A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

  Bahauddin died in 1231 AD at the age of eighty-five. He left behind two priceless treasures for the world. His kitab Ma’arif, which documented his speeches and sayings, and his son Jalaluddin, who was to gradually be transformed into Maulana Rumi in the hands of the invisible cook.

  Jalal was twenty-four at the time of Shaikh Bahauddin’s death. The calm, dignified, young man’s learning and his uncompromising pursuit of the Sufi way had begun to be talked about far beyond Konya. Jalal began to teach in his father’s madrassa. This was when Syed Burhanuddin al-Tirmidhi arrived in Konya. He was visiting the city to enquire after the health of his teacher Shaikh Bahauddin. Learning of the Shaikh’s demise, he broke down like a tree uprooted by a storm, although he did recover within a day or two. This was no time to collapse, he told himself, for Maulana-e Buzurg’s death has cast a huge responsibility on me. Who else but he could perform the duty of escorting Jalal on the correct path to devotion? It was he who used to teach Jalal as a child in Balkh.

  One day he called Jalal to his side. ‘I have some things to tell you.’

  — Let us sit in the library.

  — Yes, I’ve heard Maulana-e Buzurg preferred to spend most of his time in it.

  — Yes. The Sultan gifted him this library. Jalal sat in silence for some time. Then he said in a voice tinged with memories, ‘As afternoon declined towards evening, he would sit in his library every day. He loved the smell of the library at that hour. I won’t leave Konya, Jalal, he would tell me. Where else will I find a library such as this? Where else in the world is there a smell like this?

  — What kind of smell?

  Shaikh Bahauddin sat for a long time with his eyes closed. Then he whispered, ‘The fragrance of lost perfume.’

  — What kind of perfume?

  — The perfume made from the navel of a musk deer that died long, long ago.

  — When did it die?

  Shaikh Bahauddin had not answered.

  Entering the library, Syed Burhanuddin asked, ‘Do you get the same smell, Jalal?’

  — No, I don’t.

  — But you must. You are the inheritor of Shaikh’s legacy, unless the same smell comes to you your life will be wasted. I have decided to stay in Konya for the time being.

  — Do you think I’d have let you go? That you are here after Shaikh’s death is on the Lord’s instructions.

  Burhanuddin embraced Jalal. There was a pattern of tears on Jalal’s face.

  — Why do you weep, Jalal?

  — Why did he leave me alone?

  — No, Jalal, this does not befit you. What has Maulana-e Buzurg taught us? To be alone. We are all journeying towards the wedding night. Only through solitude shall we be united with love. Alone like Majnu, when he has himself become Laila. But now to business.

  — Tell me what I should do.

  — Jalal, I want you to be just like our Shaikh. I want to see you as a complete man. Shaikh has placed this responsibility on me.

  — I shall do as you ask me.

  — You have to acquire much more knowledge. For this you will have to go to Aleppo and Damascus.

  — As you wish.

  Syed Burhanuddin set off with Jalal. As far as I recollect, it was 1233 AD. Sending Jalal on to Aleppo, Burhanuddin stayed back at Kayseri. After completing his studies in Aleppo, Jalal went to Damascus. As you know, my learned readers, Damascus was the main centre of education, culture and spirituality. Sufi mystics and scholars like Ibn al-Arabi, Uthman al-Rumi, Wahauddin Kirmani and Sadruddin Kunai all lived in Damascus at the time. As far as I know, Jalal met Ibn al-Arabi. Many years later Maulana Rumi had told Hussam, ‘I was like a virgin piece of paper then. Still, my conversation with Shaikh Ibn al-Arabi gave me no peace.’

  — Why not, Shaikh?

  — Our paths were different. He wanted to create a flight of logic to reach Allah, while my way is through a river of tears. His road is the one of knowledge, mine is the one of love.

  Jalal’s fame in Damascus as a student of philosophy and religion was at its height then. Most of the students congregated around him. One day Jalal had come out of the madrassa, surrounded by friends. An aged, emaciated dervish slumped to the road near his feet. Jalal bent to help him up.

  — Who are you?

  The dervish laughed. — All the accounts of the world are in your hands. Can you support me a minute?

