He stood in silence for a long time. I saw his eyes filling with tears. A chilly wind seemed to blow over my heart. Someone seemed to pronounce a single word in my head, mashuqa, my beloved. I was close to tears too. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked him.
Weeping, he said, ‘My master takes away all the money you give me. He doesn’t give me any of it. I can’t afford new clothes.’
Beloved. My beloved. How could I allow him to be someone’s slave? I told the eunuch, buy him new clothes, take him under your wing, he must become worthy of me. The eunuch could not disobey me. The boy grew more and more handsome and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Every time I saw him I wanted to hold him in my arms.
After a short silence Al-Mustasimi said, ‘Nobody can tell where love will transport them. Not even the Lord. Maulana had written, my soul is an oven, an oven that’s alight wants nothing but love. If you do not wish to be burnt in its flames, my friend, you still have a lot left to learn.
— How much longer will this story go on, janab? I asked.
— Are you becoming impatient?
— Not at all.
— Listen, Shaikh, this story is rich with creepers and leaves and flowers. You could say it’s a garden. Presenting a garden like this should take a thousand nights. But we won’t live that long. That’s why I’m forced to condense the whole story. There are so many things I haven’t told you. Have I described the beauty of the Sultan’s daughter? Have I given you details about her house? Didn’t I tell you it would take a thousand nights? I am saddened to have to present a story without all this. A qissa is not just a succession of events, it includes embellishments, it involves patterns. But you don’t have the time, and neither do I. You have to leave, and I have to finish my munaqib on Maulana’s life and hand it over to you. So we will not have the opportunity to listen to the stories told by the other three dervishes, or to the tale of Sultan Azad Bakht. Come, let’s resume our qissa. Do you want to hear it in my words or in the Sultan’s daughter’s?
— Let her tell the story.
The Sultan’s daughter continued, ‘I used to give him whatever he wanted. I would become restless when he wasn’t near me. Suddenly I discovered he had turned into a young man, and I, a young woman. He was barred from entering the ladies’ quarters. But how was I to live without him? Oh my Lord, show me a way to have my beloved by my side. Summoning the eunuch, I told him to ensure that my young man lacked for nothing. Give him one thousand gold coins and ask him to open a jewellery shop in the market. He should buy a house close to mine. The servants and maids should take care of his needs.’
— Such women exist only in stories, janab, I said with a smile.
Al-Mustasimi smiled too. — These things don’t happen in real life. If I could have found a Sultan’s daughter such as she, I would have been her slave. You would also have lost your passion for travelling around the world, Shaikh. Never mind, let us listen to the Sultan’s daughter tell us what happened after this.
— The young man’s business prospered. His was the only shop which stocked the clothes and ornaments needed by sultans and navabs and kings and ministers. I was delighted at the news. But I could no longer bear the burden of not being able to see him. On the eunuch’s advice, it was decided to dig a tunnel connecting his house to mine. The eunuch was resourceful, and the tunnel was ready in a few days. He would bring my young man to see me every evening. He would stay with me all night, leaving when the morning azaan was heard. A long time passed this way. I bought him a huge mansion with a garden to fulfil his wishes. He got a female slave along with the mansion. One day, I went into the tunnel with a maid to take a look at his house. The garden was so beautiful that it could be compared only to the gardens of paradise. I strolled around the garden all day. When he came home from the market in the evening and saw me, he held me in his arms at once. There was a full moon in the sky. He took me to the balcony. I put my arms around him and buried my face in his chest. Suddenly a hag arrived with a goblet of wine. I had never seen such an ugly woman before.
— Who is she?
— The slave who came with the mansion. I was furious. How could such an ugly woman be my wine-bearer? This was akin to the insolence of keeping a nightingale and a crow in the same cage. But what could I have done anyway? I had no choice but to drink with them. The shameless hussy got drunk and flirted outrageously with him. My beloved also lost all his inhibitions with the brazen woman. But still I said nothing, because I loved him so much. I assumed he had drunk too much. As soon as I rose to leave, he threw himself at my feet, begging my pardon repeatedly. When I saw the tears in his eyes I had to stay back. He forced two more goblets of wine on me. I was nearly unconscious. That was when the traitor attacked me with his sword, gouging out my flesh. I gave him a single glance, saying, ‘You have indeed given me what I deserve.’ I didn’t remember anything more. Assuming I was dead, he packed me into a chest and slung me over the city walls.
