by Fairoz Ahmad
“Of course! It had escaped. Thus, it is missed. Do you want me to continue or do you want to keep interrupting?” the camel asked furiously.
“Yes, yes. Continue,” I mumbled, although I was skeptical of his story.
“As I was explaining, there was a night, which was about seven moons ago. We were chasing an errant word deep in the desert. We found it hiding in a cave which was too small for me to enter. We had it cornered, so my master was not that worried.” And at this point, the camel became wistful, “He went in to retrieve the word, but he never returned.”
“Camel, I am sorry to hear that,” I said, trying to sound apologetic. “What exactly does your master do?”
“He is an architect of words. He builds sentences and transforms them into riddles,” the camel said in earnest.
“There is no such thing, camel,” I cried out in exasperation.
“Because it is a rare occupation. It requires a keen eye and attention to detail. It requires an encyclopedic mind to make sense of the reality one is surrounded with. He once told me that to the untrained eyes, all camels look the same. Even for some camels, they could no longer see the distinction amongst themselves anymore. It is a shame, he said, for camels to be ignorant of such things. And he advised me, ‘You must remember this—the Arabic language has sixteen different words for camels.’ My master was correct for I myself could not remember all of my kind. I remembered him telling me of the one-eye camel they called the banghi, the camel with dark grey skin which lived in the Libyan deserts they called the aberoq, the sensous, white-mouthed camel called the imusha, the camel with no ears that lived in the borders between desert and sea called korurimi and many others I could not remember.”
“And what are you?” I asked.
“I am Ghati. My master used to say, ‘Look at you. What stubby short legs you have. Not as magnificent as the Tibesti, they say. But these people, those who think you are not magnificent, they are wrong. Tell me—can the Tibesti survive carrying as heavy a load as you can, with your short stubby legs and big foot pads, for many, many days? No! The Tibesti only looks magnificent. It is a delicate camel. Useless.’”
And so that was how I learnt he had a name too.
5
There was one night in our journey, a night when the Harmattan produced a fog of sand so dense with heat that we were forced to seek refuge in a cave. Deep inside the crevices of the cave, I could still hear the hiss of the wind as it grazed the rocks at the mouth. And this was how winds erased histories—they ground landscape down to particles of sand. This was also why, unlike kingdoms, deserts could neither be colonised nor conquered. For kingdoms declined neither because of trade, nor for want of military might. They declined because they had allowed themselves to be mapped. The Malay kingdoms of the past realised too late that maps, as a function of knowledge, become an instrumental form of power. It is a power determined to exert control over an unknown geography. Like the encyclopedia, maps arouse the same dream of completeness and mastery over an inaccessible totality.
Ghati is now asleep. Once, it was a fine-looking camel, with eyes so clear that hues of sunlight could pass through unadulterated. Its eyes are now faded, and its furs have become a receptacle of dust, dirt and broken dreams over the years. Its movements, over the days I had been with him, had slowed down considerably. The desert is an unwelcoming place, even to its kind. And while resting in the cave, I recalled again an old history:
There was an old book, which was copied and later displayed. There was a history to this book, my master used to say. It is a history that continued long after the public dimensions of its history had diminished into a tale, for this is how histories succumb to time. Amir Hamzah, engulfed by guilt over his deception, renounced his profession and traveled to England to retrieve his ode. He had realised that the pen deceives. It tells lies. Spins tales. Weaves stories. The sword, however, is clearer in its deeds. Without pen and paper, he was just a man with many thoughts. He soon descended into poverty. In the ship, the captain asked the destitute what he sought for. But the destitute asked, “How do you know the way to England?”
“I seek Sirius, the brightest star. And what do you seek?” the captain repeated.
“I seek a book. It was only after losing a book that I gained knowledge,” Amir Hamzah replied in a cryptic tone.
“Seek solace in religion. We have a priest here. He could help you. The mark of a religious man can be seen in how he governs himself.”
“If religion’s role is to govern humans’ behaviour, then truly the beasts are the men of religion.”
“Do you not fear God?”
“No. I only fear the consecration of my words.”
Hearing this, the outraged captain ordered the disbeliever killed and his thoughts drowned.
6
The next morning, when the Harmattan cleared, I asked the camel what he most feared of. Death? Illness? God?
“No. None of these things,” he replied, looking at me with lethargic eyes.
“What then do you fear?” I demanded.
He refused to tell me.
7
On the ninth day, Ghati stopped us and said, “Look there. It is not a good sign. It has been a long while since I have seen a dying sun soaked so deep in red. So deep that I could not see its edges. On the evening I last saw this, my master died soon after. It is an evil omen.”
“Then we must make haste, Ghati! We must move fast! I feel we have been walking in circles. It seemed that we have passed the same spot a few days ago,” I cried out in exasperation.
“It is not possible that we had walked in circles, since I know the desert routes well,” Ghati replied, in a confident tone. This annoyed me more. But not wishing to offend him, since I did not know the way myself, I kept quiet. Ghati, however, continued to speak.
