Layla and Majnun

by Nizami

  The longer his suffering lasted, the more Kais became what the people were already calling him: Majnun, the ‘mad one’. Is it not madness to burn at all times like a candle? Is it not madness, this inability to eat or sleep? The more he searched for a cure, the worse became the pain. And each day at dusk, the phantoms of his vain aspirations and ambitions would march him to the edge of the town and kick him out into the desert, barefoot and without so much as a cloak to throw around his shoulders.

  He was mad, it is true, but he was also a poet. In his separation from Layla — a separation that had made him her slave — he was moved to compose the most beautiful odes and sonnets in her name, verses the likes of which those who were fortunate enough to hear had never heard before. And in the still of the night, he would cover himself with the cloak of darkness and steal to Layla’s tent. Sometimes others would accompany him — friends who, like Majnun, had tasted love and known the pain of separation — but mostly he went alone. Moving like the desert wind he would fly to her tent, stand at the threshold and say a quiet prayer, then return home as quickly as he had come.

  So near, yet so far. How difficult it was for him to pull himself away from his beloved’s tent and return home! On his way to her, he would almost fly; on his way back, he would stumble like a drunkard or a wounded animal. Why was Fate so unkind? His heart had been wrecked like a ship caught in a storm; what was left of him now drifted at the mercy of the waves. His home had become a prison where people talked, but never listened; where people counselled, but never understood. He had reached a point where he no longer paid any attention to what they were saying; he was past caring. Only the word ‘Layla’ meant anything to him now; when people talked of other things, he would block his ears and say nothing.

  One day he would walk around as though in a trance; the next day would find him falling this way and that like a drunkard, weeping bitter tears and moaning. Verses of love streamed from his lips; when the poetry stopped, the messages began. He called the east wind and asked it to take a message to Layla, whose tribe had set up camp in the mountains of Najd.

  ‘East wind, go quickly and you will find her there,’ he said. ‘Caress her hair softly and whisper in her ear. Say, “The one who has sacrificed everything for you sends greetings from afar. Send him a breath of air on the wind to let him know you still think of him.”

  ‘Dearest heart, if I had not given my soul to you, it would have been better to give it up for good, to lose it for ever. I am burning in love’s fire; I am drowning in the tears of my sorrow. Even the sun that lights up the world can feel the heat of my desire. I am the moth that flies through the night to flutter around the candle flame. O invisible candle of my soul, do not torture me as I encircle you! You have bewitched me, you have robbed me of my sleep, my reason, my very being.

  ‘You are the cause of my pain, yet the love I feel for you is my only consolation, my only cure. How strange, a cure that brings even greater pain! If only you could send me a sign! If only the wind could touch your lips and bring your kisses to me, but then I should be jealous of the wind and ashamed of myself for asking.

  ‘The Evil Eye has separated us, dearest heart. Fate has cast her evil spell and knocked the cup from my hand: the wine is gone and I am dying of thirst. And now Fate mocks me as I lie dying. Yes, I am one of those who are cursed by the Eye, by Fate, by whatever you choose to call it. Who would not be afraid of such an enemy? People try to protect themselves from the Evil Eye by wearing blue amulets; even the sun, terrified of the darkness, wears a sky-blue veil to ward off evil. I did not wear an amulet and so I lost everything. Yes, everything. I lost everything because I lost you, for you are my everything. If this is not the work of Fate, then whose work is it? And if it is the work of Fate, then I have every right to be afraid. And to be mad …’

  Chapter 5

  The new dawn cast its cloak of gold over the earth, pinned the golden stud of the sun to the ear of the sky and banished the stars with one glance.

  And now Majnun appeared, his friends at his side, near the tent of his beloved Layla. He was risking much; never before had he ventured this far without the veil of night to cover him. But his patience had worn thin and he could bear the situation no longer. His heart was melting for Layla; before it was destroyed completely, he had to see her. Like a drunkard, his mind confused and dazed, he stumbled towards her tent, verses of love falling from his lips.

