by Nizami
‘So goodbye, dear friends, for I must depart. May God bless and keep you, and may you forgive me. There is nothing you can do for me now: the goblet has fallen from my hands and the wine is spilled. Of my happiness, and my sanity, only the razor-sharp shards are left; see how they cut into me and through me.’
The people surrounding him looked on in disbelief as he spoke, wondering whether he was aware of their presence at all. Then, as if to banish their doubts, he turned to them and said, ‘I do not expect you to understand what I say, for you have no idea how I suffer. So leave me, let me go. And do not try to find me, for your search will be in vain. How will you find me when I am lost, even to myself? Go now, for I cannot bear your torture and oppression any longer. Leave me alone with my grief. There is no need to escort me out of the town, for I shall go of my own accord. Farewell!’
But Majnun no longer had the strength to move. Instead, he fell to his knees in the dust, as though in prayer, and began to implore his beloved to help him.
‘Layla, I have fallen. I have fallen and I do not know what to do. Come, dearest heart, and take my hand. Reach out and touch me, for I can bear this loneliness no longer. I am yours, so come and take me: I am more use to you alive than dead. Be kind and give me some sign; send some message to revive my soul. Why don’t you come? Why have they imprisoned you when it is I, the madman, who should be in chains? Come and enslave me, my love! Do something, for the love of God! To live like this is worse than death: come and end this torture now! Things cannot remain as they are; it is not right that you should sit there and do nothing. Have you no pity? No, it would seem that you do not. After all, those who are in comfort have no feeling for those who are in misery. What do the rich know about poverty? What does the full stomach care about those who starve? We are both human beings: does our common humanity mean nothing to you? Are you content to blossom and bloom while I wither and die?
‘You have the power to bring peace to my soul, yet you withhold it. What have I done to deserve this? Why, not content with stealing my heart, do you rob me of my sanity? Apart from the fact that I love you, what sin have I committed that I should be treated in this way?
‘I am not asking for much: even one night — one night out of a thousand nights — will do. Apart from the love I feel for you, I have nothing: everything else I have abandoned, gambled away and lost.
‘Please, I beg you, do not reject me. If you are angry with me, extinguish your wrath with my tears. Dearest heart, you are the new moon and I am a star that has fallen to earth out of longing for you. I am alone and friendless: my only companion is my shadow, and even with him I dare not speak the truth about my love for you, lest he become jealous and try to take you from me. What can I do? Can I hope? A man dying of thirst dreams of cool, clear streams, but when he wakes there is only sand. But what does it all matter? Whatever happens to me, nothing can destroy the love I feel for you in my heart. It is indeed a mystery, a riddle, a lock without a key, a book that cannot be opened, a code that no one can crack. Love for you is part of me: it entered my veins along with the milk from my mother’s breast, and it will leave me only when my soul departs my body. Of that I am certain.’
As his voice trailed away, Majnun’s legs gave way and he fell forward into the dust. Those who had been listening rushed forward to help him; gently, they lifted him up and carried him home to his father’s tent.
Time passes, but true love remains. The life of this world is, for the most part, nothing but a succession of illusions and deceptions. But true love is real, and the flames which fuel it burn forever, without beginning or end. And thus, Majnun became famous throughout the land as a lover, for the fire of true love burned in his soul like a blazing torch as long as he lived.
Chapter 8
Majnun’s passion grew with each passing day, and as it grew, so his reputation among family and friends declined accordingly.
But his close relatives, and especially his dear father, the old Sayyid, had not given up hope completely. They knew that the darkest hour is always before dawn, and that with love and patience it still might be possible to save the boy. Once more, the old Sayyid convened a meeting of tribal elders to discuss his son’s problem. After much debate, the thoughts of those present turned to Mecca and God’s most holy house, the ka’ba. Every year, many thousands of pilgrims from near and far would visit the sacred precinct, performing their pilgrimage rites and asking for God’s help and forgiveness. Why not take Majnun to Mecca, too?
