— If things go on this way the kingdom will be destroyed, Wazir-e Azam.
After some thought, Khiradmand said, ‘Then come, let us all go together. I hope he will not turn down our prayer.’
The Sultan did not allow anyone but Khiradmand to enter his chamber. This old man had contributed in no small measure to the expansion of his kingdom.
Khiradmand found the Sultan looking gaunt and pale, his eyes sunken. He had served the Sultan and even his father for many years. Weeping at the Sultan’s appearance, the old man crumpled at his feet. — Why did I not die before seeing you in this state, janab? What sin have I committed to be subjected to this sight?
Helping the old man to his feet, the Sultan said, ‘You’re pleased to see me, aren’t you? Now please leave me alone.’
Holding his hand, Khiradmand said through his tears, ‘Just answer one question, janab.’
— What is it?
— Why did you withdraw this way, janab?
— What’s wrong with that?
— The Sultanate is no longer as it used to be, janab. The big fish are eating the small fish, and themselves being eaten by bigger fish. Think about the hard work that your ancestors had to do to build this kingdom. Is it right to let it be destroyed? Why did you have to take this decision? What ails you? Your servant is ready to do anything for you.
— I know, Khiradmand, that you can even lay down your life for me. But there is no one who can help me today.
— Why not, janab?
— I don’t have the language to convey the deep sorrow that pervades my heart. The important thing is that I’m getting older, and Judgement Day is not far away.
— You are in your youth compared to my age, janab.
— I have no son, Khiradmand. Who will succeed me, then? No one can understand this pain. That is why I have withdrawn. I am no longer interested in this Sultanate.
— What are you saying, huzoor?
— Yes, Khiradmand, I want to go away to a desolate mountain somewhere. I shall spend the rest of my days there in the service of the Lord. I want to stand before him with a pure heart on Judgement Day, Khiradmand.
— Have faith in Khuda, janab.
— Will he give me a son? The Sultan gripped Khiradmand’s arm tightly. — Will Allah be kind to me?
— What can I tell huzoor that he doesn’t know already? He created eighteen thousand worlds by uttering a single word, and you think he can’t give you a son? My request to you is that you assume all your responsibilities once more, or else the kingdom will be destroyed. Pardon my insolence, but you will have to answer for this on Judgement Day otherwise. And all the prayers that you have sent up to the Lord will be of no use either.
— Why not? The Sultan’s eyes looked even more sorrowful.
— You say you want to go away to the mountains. Is this what a Sultan should be doing? The Lord has given him other tasks, huzoor. The Sultan will rule over his kingdom and ensure everyone’s welfare. That’s what you have been doing all this while. It is the Lord’s wish that you perform the duties of the Sultan. You must always keep Khuda in your mind, but you must complete the tasks he has assigned to you. Keep your faith in him. He is certain to give you what you want.
The Sultan sat in silence for a long time. Then he said, ‘Tell all the ministers to come tomorrow.’
Khiradmand almost started dancing. — As long as this world and paradise are in existence, huzoor, so is your throne.
Peace returned to the Sultan’s kingdom.
— I’ve heard this story somewhere, I said.
‘Entirely possible,’ smiled Al-Mustasimi. ‘Stories often move from one place to another, Shaikh. But you do know, don’t you, that all old stories become new again?’
— How, janab?
— Let’s say a story from Konya reaches Damascus. Now it starts living a different life in Damascus. The story has a new wife, new children. It is no longer a story from Konya. But still it can be recognized, do you know why? By its eyes. Wherever you go, no matter how much you change, the language of your eyes will remain unaltered. Then why should the language of a story’s eyes change, janab?
— How strange. The eyes of a story?
— Stories look at people. What do they look with? Eyes, of course.
— What did the Sultan do then?
— His kingdom ran smoothly. One day, while reading a book, the Sultan came across some striking lines.
— What were they?
— O agonized, helpless man, surrender yourself to the Lord. Go to the cemetery and pray to him. Never forget that you are nothing compared to him. Remember that many powerful sultans and navabs have been born in this world and left it too, there is no sign of them even in the dust anymore. No one knows of them. You are a mere actor in a puppet show.
— And then?
— One night the Sultan left the palace in disguise without informing anyone. He walked to the graveyard outside the city. A terrible storm sprang up. The violent wind swept up everything in its path. But the Sultan did not attempt to return. He could see a flame in the distance, unwavering despite the storm. Who had ever seen such a miraculous sight? The Sultan walked on. Near the flame, he discovered four dervishes sitting with their heads tucked between their knees. Their bodies were trembling. Other than this occasional quivering, they seemed to be dead. Suddenly the Sultan felt that these four fakirs were there to pray to Allah on his behalf, and that he was bound to sire a son. The very next moment, though, he was wracked by doubt.
— Why?
— What if they were the devil’s followers?
— What happened after that, janab?
— The Sultan hid himself near the fakirs, so as to watch them and listen to them. The place was empty except for the roaring of the wind, which was deeper than silence. One of the fakirs sent up a Zikr, ‘Allahu Akbar!’ The other three dervishes raised their heads to look at him. Then they all fell silent again. Lighting hookahs, they waved the smoke away.