  The dervish took Jalal’s hands and kissed them. Jalal withdrew his hands slowly. The dervish gazed at him in deep concentration for some time before walking off in the opposite direction.

  Much later Rumi had told Hussam, ‘He was laughing loudly as he walked away. Do you know what he was saying, Hussam?’

  — What?

  — This fellow has not been cooked yet. Wait, my friend, we shall meet again.

  Fifteen years later, when the same dervish was over sixty, he caught a glimpse of Jalal again on a road in Konya. I shall tell you all these stories later, my learned readers. Completing his studies in Damascus, Jalal went to Syed Burhanuddin’s home in Kayseri.

  — You will now have to observe the Chillah, the days of penance and solitude.

  — As you command.

  — You’ll have to spend three periods of forty days each alone. A hundred and twenty days. Can you do it?

  — By Shaikh’s and your grace, I can.

  After a hundred and twenty days of solitude, Jalal emerged a gaunt figure. ‘What do you see, Jalal?’ Burhanuddin asked him.

  ‘This world is shrouded in fog,’ Jalal muttered.

  — What sort of fog?

  — Of love. Why do I want to weep, Shaikh?

  — Silence, roared Burhanuddin. There was only one Shaikh, Shaikh Bahauddin. Do not address me as ‘Shaikh’.

  — What shall I do now?

  — You will teach, you will guide people along the path of devotion.

  — You will be by my side, won’t you?

  — Let me take you to Konya.

  — You must be with me. Jalal gripped his arm.

  — No, Jalal. It’s time for me to leave.

  — Why?

  Syed Burhanuddin laughed. — A lion from Tabriz is coming to Konya. You know I’m a lion too, Jalal. Can two lions coexist? It is necessary for the lion of Tabriz to enter your life now. And so I must leave. Goodbye.

  TEN

  The person who returned from Damascus was no longer Jalaluddin Balkhi, but Maulana Rumi. However, he was already being addressed as Maulana before going to Aleppo and Damascus. And his father was Maulana-e Buzurg, the greatest Maulana. Rumi was much thinner now, which was why he appeared even taller. His body held the glow of yellow leaves shed in early spring. A new madrassa was established in the front half of the house. He was thirty-six. Four hundred pupils came to his madrassa every day for an education. They included renowned scholars, noblemen, and even the Sultan of Konya. None of them had ever met such an extraordinary teacher. He explained the essentials of life and the world through stories. He walked slowly, perpetually sunk in thought. At the madrassa or the mosque, on Konya’s roads or at the baths, whenever anyone asked him a question he listened with bowed head, answered, adding with a smile, ‘What I say is not the last word, however.’ But it was, to everyone in Konya. As though Maulana Rumi was uttering the words of Allah, just like Nabi.

  There are a couple of things I have not told you, my learned readers. Maulana’s first wife Gauhar Khatun died before he left for Aleppo and Damascus. Maulana’s second wife was Kira Khatun. As far as I know, Kira was of Greek origin. She bore Maulana two more children— Muzaffaruddin Amir Alim Chalabi and Malika Khatun. Al Mustasimi told me that Kira Khatun’s beauty was like an ancient willow’s, uninhibited and understated at the same time.

  On his return from Damascus, Maulana discovered three youthful soulmates. Hussamuddin Chalabi, the young Greek Thereanos, and his own eldest son Sultan Walad. All of them were in their twenties then.

  One day, with all the students at the madrassa having gone home, and only the thr
ee young men sitting in front of himself, Maulana handed a copy of the Attarnama to Hussam, saying, ‘Open the book to any page and read me the first two words, Hussam.’

  As soon as Hussam had uttered these words Maulana Rumi held up a hand to stop him. Shutting his eyes, he flawlessly recited all that was written on the page, followed by an explanation. Touching his feet, Sultan said, ‘What is it, Maulana?’

  — He’s coming, Sultan.

  — Who?

  — He’s in Konya.

  — Whom are you talking about?

  — Hussam . . .

  — Yes, Maulana?

  — Describe Konya in winter.

  — The houses, roads, trees, are all hidden beneath snow, Maulana. Nothing but white everywhere.

