My father was a merchant of spices in Thalassery and only minimally literate. It was expected that I would follow in his footsteps and become a cinnamon merchant, and I was quite happy to do so.
But my father made a mistake.
He sent me to a local school.
In his view, merchants ought to know a little more than basic arithmetic. I believe he was right. But his intention and how it affected me diverged.
I learned how to read and write and I appreciated these gifts with more passion than learning simple mathematics, which was not a problem either. But a tiny school in a remote town on the Malabar Coast could hardly satisfy my needs, other than the kindness of a teacher, who gave me books to read. There was no library. I picked up Malayalam, some basic English, and Arabic, the last from the madrassa in the town where all Muslim boys were expected to learn how to read the Quran. But learning from rote, while necessary, was not enough.
But what is a boy to do? I was forced to suppress my desires and continued in the traditional way, working to understand my father’s business and supporting my family. There was an unspoken belief in our business community that only excessively rich men and fools spent time reading, and I, not having the right kind of friends and encouragement, slowly regressed into the daily routine of cinnamon trading and continued our traditional, timeless business and the routine of life. But I did have one indulgence—every Sunday, I would have an English newspaper delivered. It came all the way from Bombay and would be a week old. It helped me develop my reading skills in English, though I could not speak it, since I had no one to speak with.
And, as happens to all families all over the world, the final moments arrived, when first my mother and then my father passed away, one after the other during the course of a year.
As my father held my hand on his death bed, he asked me to come close. I bent my face and he spoke softly in my ears.
“As my father whispered to me, I now do the same. There is a wooden chest under this bed. It is yours. It is important. Very important. It is your heritage. It should always continue in the family.”
Then he breathed his last.
I buried him beside my mother in the rich soil of the Malabar under the cinnamon trees that had sustained them. I spent some time alone, allowing my tears to flow and fall on the graves of my parents. And then I went back home, as head of the family, to continue life and attend to my responsibilities.
One evening, perhaps a week after I buried my father, I sat down and went through the papers of my family that my father had kept away from me. It was not intentional. He was not very well read and did not have a sense of history. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing worth trying to read and understand, except matters pertaining to spices.
Outside, the winds had gathered speed. A storm was approaching and I could already hear the rumble of clouds moving in. The coconut fronds were in a state of agitation and scraping against each other. Coconuts were likely to fall overnight because of the furious winds.
My wife, who was expecting our first child, was busy cooking in the kitchen and my younger, unmarried sister was with her.
It was a large non-descript wooden chest, clearly old, that I had pulled out from under my father’s bed. I opened it and turned it over. It held various papers, cowrie shells, some silk cloth, some old copper coins, a couple of dead cockroaches, dust, some beads, two account books—all these fell out. I looked through them carefully and cleaned the chest and each item.
I could tell that there were very old account books, perhaps belonging to my great-grandfather or even before him. The Malayalam script was a little different. A brief note referred to the Maldives and some references to those who had been given credit. “Abu Baker—sixty sacks of coconuts. Ibrahim Koya—forty sacks of coconuts” and so on.
I untied a dirty, stained cloth bundle, which seemed to contain something heavy. I gasped when I saw that it had many heavy gold coins with Arabic inscriptions. I could tell that each was worth a lot and I was surprised that it never occurred to my father to open it out of just curiosity. I then realized—and my eyes clouded with tears—that my father probably had opened them but had obeyed his father’s instructions to pass them on to me, and had tied the cloth back again. The value of the gold coins was not in the coins themselves but in the caress of all those in the family who, through the generations, had touched them.
Then I saw a small packet covered in Chinese silk. My interest was piqued just by looking at it. I opened the bundle and took out a very fragile piece of paper. It had yellowed and was brittle. Rough handling would have destroyed it in seconds.
It was a letter in a very traditional Arabic script, which I, fortunately, could read. It was to me, from a distance of more than twenty generations. My father was probably unable to read it and decided to leave it for a subsequent generation. That was clear, even to a man such as I, who had limited exposure to the world outside. I felt the dust and breath of men from hundreds of years prior, as I opened the document.
Bismillah ar-rahman ar-rahim
My dear son whom I have only seen once.
The love of a father for his son is of great power. I am in you and you too shall have sons and continue my name. It is a selfish love, it is true. Yet, why are we here on earth, sent by Allah, if not to love and to belong?
I am now at death’s door and I wish to see you one last time. I had many wives and many children, but you are special. Because destiny wished for me to travel and see the world, I could not spend time with you. But be assured that I thought of you with every breath. I wondered how you took your first steps. I wondered how you lost your first tooth. I hoped that you memorized the Quran and grew up to be of good character, to be relied upon by strangers at times of need, to be loved by all and to be healthy and prosperous. I believe in all sincerity that this has indeed happened.