— And the Sultan?
— He wasn’t a Sultan anymore, Shaikh, just an observer. Such is the Lord’s might, he can turn a sultan into a worm.
— And then?
— One of the dervishes said, ‘Friends, we have witnessed many ups and downs in life, travelled a great deal. We don’t even know one another. And yet tonight the four of us are sitting here together. None of us knows what tomorrow will bring. We have to spend the night together. I have a proposal.
— What is it? One of the others asked.
— Can’t we tell one another the stories of our long lives? We can always sleep at daybreak.
— Not a bad idea, another of the dervishes said with a smile.
Three of the dervishes turned to the one who had called out to the Lord. ‘Why don’t you start?’ they said.
Shaikh, I shall tell you the first dervish’s story tomorrow evening. Go to bed now. You have to go out with Kimia tomorrow morning.
FIVE
It’s our second evening, Shaikh. Let us hear the first dervish tell his story.
The dervish looked at the sky for some time and then said, ‘Then allow me to tell you the story.’
— Please begin, the other three dervishes said in unison.
— You’ve heard of Khvajah Ahmad, the merchant from Yemen, haven’t you?
— Zaroor.
— He is my father. His business interests were spread out across the world. My only sister moved to a different city after her marriage. My father ensured an education for me, but destiny dealt a hidden blow.
— What happened? One of the dervishes asked.
— My parents died when I was fourteen. I became an orphan. But who else could manage my father’s business besides me? I had to shoulder the entire responsibility at that age. You cannot even imagine how much wealth Khvajah Ahmad had left behind. I started life in my own way. I was just fourteen, I had seen nothing of the world. I believed everything that people told me. Soon I was surrounded by people who cons
tantly extolled my abilities and led me into a life of pleasure. They taught me to enjoy wine and the company of women. And I was swept away in this sea of sensual happiness. As you know, the Devil comes to us in the guise of humans. Once you have been captivated by the flesh of a woman, your life goes out of control. I began to squander my father’s accumulated wealth on wine, women and gambling.
— Which means you became bankrupt eventually, didn’t you? Another of the dervishes asked with a smile.
— This was the Lord’s way of teaching me a lesson. Those who had enjoyed themselves on my money were the first to leave. They didn’t even spare a glance for me anymore. No money, no friends, not even two meals a day—this was my condition as I wandered about on the roads. One day, a friend who was passing didn’t even acknowledge me when I called out to him. I was close to starving to death. That was when I decided to go to my sister. But I was ashamed of the fact that I had not enquired after her even once after the death of my father.
— That’s what happens, Shaikh, we don’t remember the ones closest to us when we’re happy, one of the other dervishes said.
— Yes, every hour of pleasure is actually the hour of the devil, sighed another of the dervishes.
— I arrived at my sister’s house. She broke down in tears and put her arms around me when she saw that I was a pauper now. How did it happen, she kept asking me. My guilt didn’t let me answer. My sister wiped away all my pain with her love and affection. The delicious food and rest at her house refreshed me. But fate didn’t let me enjoy this very long.
— Why should it? One of the dervishes smiled. — If you make even a single mistake, the Lord will test you many times before he lets you finish life’s journey.
— You’re right, Shaikh.
The first dervish was sunk in thought for a long time.
— Finish your story, Shaikh.
— Yes. One day my sister told me . . .
— The Lord has given you a new life, Bhaijaan. I don’t want to be parted from you anymore.
— I don’t want to go away from you either. I have no wish to die in some barren land somewhere.
— But you must find yourself something to do.
— Do what?
— What will people say if you don’t earn a living? They will say, first he frittered away his father’s wealth, and now he’s living off his brother-in-law. Our parents will be brought into dishonour, Bhaijaan. So you must be engaged in some kind of work.
— That’s what I’d like too. You are my mother now, I’ll do as you say.
— My sister kissed my forehead and left. She was back soon with several of her maids. They placed fifty sacks filled with gold coins in front of me. My sister said . . .
— A caravan of merchants will be leaving for Damascus in a day or two. I want you to go with them. You can use these coins to buy goods that you can sell at a profit in Damascus. But first we must find an honest merchant.
— Why?
— You must entrust all your goods to him so that he can sell them. The merchants will travel by sea, but you will go on horseback. You must make sure he accounts for every penny he has received for your goods.
— I followed my sister’s instructions scrupulously. The merchants’ ship sailed two days later. I left on horseback for Damascus with some food. It was not a long journey. It was night when I arrived, and the gates to the city were closed.
— How about some kumis, Shaikh? Yaqut al-Mustasimi asked me.
— The story . . .
— The story can continue over a drink. Did you know that those who drink kumis never harm anyone?
— I didn’t know that.
— The ancients told us all this.
Travelling around Turkistan, truth be told, I fell in love with kumis. It’s made by fermenting the milk of a mare. Mare’s milk is far superior to cow’s milk in some respects. I learnt all this only when I came to Turkistan. Mare’s milk is lower on fat and higher on sugar, which makes fermentation very easy. But kumis cannot be made from any mare’s milk. She must be allowed to roam in open fields, and she must have given birth to at least two foals before being milked. The milk can be collected two months after she gives birth, and she must be given clean surroundings in the open to live in. She must be fed regularly, given plenty of water to drink, and have a diet of plants rich in sugar.