  And suddenly he was there, on the very threshold of his heart’s most holy shrine. He had to rub his eyes to make sure he was not still dreaming. But there it stood — Layla’s tent — and, to his amazement, the curtains were drawn back. And there, sitting in the entrance of the tent, clearly visible in the half-light, was Layla herself.

  Majnun let out a deep groan, as though ready to faint. And then Layla saw him. For a second that seemed like an eternity their eyes met, and in the mirror of each other’s gaze they read the whole story of their fear, their longing, their pain and their love. Tears filled their eyes as they spoke to each other with mute eloquence, exchanging sighs on the breeze that acted as messenger between them.

  Layla was the radiance of dawn itself; Majnun was a candle, slowly consuming itself with desire before her. Layla in her splendour was a rose-garden; Majnun was a beacon of longing. Layla scattered the seeds of love; Majnun watered them with his tears. Layla was a spirit beauty from another world; Majnun was the blazing torch that lit her way from that world to the world of men. Layla was a jasmin blossom in spring; Majnun was an autumn plain, where no jasmin grows. Layla could bewitch the world with one glance; Majnun was her slave, an entranced dervish whirling before her. Layla had the cup that held the wine of love; Majnun stood intoxicated by its musky scent.

  Only this briefest of encounters were the lovers allowed, and then it was over. One more second and even this, the most fleeting of pleasures, might have ended in disaster for both of them. Afraid that he would be apprehended by guards or spies, Majnun took to his heels and fled.

  Chapter 6

  It was not long before Majnun’s secret visits to Layla’s tent became common knowledge. Layla’s people were outraged and, by night and day, they guarded the area around her tent lest the intruder return. Gradually, through no fault of her own, Layla became a prisoner of her own people … and of Majnun’s love.

  Majnun continued to roam the mountains and desert wastes of Najd, spending more and more time away from his own tribe. Clad in rags, he wandered aimlessly through the desert, composing odes and sonnets that he sang in mournful tones to himself. Broken by grief, he could think of nothing but his love for Layla: food, sleep, family, friends — it was, to his broken heart, as if they had never existed. The two or three friends who had accompanied him on his nighttime visits to Layla’s tent had long since left him. Unable to bear the wild changes in Majnun’s temperament, they too had come to think of him as crazy, demented, and completely deranged by love. Those who caught sight of him from afar would point and cry, ‘There he is! There goes Majnun, the madman, the lunatic once known as Kais! There goes the fool who has heaped so much shame and ignominy on himself and his tribe.’

  And it was true: there was not a single member of his tribe who did not feel ashamed of Majnun’s behaviour. But they had done everything in their power to make him see reason, to help him and to prevent a disaster from taking place. How can one put out a blazing fire with advice and good counsel? How can one stop an ocean of tears with mere words? Yet, although they had exhausted all possibilities, Majnun’s people knew that the situation could not continue unchecked. Majnun’s own sanity, his family’s reputation, the honour of the whole tribe — all of these were now at risk. Could Majnun’s father, the Sayyid, not do something? After all, he was the leader of the Banu Amir, and if anyone was in a position to do something positive, surely it was he.

  Yet the Sayyid was, like those around him, completely powerless to help. Who can turn back the hands of time and change the course of Fate? Furthermore, he was by n
ow an old man, the burden of his years exacerbated by the strain of his son’s madness. The only thing he could do was pray that Majnun would come to his senses and become Kais once more.

  But his son’s condition did not improve, and Majnun remained Majnun. Indeed, his state went from bad to worse — so wretched did it become that his father was moved to convene a meeting of tribal elders to discuss the problem and try to arrive at a final solution. Assembling in his tent all of his counsellors and advisers, the old Sayyid asked those present to tell him what they knew. One by one they stepped forward with their stories of Kais (Majnun) and his madness, each tale more harrowing than the last. The old Sayyid’s heart grew heavier with each passing moment. Finally, after he had reflected upon everything he had heard, he said, ‘It is clear that my son has abandoned all reason and given up his heart, his soul and his mind to this girl. Only if he wins her will he be restored to his former state. Only if he attains his heart’s desire will Majnun become Kais once more. It is a painful situation, yet not difficult to understand. The boy’s senses are confused. For him, Layla is the light which illuminates his world; since that light is hidden from his view, he lives in darkness, like one without sight. I say that we must find this light, this jewel of piercing brightness and surrender it to him. Only when one dusts away the dirt from the rosebud will it bloom.’