Al-Mustasimi said, ‘Can you tell me the reason for the Sultan’s daughter’s plight, Shaikh?’
— Bad judgement about people.
— No. Her eyes. Our eyes are our enemy. We fall in love at first sight with things that destroy us later. Never trust what you see with your eyes, Shaikh. Maulana said, you must turn into a ruby on the road to love. A ruby that looks at the sun. Another world of red. Let’s return to the story.
Then the Sultan’s daughter told her husband, the merchant’s son, ‘By the Lord’s grace you were near the wall that night, which is how my life was returned to me. Believe me, I had no wish to live. But death is not in one’s own hands. Suicide is not Allah’s way. And your attention and tenderness made me learn to love life afresh. I realized that kindness is much greater than love. Infatuation is often a part of love, but it has no role to play in kindness. When I saw you had run out of money after spending it all on me, I sent you to Sidi Bahar. He maintained the accounts of my wealth. In the letter I informed him that I was safe, and requested him to pass the news on to my mother. The Yusuf whose shop I sent you to was my beloved. I had realized that an arrogant wretch like him would want to befriend you and invite you home. Do I have to explain what happened afterwards? It was I who ordered Yusuf and his ugly female slave to be beheaded.’
— So you took revenge, said the merchant’s son.
— Yes.
— Are you happy?
The Sultan’s daughter was silent. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘No,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘Now I wonder why I did all this.’
— You had loved Yusuf once, didn’t you? He went astray, but you shouldn’t have killed him for that reason, Bibijaan. And the slave did you no harm. If you allow me, may I say something?
— Yes.
— You never loved Yusuf. You wanted to possess him. So you gave him gifts every day to please him. Yusuf didn’t love you either, he only wanted your wealth.
— I want to go away from this city.
— So we shall, Bibijaan. I don’t know whether I love you, but it is the husband’s duty to stay by his wife through all her joys and sorrows. I will perform my duty all my life.
Al-Mustasimi stood up. — Come with me, Shaikh.
We went up to the roof. Pointing to the darkness in front of us, Al-Mustasimi said, ‘There, look.’
— Look at what?
— Can’t you see?
— No.
— Open your inner eyes, Shaikh. You can see the merchant’s son and the Sultan’s daughter leaving Damascus on a pair of spirited horses. After journeying a long way they will rest by a lake, they’ll have to eat too. Then they will start riding again. You may not recognize the Sultan’s daughter, for she is dressed like a man now. Now listen to their conversation . . .
— For you I have left my parents, my wealth, my homeland. You won’t ever betray me, will you?
— All men are not the same, Bibijaan. Remember that I’m the slave whom you cannot buy with money. I’ll use my skin to make shoes for you if need
be. Never ask this question again.
— Shaikh . . . Al-Mustasimi called out to me.
— Yes, janab?
— This is what Maulana calls ishq. Make me your servant. There they are, day after day, night after night, riding away on their horses. Exhausted, they will finally dismount in a forest. They will hunt birds, roast them on a fire and eat them, and resume their journey. One day they will stop on the bank of a wide river, its water stretching as far as the eye can see. Allah, how will we cross this unending water? It’s impossible without a boat. Asking his wife to wait, the merchant’s son will set off in search of a boat. But there won’t be a boat or boatman to be found anywhere.
— And then?
— When the merchant’s son returns, he will not find the Sultan’s daughter, Shaikh. He searched everywhere, but he could not locate her. The merchant’s son returned to Damascus. He was practically a naked fakir by then, searching for his wife on the roads of Damascus.
— Where did the Sultan’s daughter vanish?
Al-Mustasimi smiled, his eyes enigmatic. — Who can tell? Only the story knows where she vanished. Our first dervish will speak now. Let him tell us what happened.
