A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

  — They think of love as envy, Maulana.

  — Love is like the water trickling through a crack in the rock, Hussam. How many people can see it?

  The caravan rolled on. Rumi was nine. The first stop was at Nishapur. This was the home of Fariduddin Attar. His poetry was as fragrant as his perfumery. People far and wide know of his shop in this north-eastern town of Iran. Fariduddin was a doctor, a perfume-seller and a Sufi saint all at the same time. Egypt, Damascus, Mecca, Turkistan, India—he had travelled through numerous lands to understand the condition of people and the world.

  Attar would visit Bahauddin’s camp every evening. The Sultan-ul Ulema would be explaining Sharia law to his pupils at the time. Attar would draw the nine-year-old boy to himself, looking into his eyes. They were like hazelnuts, reddish brown. It seemed to Attar that they led to a winding road running beyond this world into another one.

  Attar decided that his Asrarnama, which was a book of secrets, could be gifted to nobody but this boy. His writing would be fulfilled the day the boy grew up and read it.

  Fariduddin Attar was right. Many years later, when Maulana dictated the verses of his Masnavi to Hussam, he included several of Attar’s stories in his epic.

  One day Attar clasped the boy to his breast. He felt that finally his long thirst had been quenched, he felt like a cloud in an autumn sky. ‘Do you want to hear a story, Jalal?’ he whispered.

  — Yes, please. Who is it about?

  — It’s about birds.

  — Which birds?

  — Innumerable birds, they’re out in search of their Sultan.

  — Who’s their Sultan?

  — Simurgh.

  — Who’s Simurgh?

  Every evening Attar told the boy of the journey of the birds. All these were the stories from his book. Led by their teacher, the hoopoe, a flock of innumerable birds are flying in search of their king. Snared by temptations and illusions along the way, many of them are unable to make the ascent.

  — And then? asked Jalal, his reddish brown eyes glittering like jewels.

  The sky was studded with stars. Attar took Jalal in his arms. Planting kisses on his forehead, cheeks and neck, he said, ‘The birds flew for many, many years behind their teacher, the hoopoe, crossing not one or two but seven valleys. Many birds died on the way, many lost their ability to fly. Eventually just thirty birds reached Simurgh’s palace on Qaf Mountain. The guards refused them entry. The birds waited for their emperor to send for them.’

  — How long did they wait?

  Attar smiled. ‘You think I know? Only Allah does.’

  — The birds didn’t stay awake then?

  — Who told you that?

  — I’ve seen.

  — What have you seen, Jalal?

  — Birds stay awake.

  — Now let me tell you about the miracle that followed. Eventually Emperor Simurgh’s personal attendant appeared to escort them to his court. How strange! Wherever the birds looked, they could only see themselves, thirty birds staring at one another in wonder. Where was Simurgh, then?

  — Where was he?

  — Jalal, the word Simurgh means thirty birds. They were now face to face with their souls.

  Bahauddin’s caravan left Nishapur the next day. Bidding farewell to the Sultan-ul Ulema, Attar stood looking for a long time at the road along which they had departed. Bahauddin was walking, followed by the nine-year-old boy. Attar murmured, ‘There goes the sea, and behind it the ocean. What a wondrous sight you have shown me today, Lord.’

  They journeyed from Nishapur to Baghdad. All of you know of Baghdad, the centre of the Caliphate. A glittering metropolis! A crowd gathered around Bahauddin’s caravan on the edge of the city. Who were these people? Where were they from? One of them stepped up to ask Bahauddin, ‘Pardon me, where are you coming from?’

  Bahauddin looked at him for a while before bursting into laughter. The crowd retreated a few steps.

  — Why do you want to know? Bahauddin asked. Fawning, the man said, ‘You’re guests of the city, so . . .’

  — Hmm . . . Bahauddin ran his fingers through his beard. Then, looking up at the sky, he said, ‘We have come from the Lord, my friend, and we’ll go back to him too.’

  Bahauddin’s response spread throughout the city. Who was this man who belonged nowhere? Can you imagine, he said he’s come from the Lord and he’ll go back to him too. The whispers began. You couldn’t look him in the eye as you talked to him. Your heart shrank when you stood in front of him.