‘After all,’ said one of the elders, ‘only God can open the lock for which we impotent humans have no key. Maybe He in His compassion will come to our aid and cure this poor wretch of his affliction. The ka’ba is a place of prayer and contemplation for men and angels alike; it is the altar of the heavens and the earth, where all men ask God to help and forgive them. Why should He not help us?’
Majnun’s father agreed, and on the first day of the last month of the year — the month of pilgrimage — he left with a small caravan of his best camels for the holy city of Mecca. Majnun, still too weak to walk, was carried in a litter, like a tiny child in a cradle.
Finally, they reached Mecca and set up camp. As he had done throughout the journey, the old Sayyid gave charity by showering gold on the crowds as though it were sand. His heart, once so heavy with despair, lightened as soon as he caught sight of the ka’ba, around which thousands of white-robed pilgrims were circling like moths around a flame. He could hardly wait for the moment when he would be able to present his wretched, love-sick child to his Lord and petition Him humbly for assistance.
At last, it was time for them to perform their rites. Taking his son gently by the hand, the old Sayyid said, ‘Here, my son, is the House of One who is a friend to all those without friends. Here is the House of One who can cure all ills, even those ills that have no cure. Yes, my son, this is where — God willing — one chapter of your life ends and another begins. We have come here so that you may seek solace in God and find relief from your sufferings. Call upon God by His most beautiful names and ask Him to help you. Ask Him to save you from your obsession. Ask Him to take pity on you, to grant you refuge and lead you back to the path of sanity and goodness. Tell the Lord how unhappy you are and ask Him to unlock the door of your grief and let it flow away. Ask Him to free you from the evil of your desire, before it is too late. Go, my son, and do as I say.’
At first, the old Sayyid’s words brought tears to his son’s eyes. But then Majnun began to laugh. Jumping down from his litter, he dashed into the crowd and, snaking in and out of the pressing throng, found a way to the ka’ba, which he began to pound with his fists. Then, with a voice that hovered between laughter and tears, he cried out, ‘Yes, it is I who have come to knock at Your door today! I, Majnun, the madman, the fool who has sold his life for the sake of love! And may I remain love’s slave for ever!
‘O Lord! They tell me that only if I abandon love will I regain my sanity, but the truth is that love is all I have! Love is my strength, my rock. If love dies, then I die with it. Such is my fate, as You know. O Lord, I beg You, by all of Your names and attributes, let my love grow! Let it blossom to perfection and endure, even if I fade away and die! Let me drink from the well-spring of love until my thirst is quenched. And if I am already intoxicated with love’s wine, let me become more so!
‘O Lord! They tell me to banish Layla from my thoughts and to crush the desire I have for her in my heart. But I beg You, Lord, to engrave her image more deeply on my mind’s eye and make my desire for her even stronger! Take what is left of my earthly existence and offer it to her as a gift; take the rest of my life from me and add it to hers.
‘O Lord! Let her berate me, castigate me, punish me — I do not care. I am ready to sacrifice my life for the sake of her beauty. Do You not see how I burn for her? And although I know that I shall never be free of this pain, it does not matter. For that is how it has to be. And so, dear God, for Your own sake and for the sake of love, let my love grow
stronger with each passing hour. Love is all I have, all I am, and all I ever want to be!’
The old Sayyid listened in amazement as Majnun cried out to his Lord. What could he do for his son now? Their last resort — the pilgrimage to God’s own house — had failed. Now he knew beyond all doubt that there was nothing anyone on earth could do to loosen the chains of love that were binding the boy’s heart.
And so they left Mecca and began the long journey home, where Majnun’s friends and relatives awaited them in hope and fear. When they arrived, the whole family came out to welcome them. ‘How did it go?’ they all asked. ‘Tell us, has God cured the boy of his affliction or not?’
The old Sayyid could only shake his head, tears misting his vision. ‘I tried my best’, he said weakly. ‘I told him how to ask God for help, so that He in His compassion might free the boy from this plague in skirts, this accursed Layla. But Majnun had other ideas. And so what did he do? He called down blessings on Layla … and then he cursed himself!’