The first dervish said, ‘My life turned barren without her. One day I climbed a mountain with the intention of plunging into a ravine. As I was about to leap, someone held me back by my arm. Turning round, I saw a figure in a green robe sitting on a horse, his face covered. He said . . .
— Why do you want to take this road to death, my friend? As long as there is life, there is hope.
— Who are you?
— Listen to me. In a few days you will meet three dervishes in Constantinople. Like you, they too are wounded, people who have been dealt many blows by life. Azad Bakht, the Sultan of Turkistan, also lives with the burden of sorrows. Once you have met him, all of you will find your wishes coming true. Didn’t you want to know who I am? I am Murtaza Ali. My job is to relieve the sorrows of suffering people.
— And then? one of the dervishes asked.
— Murtaza Ali melted into the air. I set off. And today, all four of us have met here in Constantinople by the grace of Shaikh Ali.
— Allahu Akbar! One of the dervishes called out a Zikr. The other three joined him.
Al-Mustasimi’s stories and the copying of his munaqib on Maulana were nearing completion. That night Al-Mustasimi told me, ‘A copy has been made of the book, Shaikh. You can leave tomorrow. It isn’t right to stay too long in the same place.’
— Pray to the Lord that I may see the entire world.
— I am sure you will.
Late at night there was a knock on my door. Kimia was standing outside.
— Go well, Muhammad.
— Aren’t you coming with me?
— You must come with me first. Kimia took my hand.
I entered the sheep pen downstairs with her. They were all asleep. The pen was heavy with the sounds of their breathing. Running her hand gently across the body of a lamb, Kimia said, ‘Who’ll take them grazing?’
— Aren’t you coming with me, Kimia? My mouth spoke, as though I were an actor.
— They won’t survive if I go away, Muhammad.
Kimia began to caress the sleeping sheep. Who was caressing the lambs? Was it Kimia or was it Mary?
The next morning I joined a caravan of travellers to set off again.
I no longer had the time to listen to the stories of the other three dervishes and the tale of Sultan Azad Bakht.
EIGHT
My learned readers, I know many of you are losing your patience. But this preamble was necessary. In this book that I am about to read to you, the lives and times depicted are so distant from ours, its fragrance so unlike the smells we are used to, that it will be like wandering about in a perfumery where spring has expressed itself in its fullness, which is why we had to negotiate the labyrinth of other stories before taking our place in this vernal season. One more thing. When I opened the book at its first page to start reading, someone seemed to emerge from inside me to ask, ‘Shaikh, don’t you know what Maulana used to tell Hussam?’
— What?
— As he dictated the poems in his Masnavi, Maulana would often pause to ask, ‘Who is playing this melody, Hussam?’
— Who?
After a pause Maulana would say, ‘Let the maestro complete the poem himself, Hussam.’ Shaikh, let him talk through this book of yours. Don’t you know why language and music are born?
— Because we are empty, devoid of anything?
— We are banished from where we came. We speak, write—all of it is driven by our need to return home.
My learned readers, remember that the kitab I am about to read from is at once written and not written by me. What does it matter, anyway? As you know, in Persian poetry it was customary for the poets to mention their takhallus, their pen name, at the very end. So let silence swallow this book. We want to hear its memory of the home it has left behind, and the tale of its return to that home from silence.
The person whom I have been referring to as Maulana all this time was Jalaluddin Muhammad Balkhi, who will gradually be transformed into Jalaluddin Muhammad Rumi. His journey was from a life in exile to his home. Under Allah’s instructions and by Maulana’s wish, I shall address him as Maulana or Rumi from now on. Rumi would start every volume of his Masnavi in verse with a prayer in prose. It was in such a prayer that he included a poem by the Andalusian poet Adi al-Riga.