  We have come from the Lord, my friend, and we’ll go back to him too. Hurtling through the air, the answer reached Shahabuddin Suhrawardi. The Sufi saint was startled. ‘Where is he?’ he shouted.

  A pupil of his kneeled near his feet. ‘He’s in a tent outside the city.’

  — Let’s go at once. Inform the Caliph.

  — Do you know him, Shaikh?

  — Not know him? No one but Bahauddin Walad can say such a thing.

  — Who is he?

  — He’s from Balkh. We must welcome him. Let me tell you a story from Shaikh Bahauddin’s life. One day, he was rapt in thought, while the hour of the midday namaz was fast approaching. Bahauddin remained sitting, his eyes shut. His pupils kept telling him, ‘It’s time for the namaz, Shaikh.’ Bahauddin remained as he was, without answering. Facing the qibla, the direction of the Kaaba, the pupils began to read the namaz, while Maulana Bahauddin remained sitting behind them. Only two of the pupils stayed back with their Shaikh instead of joining the others for the namaz. As they said their namaz, the students heard the voice of Allah. Do you know what the Lord said? ‘The two who remained with the Shaikh are the only ones facing the qibla. Do you understand? The gap between you and me has been obliterated within Shaikh Bahauddin. What does the Hadith say? Die before you die. That is when the light goes on inside a person. If you turn your eyes away from that beam and face a wall of stone, your eyes are not turned towards the real qibla. Your Shaikh is your qibla. He who does not defer to his Shaikh will not be able to offer the namaz all his life.’

  The Caliph of Baghdad, the senior, middle and junior ministers and other luminaries accompanied Suhrawardi to welcome Bahauddin. Kissing his feet, Suhrawardi said, ‘You will stay in our city, won’t you?’

  — No.

  — But why not?

  — This city has become wayward. Your Caliph has turned it into a kingdom of pleasure.

  Touching Bahauddin’s feet, the Caliph said, ‘Will you see another city like Baghdad anywhere in the universe, Shaikh?’

  — Is this what Allah wanted? Is this what Nabi wanted?

  — The world doesn’t remain unchanged, Shaikh.

  — How much do you know of the world? Bahauddin roared. — You’ve turned Baghdad into a bazaar.

  — Is life possible without a marketplace, Shaikh? The Caliph smiled.

  — What do you know of life? Do you know what the word Caliph means?

  — You insult me, Shaikh.

  — You deserve to be insulted.

  — And why is that?

  — Don’t you know that the path of Islam is not one of wanton pleasure? Let me tell you a story then. A religious scholar was wandering about on the roads and markets, holding a lamp. Someone came up to ask him, ‘Why do you need a lamp in daylight?’ The scholar said, ‘I’m looking for a human being.’ The man laughed. ‘So many people around you, can’t you see any of them?’ After a pause the ulema said, ‘I’m looking for a real human being, beneath whose feet I want to live like the earth.’ That’s not the kind of Caliph you are. Your Baghdad only chases money and people.

  — Must everyone remain impoverished forever, Shaikh?

  — What do you mean by poverty? Do you mean starvation? Do you mean homelessness? Do you mean deprivation from riches? Poverty of the soul is the only poverty there is.

  — You can tell us all this at the Jama Masjid on Thursday.

  Bahauddin burst out laughing. — Is there anyone in your Baghdad w
ho will listen?

  Kissing Bahauddin’s feet again, Suhrawardi said, ‘Say it for my sake at least.’

  — Hmm . . . the truth resides beyond crowds of people. I shall speak for your sake, Suhrawardi. Look at that star there . . .

  The Caliph smiled. ‘You’re showing us a star by daylight, Shaikh?’

  Bahauddin smiled too. — You’ll never be able to see it. Day and night are the same to me. In some other land in the world you can see stars at this moment. Day and night are nothing but the rotation of the sphere. It is day everywhere, night everywhere.

  The Caliph laid out all his gifts at Bahauddin’s feet. Touching his feet again, he said, ‘I shall be gratified if you accept my humble offerings.’

  — Why should I take all this? I do not accept whatever I cannot take with me to Allah. Take these back. Turning to Suhrawardi, Bahauddin said, ‘Have you not taught the Caliph some tact? A copy of the Quran made by an artist is far more valuable to me than this wealth.’