In the desert, senses detect good and evil, which exists everywhere. Within the sands. In the rocks. Blended with the darkness. By the direction of the wind. By the shape and colours of the dying sun. The thickness of the clouds. The music the night makes. So the camel spoke of caravan raiders who rode only when the winds from the northwest blow, for the wind fetches with it a haze that cloaks the impending raid. He spoke of offerings of water and food to appease spirits and pointed out evidence they exist: “The offerings disappear the next morning.”
“Such things are forbidden in Islam,” I pointed out curtly.
“Yet it works. No one here understands the Quran well enough to make charms out of it. And the spirits cannot be curtailed by what is unintelligible,” Ghati explained. And then he pounced, “Yet, you came here, dog, because of the interpretation of winds.”
“I had no options left. I am ashamed to have to clutch the suggestion of the cat but that is all I have now,” I admitted. “But at times, I have become uncertain of my journey for I am slowly forgetting how he smells like. I am afraid my faith in God will diminish when my loyalty to my master disappears.”
“What does it mean to be a Muslim to you? It has increasingly become unclear to me. Does your wish stem from the faith of your master? Or will it weaken along with your memories of him?”
“I do not know. Sometimes, I feel nearer to Him. But on days when the face of the water is smooth, I see myself in the wetness of its eyes and doubt if He would ever love me as much as He loves the others.”
“You sought His Love but are not clear of the ways to His Heart. Perhaps, the asymmetries of life would break us, rather than God, illness or death,” Ghati reflected. And then he stopped and said, “I think we are near our destination. Listen to the sound.”
To survive in the desert, you need to know where water resides. You also need to know the waltz between sand and wind. A grain is picked by the wind and lands elsewhere, displacing more grains into the air. The tempo also marks the death of the wind—for the sand’s movement, which sparks the wind into further motion, also kills with the friction it creates. The waltz tells you the kind of sand you are stepping on
. Here, one can be a connoisseur of nature, just as one examines the body of a wine by rolling the liquid over one’s tongue, awakening taste spots. Smooth well-rounded closely packed highly polished perfect-sphere dry. In the desert, one does not speak of locations in terms of space but of the sound sand makes when its character interacts with the wind.
Thus, on the twelfth day of our journey, Ghati told me, “The wind lives there, on the dune which moans when the evening winds arrive. However, I hope you do not mind if you visit him alone, for I am rather tired and would like to take a rest.”
8
At the age of twenty five, he wore the veil. No one had seen his face since, even his most intimate friends. And they too, wore this strip of indigo cloth across their faces. This is all one could ever see of the Tuareg men, the People of the Sand.
He remembered the dancing, the music, the beaten drums that day as his father beamed and his mother proclaimed, “You are a man now.” For amongst the Tuareg, the women were never veiled, only the men. And this was a mystery the Tuareg never reveals. Or perhaps they themselves do not know. And when you point out that the Quran mentions only of women who veiled but not men, they shrugged it away and laugh it off. Or they will deflect and say, “the men amongst the desert Arabs veil their faces too.” You think this explains, until you realise that the Arabs veiled to protect themselves from the sun and sand. The veiling of the Tuareg men, however, runs deeper.
At night and only when alone, he would remove the veil and peer at random patches of little indigo stains which had been permanently etched on his smooth black skin over the years. He wondered if the others had this problem. But men do not speak of such things and like many other mysteries in the desert, take things as they are. Thus, many decades ago, when he walked into the mist and felt himself transform into the Wind, they had asked, “How was this possible?” He told them that it was one of the many mysteries of the desert, and so that was that.
That dawn, after prayers, he stood with his bare feet on the sand, still cooled by the fading night. He had done this every day for the past forty years, ever since he had become a man and the past twenty seven years, after he had transformed into the Wind. And he was letting his magnificent indigo robes flail to make it look all the more impressive, when he saw a silhouette approach him.
“Assalamualaikum,” the Wind greeted the dog.
“Waalaikumsalam,” the dog replied. “They say you are the wind from which October flows.”
“Yes, they are right,” the Wind replied.
“I apologise for my rudeness, but you look just like any other man. You don’t look any different from the other Tuareg.”
“You are right. But this is how my form takes in this era. Let me make us tea.”
“Thank you. But I don’t drink tea. I am a dog.”
“I can see that you are a dog. Nonetheless, you should try it still. I make good tea,” the Wind insisted. “The secret to making good tea lies in many dimensions. It depends on how long you let the water boil, the circumference of the pot, the size of the leaves, how they were dried and the timing in which the leaves enter the water,” the Wind muttered as he busied himself with the accouterments.
As the Wind made tea, I looked around his tent and saw hundreds of empty glass bottles of various sizes, age and shapes. “What are those glass bottles for?” I asked, perplexed over such an extensive collection.
“They are the various winds which I had to temporarily keep, due to certain mischief and foolishness on their part. This should not be a surprise to you, for since the beginning of Time, Man has always sought to control wind.” And then he asked me, “Where is your friend, the camel? I was expecting the both of you. You took longer than required. Ever since you started your journey, I had rooted myself here so as to make your expedition easier.”
“He is resting nearby. Were you expecting us?”
“No. But since you were expecting me, it would be unbecoming of me to not expect you. You could have reached here four days ago. Unfortunately, you went in circles twice.”