I slept in the arms of a cold wind
A grey dove sang out from a thicket
When I heard her sobs of longing
I was reminded of my old passion
I have been away so long from my soul
Such prolonged sleep, but I awoke too
In a sea of tears at the dove’s weeping
Sing praises to the oppressed who rise early
Look, a caravan has set out from the city of Balkh in Khorasan. It was here that Jalaluddin Muhammad was born in Hijri 604, or 1207 AD. Balkh was known as the dome of Islam at the time of Rumi’s birth. Centre of the high tide of commerce and education, steeped in Islam, and home to well-known ascetics. This was where the two Sufi saints Ibrahim ibn Adham and Shaqiq al-Balkhi had once lived. Shaikh Najmuddin Kubra, founder of the Kubrawiyya order, was alive in Rumi’s childhood. When I went to the town of Balkh, I saw nothing but ruins. It felt as though the world had lost a dream. The Mongols wiped out many memories and dream towns this way. Had Maulana heard my lament he would surely have said, ‘Nature wipes everything out, as it must. Who are you and I to worry about this?’
In the caravan that is wending its way forward are Bahauddin Walad, his wife Momina Khatun, their sons Alauddin Muhammad and Jalaluddin Muhammad, along with some of Bahauddin’s students. There aren’t too many household effects, but Bahauddin’s collection of books is loaded on the backs of several camels: the Quran, different manuscripts on the Hadith, a number of books on religion and Islamic law. Bahauddin was known as the Sultan-ul Ulema, King of Religious Scholars. He was both an ulema and a Sufi saint. Several generations of this family of scholars had lived in Balkh. There are various views on why Bahauddin decided to leave home. One reason was the apprehension of a Mongol invasion. But what I heard in Balkh was that unlike Bahauddin, his teacher Najmuddin Kubra did not abandon the city out of fear of the Mongols—he fought them with his disciples till his last breath.
All this is real, my learned readers, but does it not seem like a fable now? Then I might as well tell you a story. The only treasures I have gathered on all my travels around the world are these qissas. Maulana Rumi told this story in his Masnavi. He will speak to us now:
Listen then, Hussam, my friend, my dearest, greater than my soul, Hussam, let me tell you about the musk deer. An innocent and feeble deer. Is it I, Hussam? Lean, pale, with bushy eyebrows and reddish brown eyes, like a lonely almond. A deer like this is bound to be a victim of fate. A hunter caught him and put him in a cattle shed. The shed was filled with b
ulls and asses. Reeling, the musk deer eventually fell unconscious. He had tried so many times to escape, but all the doors were locked. When all the doors are locked, you cannot get out—have you ever found yourself being dragged down into such filth and slime, Hussam? In the evening the hunter brought hay to feed the imprisoned animals. But hay was for bulls and asses. The poor musk deer had never eaten it. He passed days without any food. You know how a fish feels when it is taken out of water. The bulls and the asses thought the deer was extremely arrogant. An ass mocked him, ‘Why is an emperor like you languishing in this cattle shed?’
The musk deer told the ass, ‘No, it isn’t arrogance. Hay is what you eat. I roam about in the fields, fresh grass and water are my food and drink. I may be far from home, my friend, but still I’m a musk deer. I may be a pauper, but my soul hasn’t been impoverished.’
Laughing, the ass said, ‘People say these meaningless things when they’re homesick. You have to prove yourself, this timidity is of no use.’
— Look at my musk. It wasn’t created by eating hay.
I know the bulls and the asses paid no heed to the musk deer, Hussam. Most people are like that. They make no attempt to look or listen or understand beyond their limitations. Let me tell you another story then.
— Should I write it down, Maulana?
— That’s up to you. I’m not here to leave anything behind. I am only a spring day, I am merely a pea being boiled in a kettle. Listen, then. Travelling through the desert, a parched pilgrim saw a small tent. When he asked for water a woman did give him some, but it was as hot as fire, as saline as the sea. But what can come in the way of thirst? The water went down his throat, burning everything in its path. The pilgrim told the woman, ‘You gave me water, I want to give you something in return. There are cities like Basra and Baghdad not far from here. They’re full of delicious food, cold water, tasty sherbets. Why are you here in the desert?’ A little later her husband brought some desert rats he had hunted. The rat meat was cooked. The pilgrim ate reluctantly. As he lay outside the tent, he heard the woman asking her husband whether they could leave the desert. Do you know what the husband said? ‘Don’t believe these people. They’re jealous, they can’t bear to see other people being happy.’ What do you make of it, Hussam?
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