A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

— There’s nothing worse than remorse in life.

  — Then don’t ask me any questions.

  One of the dervishes said, ‘Clearly you were in a difficult situation.’

  — Yes, but I never asked her any questions. Meanwhile, I was running out of money. I didn’t know anyone in Damascus. My anxiety grew. It was probably because she understood this that she said one day . . .

  — I will never forget all that you’ve done for me.

  — I love you.

  Smiling, she said, ‘Forget about love. People do things for one another. These are the Lord’s instructions. What else are you a Muslim for? Now listen to me . . .

  — Tell me.

  — I cannot pay you back all the money you have spent on me.

  — Have I ever asked you to?

  — No, but I can make out you’re worried. What you can do is . . .

  Smiling, I said, ‘Throw you out?’

  — You cannot do that. Nor shall I let that happen. But there’s something you can do . . .

  — What is that?

  — Get me a sheet of paper, a pen and some ink.

  — Why?

  — The condition was that you wouldn’t ask questions.

  — I brought her paper, a pen and an ink pot. Writing a note, she told me, ‘There’s a large palace on the road leading to the fort. Sidi Bahar lives there. This letter must reach his hands.’

  Suddenly Yaqut al-Mustasimi rose to his feet.

  — Aren’t you going to finish the story? I asked.

  — It’s very late, Shaikh. Kimia cannot sleep till I get back. A foundling, you see. She has no one of her own. And moreover, this qissa is very long. It has tired me out.

  — Then you’d better go to bed.

  — Can I ask you something, Shaikh?

  — Of course.

  — Do you like Kimia?

  — Very much, I said effusively.

  — In what way do you like her? Like a lover or like a sister?

  I was silent. Placing his hand on my shoulder, Yaqut al-Mustasimi said, ‘Will you take her with you?’

  — Where?

  — On your journey. I shan’t live much longer. Who will take care of her, Shaikh?

  SIX

  We are welcoming our third evening, Shaikh Ibn Battuta. The first dervish reached Sidi Bahar’s palace to deliver the beautiful woman’s letter. Listen to his story while you sip your kumis.

  — Carry on, janab.

  The dervish continued. — A young black man greeted me, disappearing inside the palace with the letter. He came back a little later, followed by eleven slaves balancing muslin-covered pots on their heads. He directed them to accompany me home and deliver the vessels. The eleven pots were filled to the brim with gold coins. The woman only said, ‘You needn’t worry about expenses anymore.’ But this money was now a cause for concern . . .

  — Naturally, said one of the dervishes.

  — It’s very suspicious for a stranger to give you so much money simply on the strength of a letter, without asking any questions. Didn’t you ask her what was going on?

  — Questions were prohibited, as you know. But I was not at peace. One day she told me, ‘I don’t like seeing you in these clothes. Go to the market and buy some stylish clothes at Yusuf’s shop.’

  — Did you go?

  — Yes, I couldn’t disobey her instructions. The sight of Yusuf in his saffron clothes warmed my heart. His conversation attracted me like a magnet. He asked me who I was and where I had come from. I was forced to lie. Suddenly he held my arm, saying . . .

  — I’ve never liked anyone as much as you, janab.

  — Khuda meherban!

  — Stay with me tonight. Some of my friends are coming too.

  — So you stayed the night? One of the dervishes asked.

  — No . . . no. How could I stay out all night without seeking the beautiful woman’s permission? I told her everything when I went back home. She said, ‘Since he’s invited you, you must go. Don’t worry about me. The Lord will look after me.’

  — I do not wish to leave you here alone. But now you’re saying . . . Yet my heart tells me . . .

  — Tells you what? She laughed, jiggling her knees.

  — I couldn’t protest any more.

  — Alas! One of the dervishes smacked himself on the forehead. — So you abandoned a beautiful woman for the company of a shopkeeper!

  — It was her command.

  — Women issue many commands, must each and every one be followed? Anyway, go on.