I must tell you, dear son, that I wish to meet you not for sentiment alone. You must come to claim a great inheritance. I have sent Ibn Juzayy personally to bring you to me. If Allah wills, you will return with him.
But it has occurred to me that it might not be possible for some reason, in which case he is to leave this letter behind to be claimed by your sons or theirs.
If Ibn Juzayy is forced to leave the letter behind and it falls in the hands of your son or his, then he must travel to Tangier as soon as possible. For this expense, I have also sent twenty gold coins with Ibn Juzayy.
Once your son comes to Tangier, he must exercise good judgment and search carefully for someone who has heard of the Guardians of the Letter. The Guardians are two families whom I have sworn to secrecy and paid handsomely. They are to wait for your son for as many generations as necessary. When the son arrives in Tangier, the Guardians are required to take charge of his affairs, give him a more detailed letter that I wrote two days ago and handed over to them, and get both pieces of a certain document—one from Venice and the other from the Sankore Mosque in Timbuktu. Do not worry if this confuses you. The Guardians know exactly what is to be done and will help your son. But they will do nothing till someone hands over this letter. They will wait—for as many hundred years as needed.
But of course, I hope that you will return with Ibn Juzayy and my eyes will be comforted before I close them for eternity.
AbūʿAbd al-Lāh Muhammad ibn ʿAbd al-Lāh l-Lawātī ṭ-Ṭanǧī ibn Baṭūṭah
21 Safar 770 A.H.
I sat back in silence. Outside, the rain beat down furiously. Lightning flashed and thunder shook the walls of my house. I took it as an auspicious sign.
I understood that I was expected to travel to a city called Tangier, seek out the Guardians of the Letter, understand the Letter and claim an important inheritance.
I thought about the matter long after a silent dinner with my wife and sister, who knew better than to converse with me when I was preoccupied.
I
slept on my father’s bed that night, looking through the window at the pounding rain. I did not extinguish the oil lamps. The flames flickered and I saw on the walls the silhouette of my illustrious predecessor, Haji Ibn Batuta, as he travelled on camels and horses through the world. Perhaps he had a turban, perhaps he had robes. Was he short or tall? Whom had he met on his travels? How did it happen that he visited the Maldives? Why was his son unable to return with Ibn Juzayy? What was this mysterious letter? What was this inheritance? Why was it so important that two entire families had created a veil of secrecy around the matter and were waiting patiently, generation after generation, for someone to come?
Yes, I had to go to Tangier immediately and solve this mystery and bring peace to many.
The next morning, I called my wife and sister to my room. In a few words, I explained to them that I intended to embark on a trip with no immediate clarity on when I would return. I handed over the running of my business to my sister, who was a reliable and sensible woman. I asked my wife to be brave and manage the birth of our child on her own and to travel to her mother’s village nearby if she so wished. I reviewed my finances and ensured that both of them were clear about my debtors and creditors, whom I visited the next day.
I also handed over five of the gold coins to my sister in case of an emergency. I promised to send more whenever I could.
Neither protested, understanding that I was on an important mission, which had to do with our family’s honour. They helped me pack and organize my effects. It was agreed that they were to tell others that I had travelled to Delhi and Lucknow in the north of India, seeking new trade, and that I would be back in three or four months. I was fortunate that both had presence of mind, and were mature; I have a loathing for hysterical women.
In a few days, I bid good-bye to my wife and sister and travelled to Cochin, and then boarded a ship to Bombay. From there, after learning the location of Tangier, I decided to take a ship to Liverpool via Gibraltar. From Gibraltar, I was to take another ship to Tangier.
The journey passed without incident. It was my first sea voyage but I did not suffer from sea sickness, to the surprise of my fellow passengers. I did not have to wait long at Bombay and chose not to get off at Aden, Jeddah, or Alexandria.
The salty tang in the air seemed extremely familiar. Not the familiar air on the Malabar Coast, but the one in the high seas. Memories, voyages, grief, excitement—yes, these were the additional flavours that I could sense in the air. And yet, I wondered, how? Had I awakened a long-dormant memory within my blood, the memory of my ancestor, Ibn Batuta?
And after several days, I landed at Tangier and took in a long breath of the same air that he had breathed.
My spoken Arabic was poor but I was able to manage. I found dwellings, helped by another traveller on the Gibraltar-Tangier ship, and rested for a day.
Then I walked about the beautiful city.
I was unused to such bright skies and the warm sun. It was not very humid either. I obviously stood out because of my darker and differently coloured skin, but the citizens seemed very easy-going and did not ask questions. It was a colourful place with people from all parts of the world, it seemed. I was possibly the only person from India.
I made very casual inquiries about Ibn Batuta and was happy to see that everyone had heard of him and seemed proud of him. I was ashamed that I knew next to nothing about this great man. I picked up an Arabic copy of the Rihla, promising to read all about him as soon as possible.
I stumbled upon my ancestor’s grave, quite by chance, on a road named after him.