  Then the old man asked all of the tribal elders in turn to voice their opinions. Amazingly, they were all in agreement: a delegation was to be despatched immediately to Layla’s tribe, their aim to win Layla’s hand for Majnun and thus put an end to the boy’s suffering. Within the hour a party of tribal elders, led by the old Sayyid himself, was on its way.

  Now, there was no history of feuding between the two tribes, and so the Sayyid was confident that the outcome would be to his son’s advantage. And indeed, he and his men were received most cordially by Layla’s people, who treated their visitors with great kindness and hospitality. Presently, his hosts asked the old Sayyid to tell them why he had come. Was he in need of help of some kind? Did he need their support in some feud or battle? The old Sayyid cleared his throat and looked Layla’s father in the eye.

  ‘Noble sir,’ began the old Sayyid, ‘I have come here to strengthen the ties of friendship that have always existed between us. I have come here to ask for your daughter’s hand on behalf of my son, Kais. May they long be the light of each other’s lives! There is no greater love than that which exists between our two children, and I see no impediment — save for your possible refusal — to their union. Nor am I ashamed to make this request so frankly, so openly. As you are aware, there is none among us whose standing is higher in society than my own. My wealth is without parallel and my supporters are without number. I can be either a most valuable friend or a most formidable foe. Whatever you require as a dowry, I shall give you — and much more besides. I am not a man to stand on ceremony: I have come here as a customer, and you, if you know what is good for you — and I have no doubt that you do — will state your price clearly and sell me what I want. You stand to make great gains if you move now: tomorrow may be too late.’

  His anxiety for his son had made the old Sayyid more audacious than usual in his approach and manner of speaking, but what had been said could not be unsaid. Layla’s father, a proud man at the best of times, nodded slowly and replied, ‘You speak well, my friend, and your words are weighty enough. But you cannot change what has been decreed by Fate with words alone. Did you really imagine that I would be moved to accept your request by the force of your rhetoric? Did you really think that I would not see beneath the surface of your eloquence? What you have shown me is attractive enough, but that which lies under the cover, the very thing that would give my enemies happiness, you fail to mention! Yes, indeed, your son is a prince of men, a veritable idol of love — from a distance. And from a distance he would be welcome even in the family of the Caliph himself. But we all know better than that, don’t we? Do you think I am so cut off from the world that news from the outside does not reach me? Do you not realise that the story of your son’s madness is known throughout the land? And did you really believe that I would take a madman for a son-in-law? For I swear by God that he is mad, and a madman is no husband for my daughter.

  ‘Thus, my dear friend, I must ask you to leave. My advice is this: pray to our Lord that your son be cured of his illness. Until he is cured, I will hear no more talk of love or marriage between him and my daughter. I hope, dear friend, that I have made myself clear.’

  The old Sayyid had no option but to withdraw his request and depart. Defeat did not sit easily with him, and the words spoken by Layla’s father had stung him like a swarm of bees, yet what else could he do but give in? And so he returned to Majnun, silent and empty-handed.

  Chapter 7

  Having failed to win Layla for his son, the old Sayyid enlisted the aid of his son’s friends in one last attempt to make his son see reason with words of advice and good counsel.

  His friends took Majnun to one side and gently remonstrated with him. ‘Why only Layla?’ they said. ‘There are many girls in your own tribe who are every bit as desirable as Layla: sweet-scented, tulip-cheeked beauties with lips like rosebuds and eyes like narcissi —beauties who are perhaps even more attractive than the one who has stolen your heart! Why, we know of hundreds of such sweet maidens — you have only to take your pick! Come now, instead of torturing your poor heart and turning it into a shrine for the one you cannot have, find someone who will comfort it and fill it with joy! Choose a mate from your own tribe, a companion for life who will be worthy of you. Forget Layla. Let her go!’