  — I was overwhelmed by Yusuf’s hospitality. Such a huge garden, a waterfall, flowering plants. Saqis distributing wine in crystal goblets. Four beautiful young men began to sing. One is seldom fortunate enough to spend the night with such young men these days. The lustre of their chests and buttocks beats many beautiful women.

  — Did you spend the night with any of them?

  — No.

  — Why not?

  — My beautiful woman was alone at home . . . I kept recalling her face. And to tell the truth, I was never attracted to beautiful young men.

  Yaqut al-Mustasimi was becoming drowsy. Pouring kumis into his glass, I said, ‘Pardon my insolence, but may I ask a question?’

  — Of course.

  — While travelling to Anatolia I heard many people say that Maulana was a homosexual. What is your opinion? Mustasimi began to tremble. Then he shouted, ‘Is this all you want to know about Maulana?’

  — No.

  — Then why do you ask? Is it because he spent forty days in a room with Shams Tabrizi? Is it because Hussamuddin Chalabi wrote down his Masnavi from Maulana’s oral version? Then you should know, Shaikh, that Maulana made love with his second wife Kira Khatun eighty times during a single night. Never mind all that, what is your view on homosexuality, Shaikh?

  — Homosexuality is profane, janab.

  — Why?

  — It is not desired by nature.

  — Who says this? Who are they who say this? Were you the one who decided the kind of sexual desire you were born with, Shaikh? Isn’t it nature who gave birth to you that way? There are many people who are equally attracted to women and men. Their mother is nature. Who are they? What will you call them? Will you exclude them from society?

  — But this form of sexual desire is not accepted by society.

  — If you think about acceptance or rejection by society, you won’t be able to read my munaqib about Maulana, Shaikh. Do you want to hear the rest of the story?

  — Yes, tell me.

  — Then let us listen to what the first dervish is saying . . .

  — As we were in raptures over the music and the wine, Yusuf suddenly said, ‘I have nothing to hide from you, my friend. Let me send for my beloved then. My life is colourless without her.’

  — No celebration is possible without your mashuqa, my friend. Please ask her to join us, I said.

  — I know what you saw, said one of the dervishes.

  — You do?

  — A woman looking like a black witch came out from behind the curtain, isn’t that right?

  — Yes. How did you know?

  — The Lord told me. Go on.

  — How could a handsome man like Yusuf have such an ugly lover? The question ate away at me. After three days and nights immersed in the flow of music and wine, I returned home guiltily. When I asked the beautiful woman to forgive me, she said, ‘You were right. You cannot return till the host permits you to. Now you have one more task.’

  — What’s that?

  — Aren’t you going to invite your friend? You have to do twice as much as he did for you. Don’t worry about the expenses, the Lord will make the arrangements.

  — Although Yusuf refused at first, he agreed eventually. But on my way back I wondered what I had with which to keep him happy. He would visit that evening, I had hardly any means to entertain him.

  — But all the arrangements had been made, hadn’t they? One of the dervishes asked with a s
mile.

  — Yes, I was astonished as I approached my house. The road had been washed, there wasn’t a trace of filth anywhere. When I entered I discovered patterned carpets, cushions in different colours, vases filled with flowers, syringes to sprinkle rosewater, vials of expensive perfume, bowls of paan, camphor flames in golden lamps. A regal sight. The fragrance of cooking was everywhere.

  — And then? One of the dervishes asked.

  — Yusuf arrived on time. Looking for the beautiful woman in order to introduce them to each other, I found her in the kitchen. She was dressed plainly, a scarf covering her head. She was giving instructions on how and when the food was to be served. When I saw her I felt that a woman whose beauty comes from the Lord needs no other embellishment. She is always a full moon. Charmed by the ease with which she got the cooks to do her bidding, I showered effusive praise on her.

  — And you must have heard abuse in return. Women are very strange, Shaikh. They mope if you don’t say anything, but if you praise them . . .