  Now listen to what happened after the afternoon namaz on Thursday. From the Caliph downwards, every single one of Baghdad’s eminent people was present. Shaikh Bahauddin would speak on the poverty of the soul. The fluttering of the pigeons’ wings could be heard in the compound of the mosque. As soon as Bahauddin stood up, all sounds ceased.

  Bahauddin stood in silence for a long time. Eventually his eyes grew blurred with tears. He began to speak. ‘If all the trees in the world were words written down, and all the seas were ink, and if there were seven oceans even after this, what Allah has to say will never end. He is victorious, knowledgeable. Have you not seen that Allah brings night in the daytime and day at night? It is on his authorization that the sun and the moon follow their timetables. Allah alone knows of Judgement Day, he sends rain, he alone knows what lies in the womb. You do not know whether you will earn money tomorrow, nor do you know where you will die. Only he knows, Allah.

  ‘That I am here today to talk about the poverty of the soul is itself a symptom of that poverty. Had I been free of it I would not have been here to address you. Do you know what poverty of the soul is like? To the sick man’s tongue, even what is sweet tastes bitter. Do you know what poverty of the soul is like? It is like a barren womb. Let me tell you a story. A qissa can tell more than a thousand words of philosophy. Philosophies come and philosophies go, but a story lives on for thousands of years, in different lands, in different forms. This story is about Karim. His wife’s name was Anar. They’d been married ten years, but still they didn’t have any children. Karim loved his wife so much that he never considered divorcing her for not having a baby. On a friend’s advice, Karim took his wife to the doctor. The doctor heard them out, examined Anar, and then sat there in silence.

  — What’s your diagnosis, Hakim sahib? Karim asked.

  — Very sad, very sad. The doctor shook his head.

  — What’s wrong with my wife?

  — There’s nothing more that I can do, Karim bhai.

  — Why not?

  — It’s very sad. Your wife will be in her grave within forty days.

  Anar slumped to the floor, unconscious, when she heard this. Karim managed to bring her home somehow. She gave up the routine of her daily life altogether. Can anyone lead a normal life in the face of death? Soon Anar stopped eating.

  Bahauddin lapsed into a long silence. ‘And then?’ asked the Caliph.

  — Infidel! Bahauddin screamed.

  — Shaikh! Suhrawardi shrieked.

  — Why are these illiterate people here at this majlis, Shaikh Suhrawardi? They do not even know the etiquette of listening to a story? Does the Caliph need a shit that he interrupts me? Bahauddin burst into laughter.

  The Caliph stood up. ‘Why do you keep humiliating me?’

  — So that the barren woman can have a child.

  — Am I a woman?

  — You do not even understand figures of speech. How did you become a Caliph? Listen to the story. Forty days passed, but Anar did not die. Karim ran to the doctor.

  The doctor chuckled. ‘I knew it. Your wife will have a baby now.’

  — How?

  — She had become too fat. That was why she could not conceive. She gave up eating, didn’t she?

  — She did.

  — Your wife wouldn’t have stopped eating except on the fear of death. Nor would she have become thinner. When people start thinking of the Day of Judgement they clean up their lives. Your wife is absolutely fine now. Don’t worry, Karim bhai, you will be a father soon. Don’t forget my kebab and paratha when you do.

  Laughing, Bahauddin said, ‘Karim and Anar had a child within the year. Listen to me, Caliph, Baghdad has become obese. The obesity of wealth. Unless you can shed this weight there will be no children. It is this fat that is the poverty of Baghdad’s soul.’

  A few days later, as Bahauddin’s caravan was leaving Baghdad, news came of the Mongols’ invasion of Balkh, which had been reduced to ruins, a city of the dead. Clasping Jalal to his breast, Shaikh Bahauddin muttered, ‘There will be no home for us anywhere in the world anymore. We have become refugees, Jalal.’

  There, you can see Shaikh Bahauddin’s caravan moving forward. After a long journey they will reach Larende, where they will be given sanctuary by Amir Musa, a navab of the Seljuk kingdom.

