeem wondered whether the young man was human or fay. When he asked Jamal if he was mortal, a smile more beautiful than the early rays of the sun illuminated his face, and he replied that he was indeed. But now that he considered himself at the service of the Almighty, he realized that he had been the cause of misfortune for the venerable Lady and that he had to ask for her forgiveness.
“I have done wrong. She does not love me, and I have no right to her. I wish to apologize to my lady, the queen,” Jamal said.
“What caused such a transformation?” the sagacious Hakeem asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from the lad’s mouth.
“I have gone down to the depths of a dark ocean in which I could have drowned, and I have found something, sensed something that has penetrated every aspect of my life. I am free from want, from anger, and from hate. Like water contained in a vase, I have now joined the ocean. My life is enriched, my feet firmly grounded in the soils of earthly living, but my soul like a tree reaches up to the heavens. Oh’ what bliss this is, what overwhelming joy; I have been an embarrassment to our people. From now on, I shall mind my ways.”
The story of Jamal’s incredible transformation and his efforts aimed at improving the structure of the mosque spread as speedily as the earlier rumors had done, and what was a means of castigation and condemnation became a source of commendation and awe. For Lady Goharshad and her family there was nothing but words of praise as tranquility returned to the Kingdom.
Epilogue
In a corner of the castle garden, sat three haughty young ladies. Soraya, the eldest of the three, had grown to be quite a beauty. She was struggling with a painting of a rose bush, and being too proud to be making a mistake, was quite vexed by the fact that her governess was keeping a close eye on her sketch. The other two girls, Setareh and Sahar were sitting on a nearby bench, learning calligraphy from another governess. No one could tell that the well-brought-up young ladies had one day faced imminent peril as their mother lay dead in the slums.
King Shahrokh found Lady Goharshad enjoying the serene scene. As he joined her, partaking of some grapes, he laughingly said, “To think that I almost lost you.” He noticed that she was reading the manuscript again and asked, “So, what were Chaka’s final words?”
“You should read this yourself,” she replied laughing.
“I never have time. But I am curious, read it to me.”
Last Entry by Chaka:
In history lies a lesson for the future, and those who ignore it are condemned to repeat the mistakes of the past. Therefore, I consider it a duty toward future generations to share with them what has passed within the confines of these walls, and within the mind of a conqueror, the world may never see the likes of again. The gray twilight of ignorance and hate and the dark night of war and plunder will ultimately end, and a dawn of enlightenment will break one day. The bloodletting will cease. And the world will see a better day tomorrow.
Recommended Resources
Chambers, James. The Devil’s Horsemen: The Mongol Invasion of Europe. New York: Atheneum, 1985.
Charles River Editors. Karakorum: The History and Legacy of the Mongol Empire’s Capital. California: CreateSpace Publishing, 2017.
Hay, Timothy. The Mongol Art of War. Pennsylvania: Casemate Publishers, 2007.
Grousset, Rene. The Empire of the Steppes: A History of Central Asia. Translated by Naomi Walford. New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 1970.
Rossabi, Morris. Mongol and Global History. New York: W.W. Norton, 2011.
———. The Mongols: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012.
Saunders, John Joseph. The History of Mongol Conquests. Pennsylvania: Penn Press, 2001.
Weatherford, Jack. Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World. New York: Crown Publishers, 2004.
Weatherford, Jack. The Secret History of the Mongol Queens: How the Daughters of Genghis Khan Rescued His Empire. New York: Broadway Paperbacks, 2011.
Acknowledgments
This journey began with the thoughtful input and support of the faculty and students of Johns Hopkins University as well as the talented members of the La Madeleine Writers Group: Natasha Tynes (
author of They Called Me Wyatt), Chelsea Henderson, Wendra Chambers, Sahar Siddiqui, Gina Wilkinson (author of When the Apricots Bloom), Abiola Johnson, Maura O’Brien-Ali, Ruth Hupart, Maria Said, and Nancy Strickland Hawkins were all there for guidance and support. Among the challenges I faced in writing about the 13th Century was avoiding modern terminology in order to retain the flavor of the era. To this end, I had the privilege of working with my editor, Dr. Nicole Miller, former editor of Harvard Review, who is well-versed in classic literature. I am also indebted to the insight and attention to detail of my publisher, Colin Mustful, who helped me during the final stages of editing.
Author’s Biography
F.M. Deemyad was born in Kermanshah, Iran. She grew up in the capital, Tehran, attending bilingual schools run by Christian and Jewish minorities. Her father, born and raised in India, had come to Iran when he was in his late twenties. Being the son of a linguist who had taught English Literature in India for a number of years, he exposed the author in her preschool years to the English language, and she learned to love classic literature under her father’s instructions. She received a Master’s degree in Writing from Johns Hopkins University in 2016. She currently resides with her husband in Maryland.
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