  — Do you know what she told me? ‘I haven’t done anything to deserve such praise. You shouldn’t have left your guest alone, janab. What must he be thinking? You must invite his beloved too. Or else he will be lonely.’ Yusuf looked very eager when I suggested sending for his mashuqa. I sent a eunuch with a palanquin to fetch her.

  One of the dervishes burst into laughter.

  — Why do you laugh? The first dervish asked.

  — I’ve been troubled by a question for some time. Do any of you know the answer?

  — What is it?

  — Does becoming a eunuch kill desire?

  All four dervishes lowered their heads. The questioner continued, ‘Do you know the source of desire?’

  — The body, said one of the dervishes.

  — And where does the body come from? From Khuda’s pen, right?

  — Yes, he writes us.

  — Aren’t the memories stored in that pen passed on to our bodies? Can anyone forget them even as a eunuch? Even if they’ve lost the ability they can still feel the pleasure, can’t they?

  — Yes.

  — Then what do we conclude?

  — What?

  — The eunuch is the observer who has not been told by Allah to apply his abilities. In our old age we men become eunuchs too, but does that mean we don’t enjoy the beauty of women? I have often been aroused by the sight of a pair of grapes in contact with muslin.

  — Two grapes at the tip of two peaches, exclaimed one of the other dervishes.

  — Marhabba! Now finish your story, Shaikh.

  — Three days and three nights of pleasure passed in a flash. Not once did I drink with Yusuf and his lover, lest the beautiful woman in my house be angry. On the fourth day Yusuf sought to take my leave, requesting me to drink with him. I could not turn down a guest’s last request. That night we fell asleep drinking.

  Yaqut al-Mustasimi sat in silence for a long time. Drowsily he said, ‘I’m sleepy too, Shaikh.’

  — Will the story remain unfinished tonight too?

  — I can’t write my munaqib quickly.

  — Why not?

  — Like a frightened deer Maulana keeps running away from me.

  — But I cannot stay here much longer.

  — I know. You have to see the entire world. I am old. Let me rest tonight. I will work harder on the munaqib from tomorrow, and tell you the dervish’s story in the evening too.

  — But janab, it will take a long time to copy your munaqib after you’ve finished it.

  — I’ll give you the original. Al-Mustasimi smiled.

  — What are you saying?

  — The original will remain in the book in my heart. Then I will go to my grave. All the words will mingle with the earth. The story of Maulana’s life will also be buried in the soil. Let me go now. You’d better sleep too, Shaikh. You have to go out with Kimia in the morning, don’t you?

  SEVEN

  ‘Welcome to the fourth evening,’ Al-Mustasimi smiled at me.

  After a short silence the first dervish resumed his story.

  — That night we all went to sleep under the influence of the wine. When I awoke the next morning I found the house empty. It seemed to have been turned into Karbala. I couldn’t even find the beautiful woman anywhere. Something lay wrapped in a blanket in one corner of the room we had fallen asleep in. When I unwrapped it what I saw terrified me.

  — What did you see? one of the dervishes asked.

  — The headless bodies of my guest Yusuf and his lover.

  — Ya Allah! All three dervishes shrieked.

  — I was turned into stone. Who had done this? And where was the beautiful woman? Suddenly spotting the eunuch who had fetched Yusuf’s lover, I ran up to him to ask, ‘What’s all this? Who has done this?’

  Smiling, the eunuch said, ‘It’s no use asking, huzoor.’

  — Where’s your mistress?

  — An intelligent man like you drank yourself into a stupor without taking her permission. And with whom? With someone whom you met only a few days ago.

  — Don’t talk that way. He was my guest.

  — A guest after just a few days of acquaintance?

  I stammered, ‘I can see I made a mistake. But where is your mistress? I have to apologize to her.’

  — What happened to the corpses? a dervish asked.

  — The eunuch buried them.

  — Did you locate the beautiful woman?

  — Yes, the eunuch gave me her address. After a long search I found her house in the evening.

  — Did you meet her?