Chapter 9
News of Majnun’s pilgrimage to Mecca, his hammering on the doors of the ka’ba and his impassioned confession of love soon spread far and wide; before long, talk of Majnun’s love — and his madness — was on everyone’s lips. Some attacked him with harsh words of reproach, while others pitied him and came to his defence. A few had good things to say about him, while many were content to sit and gloat … and to spread evil rumours.
Talk of Majnun reached Layla, too, but there was little she could do to defend her lover: she simply sat in silence, nursing her grief. The members of her tribe, however, knew that they must act. And so they sent a delegation to the Caliph’s Chief Minister and lodged a complaint against Majnun.
‘This lunatic,’ said the Chief Delegate, ‘this madman, this Majnun, has dishonoured our tribe with his behaviour. Day and night he wanders around the countryside, his filthy hair matted and his clothes in tatters, with a bunch of vagrants and vagabonds in tow. He laughs for no reason, cries for no reason; he screams and shouts and dances and whirls, jumping up into the air, prostrating himself in the dust and kissing the earth below. And all the time he recites his sonnets and his odes, his songs and his quatrains — verse after verse after verse. The unfortunate thing is that his poetry is of the highest quality and the people have taken to committing his songs to memory. This is bad for us and for you, since the words of his song are, for the most part, an affront to public dignity and the high moral standards of society. As you may have heard, his verses concern our leader’s daughter, Layla; her name is on the lips of every man, woman and child in the land. It is not only an affront to public decency, it is a slur on her honour and dignity. We ask, therefore, that you apprehend this rogue and put an end to this business, so that both Layla and the members of our tribe may be safe from this most pernicious affliction.’
As soon as the delegate had finished speaking, the Minister rose from his chair, unsheathed his sword and showed it to the members of the delegation. ‘Tame the madman with this, if you can’, he said. ‘And I wish you well.’
Now the Minister’s words were overheard by a member of Majnun’s tribe, the Banu Amir, who happened to be at court that day. Wasting no time, he rushed to tell the old Sayyid, Majnun’s father, what he had heard.
‘Layla’s tribe are out for Majnun’s blood,’ he cried; ‘The Caliph’s Chief Minister has sanctioned this business himself. I was there when it happened: the man was like a dragon possessed, breathing fire and spewing threats. We must warn Majnun before it is too late. A well has opened up in the middle of his path; unless we take the blindfold from his eyes, he will fall into it and be lost for ever.’
The informant’s words pierced the old man’s heart like a hundred arrows. Fearing for his son’s life, he sent several of his men to find him and bring him to safety. One by one they came back, empty-handed and disheartened. ‘Majnun is nowhere to be found,’ they said, ‘and we fear that his fate has already been sealed. Either that, or he has been devoured by wild animals, who can tell?’ At which point, Majnun’s friends and relations began to weep and wail as though mourning the dead.
But their kinsman was not dead. Majnun was safe — for the time being — in one of his mountain retreats. He was quite alone; like the Creator before the first act of creation, Majnun was a ‘hidden treasure, waiting to be discovered’. He had no idea what was happening back in the world of men; indeed, for him that world had all but ceased to exist. Why should it concern him? Had he not abandoned it, given it up, turned his back on it? He had troubles enough of his own, trials and tribulations to fill a thousand such worlds — why should he care about the world he had left behind? How could they help him anyway? He was suffering because he was unable to reach the treasure for which he had given up his life. What good were friends and family at a time like this?
But Majnun did not remain alone and undiscovered. Several days after the delegation had petitioned the Caliph’s minister, a Bedouin from the tribe known as Banu Saad was passing through the area when he saw a huddled figure crouching under a thorn bush. At first, he thought it was a mirage of some sort; after all, who in his right mind would choose to reside in such a desolate, God-forsaken place? But then he saw the figure move and heard it moan. Approaching him cautiously, he said, ‘Who are you and what are you doing here? Is there anything I can do for you?’