But before I could reply, the Wind placed a cup of tea in front of me and said, “Try this.” I approached the cup and licked the top layer. A few seconds later, I said, “It tastes bitter.”
“Just like life. You came here to ask if I could help your master. What do you think I could do?” the Wind asked.
“I do not know. Could you not do something within your powers to revive him, or reverse the situation?” And in desperation, I said, “He is a good person. A good Muslim. I know him.”
“You speak as if you are one. But how could that be? You cannot pray nor could you perform the deeds that any Muslim should. Could you for example, recite the words of prayers, or perform the pilgrimage? It is one of those things that cannot be changed,” the Wind said as he made another round of tea from a fresh pot. “But why do you worry so much? Animals like you will go to heaven.”
“There is something more that I would like to feel. To be part of something bigger.”
“You may get disappointed. You should count your luck, if you could count. Some animals are not so lucky. We detest them so much that it sickens us to even touch them, like the jerboa. Whatever grain or food that the jerboa touches must be destroyed. No one knew why we detest the jerboa. I learnt to detest them from my father, who learnt to detest it from his father. Even after I became the Wind, my prejudices stuck. You would have no ill feelings towards pigs had your master not been a Muslim. This is how life is. Here, have another cup,” he gestured, pushing a new cup of tea towards me.
I reluctantly approached the cup, disappointed over the Wind’s inability to assist me. “It is different. It tastes sweeter this time around,” I said as I finished the drink.
“Just like love. Dog, I have buried cities, eaten the sun and toppled entire forests. I, however, do not control the consequences of my actions. Cause and effect are under His purview for did you not hear that He knows the creeping of a black ant across a great stone on a lightless night, and the motion in the air of a particle of dust on a windy day? He knows the concealed and the yet more hidden, the buried recesses of hearts, the movement of thought, and the opacities of the innermost soul.”
“So there is really nothing else that can be done?” I asked again.
The Wind paused for a while and said, “I could provide some measure of limited assistance, within the boundaries of my will, if you could offer me an appropriate gift.”
“The only gift I could offer to you is the gift of stories.”
“Then it is a gift I would consider appropriate for this time and place,” the Wind responded.
After a moment of silence, I said, “Dear Tuareg, this is a story of the wind. And it is a tribute to you. Let me tell you the tale.”
9
The Palace of Glass
There once was a king who lived in a Palace of Glass. At the centre of the Palace of Glass was the Hall of a Thousand Mirrors. At the centre of the Hall of a Thousand Mirrors was a throne forged from unbreakable lead crystals. The King sat on this throne every morning. He knew that one day, his Palace of Glass would crack and shatter. He knew that one day, the Hall of a Thousand Mirrors would cease to reflect the riches of his palace a thousand times over. His throne, however, would remain unbreakable.
As the years passed, the King began yearning to learn about the richness of the world and the layers of life. He yearned to break free from the illusion of depth and the distortions of space created by his Palace of Glass. One day, as he was sitting on his glass throne, his vizier brought him seven glass jars, each filled with a different colour.
“Your Majesty, we had trapped an angel, which now resides in these seven jars. And it wishes to speak to you.”
“Thus, let him speak,” the King commanded.
The red jar spoke first, “O Wise King, I am created from light and your Palace of Glass has fragmented me into seven colours. I seek your kindness. I seek my release from your Palace of Glass.”
“We will release you only if you fulfill Our condition,” the King replied.
“O Wise King, tell me what you wish for,” asked the yellow jar. And the green jar repeated, “Tell me what you wish for in exchange for my release.”
“We wish to learn about life. We wish to live through the ages and see the world. We wish to see the age of enchantment, the age of discovery and the age of decline. We wish to experience all these. Only then shall We release you.”
And the blue jar replied, “Then you shall have your wish. You will live through the ages. You will live through the age of enchantment, the age of discovery and the age of decline.” But the indigo jar warned, “However, remember your promise—that when the ages end, you will release me.”
When the King woke up the next morning, he found himself on a ship and dressed in the garbs of a slave. “Take this and keep it safe, boy,” a burly man thundered from behind, handing him a bag made of the skin of sheep.
“What is this?” the King from the Palace of Glass asked.
But the burly man thundered again, “On this ship, thou shalt address me as King. For I am Odysseus, King of Ithaca. This is a gift from Aeolus, the King of Winds. In this bag Aeolus has safely secured Boreas—the north wind, Notos—the south wind and Eurus—the east wind. Protect it boy, if we want a safe journey home to Ithaca. The journey will a tempest be if the three winds escaped.”
That night however, he was accosted by the crew of the ship, who demanded the bag. “Give it to us, boy! There is gold in thy bag.”
“There is no gold in this bag. Only the winds of Aeolus,” the King insisted.
The crew roared with laughter and threatened, “Then we shall kill thee. We shall kill thee for refusing. And for treating us like fools!”
But before the men could harm the King, the wind Zephyros rocked the ship and he fell overboard. Waking up on an island, Zephyros spoke, “O King of the Palace of Glass. In your journey through the ages, you will be visited by four winds. And when I next see you again, it will mark the end of your journey.”