  — It’s so cold, Hussam. The travellers are confined to their inns. No road to any part of the world is open. Only the ravens can be heard cawing all winter. After this there will be spring, isn’t that so, Hussam?

  — Yes, Maulana. The rose will bloom. The nightingale will sing for it. They’ll meet after such a long time.

  Maulana smiled. — You people only talk of the nightingale. Aren’t you going to mention the heron? It dons a white robe to visit Mecca every year. Do you know where it builds its nest, Sultan?

  — On the tower of the mosque.

  — The soul of the heron has arrived in Konya, Sultan. Spring is here.

  — Who is he?

  — You will see him very soon.

  — Where?

  — On the streets of this very town. He is waiting for me.

  — Do you know him?

  — No. Shaikh Burhanuddin had told me that a lion would arrive from Tabriz.

  — But you said it was the soul of the heron.

  — All melded together, Sultan. He is the lion, he is the soul of the heron, he is the rose’s lover, the nightingale.

  — Do you know him, Hussam asked.

  — No, Hussam.

  Maulana Rumi entered his library. Since his return from Damascus, Maulana had spent most of his time in this favourite room of Shaikh Bahauddin’s. He was engrossed in his father’s book Ma’arif. All this time he had considered Shaikh Bahauddin nothing but a religious scholar, but as he read Ma’arif, the life of a passionate devotee was being unveiled to him. He did not know that Shaikh loved poetry. There were nearly thirty fragments of verse in Ma’arif. It was no longer possible to distinguish between Shaikh’s own lines and those that he had gleaned from other people. In one of the poems he had referred to himself as Allah’s lover. Just like the lover who composes poetry for his beloved, Shaikh too had written these verses for the Lord. All our praises for our beloved’s features and eyes and lashes are actually encomiums to Allah. In his library, Maulana Rumi discovered a lover of beauty and poetry in Bahauddin.

  In Ma’arif Bahauddin had repeatedly exhorted people to stay away from all manner of filth in the world. According to him, there were four kinds: educated people, cities, armed forces, and rulers. O inhabitants of the world, do not allow your hearts to be covered in grime. The fire in an oven blackens everything at first, then reddens them, and finally whitens. In the same way, the flames of Allah’s love take us from black to red and finally to the purity of white.

  Maulana sensed a strange, raging storm within himself today, taking him out of the world of Ma’arif. He became even more restless over the next few days. He would lapse into silence during his discourses, gazing out of the window. It seemed to Hussam that his eyes saw nothing at all.

  One day his son Sultan Walad went into the ladies’ chambers to tell Kira Khatun what was happening. Just as Maulana loved Sultan, Sultan too was duty-bound to his father. Unable to bear Maulana’s agitation, he was hoping that Kira’s company would calm his father down. His Greek stepmother was so beautiful that even Sultan felt tempted sometimes. At other times she appeared similar to the Virgin Mary. Maulana too was apprehensive about Kira’s loveliness, and seldom allowed her out of the house.

  Kira came to the library late that same evening. As always, Maulana was astonished to see her. Once again he felt that she was not of this world, that she had come from an invisible universe somewhere else, as someone, as a poet of the future would write, who visited but once, never to be seen again.

  — You here, Bibijaan? Maulana took Kira’s hand.

  — I haven’t seen you in a long time, Maulana. You never visit us anymore. I’m told you’re always in the library.

  — Hmm . . . Come.

  — Don’t you feel the urge to see me anymore, Maulana?

  — Of course I do. I do see you, Kira. In my dreams.

  Kira began to laugh like a mad woman. Maulana was transfixed by her beauty and laughter.

  The laughter stopped suddenly. Kissing her husband’s feet, Kira said, ‘I beg your pardon, Maulana. I should not have asked this question. Nor do I know why I laughed. Forgive me, Maulana.’

  Maulana sat down next to Kira, putting his hand on her back he said, ‘You know I never lie, Kira.’

  — Don’t embarrass me, Maulana.

  — Let me speak, Kira.

  — I beg your pardon.