He repeated his questions over and over again, but Majnun gave no response. Finally, the Bedouin gave up and went on his way, but as soon as he reached his destination he told his family what he had seen on the road. ‘It was a creature,’ he explained, ‘obviously a madman in great pain, writhing under a thorn bush like a wounded snake. His hair was filthy and dishevelled, his clothes no more than soiled rags, and there was nothing left of his body but skin and bone.’
The news of this man’s encounter with Majnun eventually reached the old Sayyid, who set out at once to find his son and bring him back from the wilderness. When finally he found his son, Majnun was exactly as the Bedouin had described him: pale, emaciated, dirty and incoherent. He wept, stood up, fell down again, groaned, and began to writhe in the dust. The old man bent down, put his hand under his son’s head and looked into his eyes. At first, Majnun did not recognise his father, and it was only when the old Sayyid began to talk that Majnun knew who it was that had come to his aid. And with this recognition came another flood of tears as Majnun clasped his father to his breast and sobbed. Then, when the storm had subsided, he said, ‘Dear Father, forgive me! Do not ask how I am, because you can see that there is not much left of my life. I wish you did not have to see me in this state; to behold your angel face while mine is in the dust fills me with shame so deep, I cannot begin to describe it. Forgive me, Father, but know this too: none of this is my fault. You see, dear one, the thread of my fate lies in the hand of another …’
Chapter 10
Frustration clouding his senses, the old Sayyid tore at his turban and threw it to the ground in despair. His world had crumbled; his day had turned to endless night. He breathed deeply and tried to regain his composure. Drawing on his last reserves of strength and courage, he began to speak: ‘You were once a flower — my flower — but now your petals are crushed and torn and I no longer recognise you! Look at you! You immature, love-sick fool! Who has put this curse on you? What sins have you committed that you should be forced to do such penance? You are falling to your death: tell me, who pushed you over the edge?
‘Yes, you are young, and the follies of youth are to be excused. But folly to this extent? This is not folly — this is pure madness. Have you not suffered enough? Has your heart not felt enough pain? Enough is enough! This passion of yours is destroying you and me and my honour. Why this reckless abandon, this lack of self-control? Can you not see what you are doing to yourself? If you cannot see, then let me be your mirror. Let me show you what you are doing, so that you may stop. Unchain your heart from this self-inflicted slavery! Free your heart and your mind from this sickne
ss you have brought upon yourself!’
The old man caressed his son’s cheek with his trembling fingers. Then, with tears in his eyes, he continued: ‘You won’t even look at me. Am I not your friend? You do not have to be alone, my son. Those who escape and try to remain aloof will always be alone — alone with their grief. You do not have to escape, at least not while there is a place for you in my heart.
‘Do not forget, we are both of the same flesh and blood. While you are moaning for your love, I am mourning for you; while you are tearing your robes in desperation, my heart is being torn in two. When you burn, I burn also; when you cry, I drown in your tears.
‘I beg you, wake up before it is too late. There is still time, still hope. You must never give up hope. Even those little things that seem on the surface to be useless can help you attain salvation, if only you knew. And have faith in God; with faith in Him, even despair can be turned into hope, believe me.
‘Have hope and try to be happy! Mix with those who laugh and joke and make merry: do not shun them! By mixing with those who are happy, you too will find happiness, of this I am certain. It will come slowly at first, but it will come, believe me. Does the mighty mountain not consist of tiny grains of sand? Is the vast ocean not made up of tiny drops of water? With patience, your happiness, too, will grow; it will grow so great that all of the sorrows you now suffer will be forgotten. All you need is time — time and patience.
‘And with time and patience, you will forget her. And rightly so — after all, why do you give your heart to a rose that blossoms without you, while you remain in the dirt? Only a heart of stone could crush a heart like yours, for that is what she has done. And so, she is best forgotten.