  — No. I was afraid to enter. I sat outside all night. At dawn a window opened. I caught a glimpse of her. My heart leapt with joy, but the window closed at once. A little later, a eunuch came up to me and said, ‘There’s a mosque ahead. Go there and wait. You’ll get whatever you need.’

  Sipping his kumis, Al-Mustasimi chuckled.

  — Why do you laugh? I asked.

  — Can you tell me whether the merchant’s son from Yemen and the beautiful woman were married later or not?

  Scratching my head, I said, ‘Yes . . . yes, they were, janab.’

  — How did you know?

  — They wouldn’t have met otherwise.

  — Yes! Indeed! Al-Mustasimi clapped. — You have understood the intricacies of this tale. But some more incidents took place before the wedding. The beautiful woman was in fact the daughter of the Sultan of Damascus. Her life had also passed through many ups and downs.

  — What happened before they were married?

  — The merchant’s son met the beautiful woman, who turned him away. When he had been wandering for forty days without food and was at the doorstep of death, that same eunuch found him on the streets and took him to the beautiful woman. The eunuch persuaded the Sultan’s daughter to arrange for the merchant’s son to be treated. When he recovered, he got married to the Sultan’s daughter. Now let us listen to the rest of the story from the dervish.

  The first dervish said heavily, ‘It was true that my heart was filled with joy when my beloved became mine, but several questions were beginning to haunt me.’

  — What questions?

  — Who was the young black man who gave me all those pots of gold coins? How was that elaborate feast organized? Why were my guests murdered? Who killed them? Why did someone who had thrown me out accept me later? These questions troubled me so much that I could not be comfortable with my wife. Eight days and eight nights passed after the wedding, but I could not share a bed with her. Finally she asked me . . .

  — What’s the matter with you? You were desperate to marry me, and now you don’t want to come anywhere near me. What’s happened to you?

  — Bowing my head, I said, ‘People want justice, Bibijaan.’

  — Haven’t you got justice? You’ve got what you wanted.

  — Of course. I had wanted you with all my heart and by the grace of god I’ve got you too. But . . .

  — What els
e do you want?

  — I cannot make sense of all that has happened. It’s all a mystery to me. Explain everything to me, Bibijaan, so that I can be comfortable again.

  My wife exploded in anger. — You have probably forgotten your promise. I had said you mustn’t ask any questions.

  — You are my wife now. You shouldn’t keep any secrets from me.

  Suddenly she quietened down. After a short silence, she said, ‘That’s true. But we may be in danger if you know everything.’

  — Think of the dangers we have overcome, Bibijaan, I told her, taking her hands. — Trust me and tell me. No one else will come to know.

  My wife smiled sarcastically. — It is foolish to want to know everything. I’m certain it will lead us into danger. But since you are my husband, I cannot keep anything from you.

  Now the Sultan of Damascus’s daughter began her story. ‘I am the Sultan’s only child. My parents loved me very much. Those were such wonderful times, like pages from a book written in golden ink. As a child I used to like beautiful girls, spending all my time in their company. All the maids were beautiful too. But I went through a strange transformation one day. My heart was bereft, as though I had lost something. I no longer liked the company of women, nor did I enjoy talking to anyone. This favourite eunuch of mine could read my mind, and I never hid anything from him. He understood my suffering. One day he told me, beti huzrain, I have a suggestion.

  — Tell me.

  — Have a little wine.

  — What are you saying! I was startled.

  — Try it. You’ll feel lighter, and you’ll regain your happiness.

  — Are you sure?

  — Have I ever failed to be of service to you, beti huzrain?

  — All right, bring me some wine, then.

  The eunuch appeared a little later with a young boy, who placed an intricately patterned goblet before me. As I drank, I realized that the eunuch was right. Giving the boy some money, I told him, ‘Bring me some wine at this hour every day.’

  Gradually my life returned to me. I used to play with the boy, chat with him. He told me amusing stories. I was more and more attracted to him. Every day I used to give him an expensive gift or some money. But he was always shabbily dressed. One day I said, ‘I give you money every day, but still you dress in rags. Do you spend all the money?’