  NINE

  When leaving Baghdad Shaikh Bahauddin had heard that Balkh had died. Twelve thousand mosques had been destroyed, fourteen thousand copies of the Quran burnt, fifteen thousand scholars and students at different madrassas killed, two hundred thousand men slaughtered. Bahauddin had smiled in his head. This was how the Mongols had left their names in the history books. You never knew how people became part of history. Some were driven mad by the lust for blood, others by love. What value did the history of mankind have in the context of the universe, wondered Bahauddin. But it wasn’t possible to tell anyone all this while being swept away like refugees. And so the days passed one at a time, and Bahauddin became used to talking to himself. Talk to yourself, Baha, there’s no one here to listen to you.

  — Baha . . .

  — What?

  — What’s on your mind, Baha?

  — Where does this road end?

  — You are a traveller on an endless road.

  — I cannot bear the weight of eternity, Lord.

  — Eternity is very light, Baha.

  — Then why is it a burden? Why does my back bend under it?

  — You have amassed much knowledge.

  — What shall I do, Lord?

  — Discard the burden by the side of the road.

  On the way to Larende, Bahauddin burst into laughter one day. — Throw it away, throw it all away.

  The caravan came to a halt. Bahauddin sat down by the side of the road, tearing out clumps of his hair and beard and shouting, ‘Throw it away, throw it all away.’

  Many years later, Maulana told his disciple, ‘No one but I could understand Shaikh Bahauddin’s self-destructive cries. He had no home anymore once he had left Balkh. A man’s life isn’t complete without a home of his own, Hussam.’

  A time comes in a person’s life when the stories are lost. Events follow in quick succession, like a blizzard of snow. Shaikh Bahauddin arrived at Larende. The Navab built him a new madrassa. Bahauddin lived seven years here, witness to two deaths, a marriage, and two births. Bahauddin’s wife Momina Khatun and eldest son Muhammad Alauddin were the ones to die. Around the same time, Jalaluddin was married to Gauhar Khatun, daughter of Lala Sharafuddin from Samarqand. Within a year Bahauddin was born, whom you will come to know later as Sultan Walad. The next year Alauddin Muhammad was born.

  From Larende Shaikh Bahauddin’s fame spread everywhere, reaching as far as Konya, the capital of the Seljuk kingdom. At the time, the Seljuk empire was like a house built at twilight. Sultan Alauddin Kayqubad invited Shaikh Bahauddin. It didn’t suit a learned man like him to languish in Larende. Come to Konya, let the city be illuminated by the light of the thousand suns of your g
enius and devotion.

  Bahauddin accepted the invitation. Broken within by the destruction of Balkh, he lived only two years more after moving to Konya. Waves of students and others eager for religious understanding would descend on the madrassas and mosques of Konya to hear him talk. Suddenly Shaikh stopped in the middle of his speech. His son and disciple Jalaluddin was standing next to him. The young man whispered, ‘What’s wrong?’

  The father glanced at his son. ‘How much more can I talk?’

  — Everyone’s here to listen to you speak.

  — Why?

  — Because you are the master.

  Shaikh shouted, ‘Leave me alone, Jalal. I have said thousands of things over all these years. Still Balkh was destroyed. Do you remember, Jalal, that the Mongols have burnt fourteen thousand copies of the Quran? What purpose has all that I said all these days served? When books are burnt civilizations are destroyed, Jalal. I can hear the crackle of books being burnt.’

  Many, many years later Maulana had asked Hussam, ‘Do you know what a kitab is, Hussam?’

  — Footprints.

  — How did you know?

  — By seeing yours.

  — What do you see in them, Hussam?

  — A book comes alive in every single footprint.

  Look, Hussam, books are being written on each of Konya’s streets. Sceptics had said that books would be lost one day. Is that ever possible, Hussam? This entire world has been created through Allah’s script.

  Pardon me, my learned readers, I have committed a small error. Had this story been written chronologically, Hussam should not have entered it now. But Maulana and his disciple Hussam keep infiltrating the narrative through gaps. So it is necessary to introduce Hussam to you right now. Questions about him must have risen in your mind too. His name was Hussamuddin Chalabi. He was a Futuwwa Fityan, a member of the youth brigade. His father was the Akhi, or head, of a Futuwwa. Hussam grew to be Maulana Rumi’s favourite disciple in a very short span of time, and Maulana later appointed him Caliph of the Maulvi order. It was on Hussam’s request that Maulana began composing his epic Masnavi.