I stood silently outside. My mind was a blank and yet I felt overcome by waves of emotion. This man had waited for me for five hundred years and had even paid for my visit from a small coastal town in India. And he was not done—he wished to give me more. But what of?
It was a pleasant and deserted street. The houses were whitewashed and the contrast with the brilliant blue sky made the whole setting quite cheerful. Ibn Batuta was fortunate to spend eternity under a warm sun.
I looked about. An old bearded man with a fez was sitting outside his house in the sun, on a rocking chair. He was peering at me quite intently.
I walked across and greeted him in halting Arabic.
He nodded, continuing to look at me closely. He waved me toward another chair close by. He called out in Arabic and in a minute, a young man came out of the house and, smiling, placed in front of me a tray with coffee, dates, and pistachios.
We sat in silence. The old man had stopped sipping coffee and rocking on his chair. He was staring at me, unblinking.
“Where have you come from?” he asked very slowly, so that I could understand his Arabic.
“India,” I replied.
“Why?”
“To visit this tomb,” I said, gesturing. “Can you tell me about Ibn Batuta?”
“Of course. He is Morocco’s greatest gift to the world. He travelled the world and wrote about it. He visited India too. Delhi, Calicut, and the Maldives.”
“I am from near Calicut.”
“I see.”
He sipped coffee again, his eyes staring at me over the rim of the cup.
“Many people visit this tomb. Some with a purpose. Some without one. What brought you here?”
“There is a legend in our family about Ibn Batuta. I came to find out more.” I drank some coffee.
“Can you help me?” I then blurted. Perhaps unwisely, but then he was an old man and I did not think he would harm me. And I had to start somewhere.
“How can I help you?”
“Are there any groups of people who swear by Ibn Batuta?”
“Many. I belong to one. We study the Rihla.”
“Is it a secret group?”
“No. It is not. But I know of secret groups. Is that who you seek?”
“Perhaps. Is there any that was concerned with his trip to the Maldives?”
The old man put down his cup and stared at me again.
“Who are you, really?”
“My name is Thalassery Vatoot Mohammad Koya and I am a spice merchant from India.”
“Then why the Maldives?”
“Because my family was originally from there. It is not far from Calicut”
“I see.”
The old man became silent, twirling his moustache gently.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
I mentioned the place and he nodded in acknowledgment.
“I will bring a friend there in two hours. He may be able to help. Is that fine?”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“Come, let me show you the tomb of your ancestor.” The old man gathered himself to rise.
It took me a moment to register what he had said.
I glanced up when his words hit home, but he was already looking elsewhere.
He introduced himself as Haji Ahmad Bouabid. We walked across to the tomb. We entered the little room and he showed me inscriptions on the wall and on the tomb itself. It was rather small. Haji Ahmad Bouabid summarized Ibn Batuta’s life in a few minutes and explained that he had passed away in 1368 or 1369. The story that has lingered through the centuries was that he died pining for a beloved son in the Maldives.
He did not look at me.
We exited the room and shook hands.
“I shall be there in two hours. Go carefully. God be with you, my son.”
I walked back to my room, after eating something at a roadside café. I thought about my experience. In a few short weeks, I, a cinnamon merchant from Thalassery, had ended up sitting at a little French café in Tangier in Morocco. How extraordinary life is!
And I had seen the tomb of the man to whom I owed my very existence.
***
At the appointed hour, Haji Ahmad Bouabid arrived with a friend. He was younger and look
ed very stern and formidable. Tall, well-built, and with a thick black moustache, I could sense that it would be wise to be on his side in any dispute.
They removed their fezzes as they came into my room.
“This is Abdelaziz El-Kahina, my friend. He may be the person who can help you. And this is Mohammad Koya.”
I bowed. I felt a little scared. I myself was short and slim and could not handle a physical attack.
“Don’t worry. He is here to guard you,” Haji Bouabid smiled, sensing my nervousness.
“Speak, Abdelaziz,” he gestured.
“I am a member of a society that keeps the memory of Haji Ibn Batuta alive. What is your interest, Koya?”
“I wish to meet someone who knows about his visit to the Maldives,” I said, coming straight to the point.
“Why?”
“We moved from the Maldives to India several generations ago. There was a story in our family that we may be related to Ibn Batuta.”
Abdelaziz snorted. “Many people say that. Do you have anything that can be called proof?”
“I don’t know if this is proof. But here is a coin that I am told was given to my ancestor by Ibn Batuta,” I proffered one of the gold coins that I had got with me.
Haji Bouabid and Abdelaziz stared long at the coin in my open palm, their eyes growing wider by the second and their faces losing colour.
“Where did you get that?” Haji Bouabid asked, hoarsely.
“I told you. It has always been with us. My father died a month ago. I found it in his personal effects and understood from some papers that it has always been in our family and we are not supposed to give it away. I came to Tangier to find out more.”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 8