  — I wanted you to call me by my name Jalal at least once, Kira. But I have been your Maulana too from the very first day. Sometimes I wonder if I had not been Maulana-e Buzurg’s son, let’s say if I had owned a carpet shop or a perfumery in Konya’s market, or even sold baskets on the road, you and I could have lived as easily as other couples do. This existence of mine has not allowed me a taste of easy living. That is why I see you in my dreams, Kira, I lie with you every night here in this library, it’s just the two of us.

  — What’s all this you’re saying, Maulana?

  — Do I seem an infidel to you, Kira?

  — Who am I to judge you, Maulana? If I can spend my entire life by your side, that will be Allah’s kindness. Will you just answer a single question?

  — Yes?

  — What’s wrong with you? You have been restless for several days.

  Maulana smiled. — Sultan must have told you. Or was it Hussam?

  — It was Sultan.

  — This son of mine loves me so much, it feels like a chain around my neck sometimes.

  — He’s a favourite of yours too.

  — Yes, a deeply religious soul. Not even I am worthy of him.

  — What are you saying, Maulana!

  — Truly, Kira, I speak from my heart. Sultan can pledge his life to someone he loves. While I am often in a dilemma.

  — But what’s the matter with you?

  — Wait. Maulana rose to his feet. Going with measured footsteps to the door of the library, he locked it. Then he undressed, shedding all his clothes. — Do you recognize me, Kira?

  — What are you doing, Maulana? Kira hid her face in her hands.

  An unclothed Maulana embraced Kira, who rested her head against her emaciated husband’s chest and began to weep.

  — Don’t cry, Kira. This may be our last night together. A lion from Tabriz has arrived in Konya. He is hiding somewhere. Ever since I had this realization, a fire has been burning within me. He will destroy everything we have. Once the lion reveals itself nothing will be the same, Kira.

  Maulana began to take Kira’s clothes off, one by one. Making her lie down on the floor of the library, Maulana lay down next to her and whispered, ‘Kira . . .’

  — Yes?

  Like two willow branches Kira’s long arms enveloped Maulana.

  — What a beautiful garden. A garden in spring.

  — Where?

  — You, Kira.

  — Have you gone mad today, Maulana?

  — When I bathe in the warm springs of Meram, it is your body I see, Kira, in the sound of the water whirling around me.

  Maulana sat up, made Kira sit on his lap, and placed his lips on her neck. His tongue began to move between Kira’s breasts, in the cleavage between them.

  Kira too began to play with Maulana’s body. Eventually they had intercourse. />
  Before leaving Kira said, ‘Has the fire within you died down, Maulana?’

  — Farewell, muttered Maulana.

  Kira did not stay another instant.

  The next day Sultan asked Kira, ‘Did you meet Maulana?’

  Kira smiled. — Don’t worry, Sultan, he has recovered.

  — I knew you alone could help him get better.

  — Sultan?

  — Yes.

  — Can you make arrangements for me to live somewhere else?

  — Why? This is your own house.

  — Maulana does not need me anymore. I want to live alone now, Sultan.

  — Did Maulana say anything?

  — No. As I was leaving, he only muttered, farewell. I know how he uses words, Sultan.

  — Did he say anything more?

  — No, that one word is enough, Sultan. He won’t live amongst us anymore.

  — Where will he go?

  — You love Maulana so much, Sultan, but you don’t understand what he says.

  Hussam, who was standing at a distance, came up to them to ask, ‘Where’s Maulana?’

  — In his library, answered Kira.

  Going to the library, Sultan and Hussam found the door open. Maulana was not inside. After a quick exchange of glances, they waited no more. A little later they were seen rushing along the street. Their search led them to the shop of a butcher selling lamb in the market, where Maulana was sitting. Sultan and Hussam kissed his feet. — Why are you sitting here, Maulana?

  — He’s here.

  — Who’s here?

  — The lion of Tabriz.

  — Come home now. Hussam took his arm.

  — All right.

  Maulana Rumi returned home slowly, his arms around his companions’ shoulders.

  ELEVEN

  One morning in the library Maulana sent for Sultan. Sultan arrived, kissed Maulana’s feet, and looked askance at him. He had not yet mustered the courage to ask what Maulana wanted to say.

  — Sultan . . .

  — Yes.