Sipping his kumis, Yaqut al-Mustasimi resumed his story.
— Now hear the dervish tell the rest of the story, Shaikh.
— Very well.
The dervish continued his tale. — The sentries refused to open the gate despite all my requests. I dismounted from my horse, threw the reins on the ground, and sat down. Such deep silence! I simply couldn’t sleep, I just kept pacing up and down, and the night deepened. Suddenly, something strange happened.
— What?
— An enormous chest was let down over the wall at the end of a rope. I thought it was a miracle. Had the Lord been kind and sent me a huge chest of jewels?
— The Lord is merciful, said one of the dervishes.
— Allahu Akbar. The other two dervishes joined the Zikr.
— It was a wooden chest. I opened it hastily, and my eyes nearly popped out.
— What sort of jewels did it hold, Shaikh?
— Just the one. I cannot explain how beautiful she was. But she was injured, and the blood on her garments had not dried yet. I couldn’t turn my eyes away from her beauty. She was muttering some words. Lowering my face to hers, I heard her saying, ‘So this is how you pay me back for being good to you, devil? Kill me then, kill me. Allah will ensure justice.’ Unknown to myself, I said, ‘Which devil would want to kill such a beautiful woman? And yet she’s talking about him.’
— And then?
— When the woman heard me speak she drew her veil aside to look at me. As you know, a single glance can turn the world upside down. Love is born. I almost fainted.
— No one faints, Shaikh, said one of the dervishes, laughing. — They only pretend to faint.
— Mashallah! So true! Another of the dervishes slapped his own thigh.
— I asked her, ‘Who are you? Who has tortured you like this?’ And she replied in a faint voice . . .
— The Lord is merciful. I cannot talk anymore. When I die please bury me in this chest, somewhere where no one can find me, where no one can speak ill of me. That is all I pray. The Lord shall take care of you.
Yaqut al-Mustasimi paused, taking slow sips of his kumis. An apprentice calligraphist was playing the flute in his workshop downstairs. Mustasimi nodded in time as he drank. Finally he said, ‘How colourless the sunlight is, Shaikh. The walls have no colour either. Love ends. The light keeps changing. I need his compassion even more than I had imagined, Shaikh. I have often prayed to Allah, have mercy. How can I continue with my tale without his mercy?
— Finish the story, janab, dawn is near, I said.
— Then hear it the way the dervish told it. Who am I to speak on his behalf?
The dervish resumed his story. — I kept the chest under my protection. Where could I have gone at that hour of the night? Finally morning came with the call of the rooster and the Muezzin’s azaan. Completing the early-morning namaz, I entered the city on horseback with the chest. Had I been by myself I would have stayed at an inn. But there was a woman inside the chest. So I had to rent a house. The servant was excellent. When I told him all the details, he told me of a doctor who was well versed in surgery. Tracking down his house from the address, I arrived there. The aged doctor asked, running his hand through his beard . . .
— Alive or dead?
— Alive.
— Good, we might be able to do something then. Who is she?
— My wife.
— Everyone says that. The doctor, named Insha, smiled toothlessly. — Anyone who brings a woman to Damascus claims she is his wife. A regular affair. Which of your wives is she?
— The first and only one, janab.
— How stra
nge! You’re satisfied with just one?
— Yes. I’m in Damascus on business. I’ve brought my wife along because I love her so much.
— How long have you been married?
— Two years.
Insha the doctor burst into laughter. — Let five years pass. Then the bitter taste will creep in. Now tell me what happened . . .
— When night fell we stopped our journey to take shelter beneath a tree. At midnight we were attacked by dacoits. Not only did they take all we had, they also left my wife badly wounded. I entered the city this morning. I’ve been told no one can match you as a surgeon. My wife’s life will be saved if you treat her.
Without another word the doctor accompanied me home. Examining the woman, he said, ‘The wounds are very serious, but if Allah so wills it, she will recover in forty days.’
Soaking neem leaves in water, he washed her wounds with it, stitching some of them, applying ointment on others and bandaging them. Stroking her forehead, he said, ‘I’ll change the bandages every morning. Make sure your wife rests all day. Give her some strong chicken soup every day.’
— Are you sleepy, Shaikh? Yaqut al-Mustasimi asked me.
— No.
— Do you want to hear the entire story tonight?
— I do.
— You’ll go with Kimia tomorrow morning to herd the sheep, won’t you?
— I will.
— Then continue with your story, dervish.
— Very well. I had earned handsomely from the sale of the goods I had brought to Damascus. But all of it was spent on the woman’s treatment. Insha the doctor would visit every day. Gradually the beautiful woman regained her health. I felt indescribably happy. One day she told me . . .
— Mian.
— Yes?
— A question.
— Yes?
— If you want me to be happy, you’ll do whatever I ask you to do, won’t you?
— Of course.
— You must never ask why.
— Why not?
— Because you’ll have to repent if you do.
A Mirrored Life Page 4