  Majnun knew that his friends meant well, but when all was said and done they had no idea how intense the fire of his love for Layla really was: those who have never experienced such pain cannot understand it, let alone counsel against it. Indeed, instead of extinguishing the flames, their words served merely to fan them, and by the time they had finished advising him, the conflagration was blazing more fiercely than before.

  Majnun’s despair was now deeper than it had ever been. There was nothing anyone could say to console him; there was nothing anyone could do to ease his pain, a pain that had darkened his days and turned his world to perpetual night. He could neither eat nor sleep: most of the time he would wander around in a daze, occasionally becoming conscious enough of his pain to pummel his face with his fists and tear his robes. Majnun was homeless, an exile from the land of happiness and an inconsolable mourner in the land of pain.

  Eventually, Majnun felt that he could tolerate the company of others no longer. And so he left his parents, his relatives and his friends and ran away, deep into the desert, not knowing where he would go or what he would do. Crying, ‘There is no power except for the power of God’, he stumbled through the alleyways and past the market stalls, desiring only to put himself at the mercy of his Lord and the desert wastes.

  For Majnun, good and bad were no longer distinguishable; for him, what was right and what was wrong could no longer be known. He was a lover, and love knows no laws. And so he ran, tears streaming from his eyes, the cry of ‘Layla, Layla!’ on his lips. He paid no attention to the stares and pointing fingers of the people as he ran; indeed, he neither saw them nor heard their shouts and their reproaches. Gradually people began to follow him, fascinated and magnetised by his bizarre appearance and even stranger behaviour, although in his trance-like state he paid them no mind. Yet, when he began to recite his poetry and sing his verses of love, their purely prurient interest in Majnun as a spectacle waned, and they began to sympathise with him. The fire in his heart had touched theirs, too, and as the haunting sonnets and beautiful odes tripped off his tongue, the hearts of his listeners trembled and many of them began to cry with him.

  Yet Majnun noticed none of this; he was not even aware that he was being followed. He was not even aware of himself: it was as though he had ceased to exist, as though his name had been erased from the book of Creation, causing him to be for
gotten. His heart was crushed, his flame of life had all but gone out, the bird of his soul had lost its will to live and now lay, fluttering helplessly in the dust, waiting for death to overtake it.

  In the end, he felt all of the strength pour out of his limbs and he fell to his knees, as though at prayer. With parched lips he cried out, ‘For God’s sake, who can cure me of this sickness? I am an exile, an orphan, an outcast. Where is my home? Where are my friends, my family? I am cut off from them completely and they have no road to me, either. And I am separated from the one I love. My name is dirt and my reputation is ruined, like a crystal goblet smashed upon the rock of Fate. My world was once filled with the music of happiness; now all that I hear is the solemn drumbeat of separation.

  ‘Layla, my love, my dearest heart! I am your slave, your victim: I am the hunter captured by the game! My soul cannot help but follow the mistress who owns it. If she says, “Drink the wine of love and become intoxicated!”, then I must obey; if she says, “Become mad with desire!”, who am I to argue? There is no way that a madman such as Majnun can be tamed, so do not try. What hope can there be for a heart as crushed as mine? My only hope is that the earth will open up and swallow me whole, or that a lightning bolt will flash through the heavens and strike me dead! Is there no one who will hand me over to the angel of death? Is there no one who will save me from myself, and thus save the rest of the world from my madness? For I am truly mad; I am a misfit, a lunatic, a demon in human guise! I am an embarrassment to my family and a thorn in the flesh of my tribe: the very mention of my name causes all who know me to hang their heads in shame. Anyone may shed my blood: I declare it lawful for them. For I am an outlaw, and whoever kills me will not be guilty of murder.