A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

  Maulana Rumi’s madrassa closed down. He began to sell all the books in his library. Instead of books the room filled with flutes of all kinds and percussion instruments. One day he brought Shams to his empty library. — You shall stay here from now. Do you like it?

  — Magnificent! All the garbage of knowledge has vanished.

  — But there is someone whom you have forgotten completely.

  — Who?

  — Atabeg.

  — Who is Atabeg?

  — Someone who was with you an entire night.

  — I see. So many people enter and exit our lives, said Shams dispassionately.

  — Atabeg talks of you all the time.

  — Let him. Let everyone say whatever they want to. It is just you and I now, Maulana. We do not need anyone else.

  Maulana sat in silence. Atabeg’s dejected expression played in front of his eyes. Maulana wondered whether this was how Shams had revealed his ugly face.

  FOURTEEN

  Let us now talk of winter and spring. The story will keep flowing, but if we turn a blind eye to the colours and flavours and aromas with which Konya comes alive in spring, we cannot recognize Maulana. The dazzling festival of earth and sky across Turkistan was known as spring. Many of Maulana’s poems are redolent with the fragrance of spring. He starts one of his poems with these lines:

  Look, the violet greets the lily

  While the rose disrobes.

  In another poem spring appears to him as Jesus Christ. It’s a favourite poem of mine. When you hear it you will understand how spring changes our lives.

  Dinner is over, everyone’s asleep. The house is empty.

  We go to the garden, so that the apple and peach can meet

  We bear messages between the rose and the jasmine.

  Christ is none other than spring

  Removing their shrouds he revives the martyred trees

  Uncovered, their grateful mouths seek only kisses

  The brightness of the rose and the tulip signifies

  The lamps in their hearts. A leaf trembles. I tremble too

  In the wind, like Turkish muslin.

  The beacon is lit at the tip

  This wind is the sacred soul

  And the trees, Mary.

  See how the husband and wife play hand in hand

  And as is the custom at weddings

  Pearly waves descend on them from heaven

  The scent of Yusuf’s garments wafts towards Yaqub.

  Yusuf’s son-in-law had released his father Yaqub from blindness. Actually spring does bear the scent of Yusuf’s clothes. So the days of release from blindness have arrived.

  The sun was at the centre of Maulana’s life. In every sense. The sun in the sky and the Sun of Tabriz, Shamsuddin. When the sun enters Taurus the earth gets a new life. After a nightlong snowstorm, the rose smiles suddenly in the morning, the green glow of tender grass is seen everywhere, the streets are infused with the heady fragrance of oleaster. Opium, mint, fenugreek and many other shrubs sprout on either side of the waterfall cascading down the hilly slopes of Meram.

  I have seen the severe winter of Anatolia. Long, black, despairing days. The roofs covered in snow, thick ropes of ice dangling from buildings, the sun lost from people’s lives. The snow is a symbol of an existence shrouded in darkness, frozen, imprisoned within itself. This was what Maulana was telling his followers as he strolled in Hussam’s garden outside the city on a spring day.

  — The snow wants to be released too, Hussam. It will not find release until it has melted into water. It is necessary to turn into water, Hussam. It is water that bears the world. Do you know what the snow tells itself? I want to melt, I will become a torrent, and then my journey to the sea begins, that is where my home lies. I cannot take this lonely, hard, dense existence anymore. When will the sword of the sun slice me up? That’s the day I will start melting and turn into a current.

  Maulana viewed winter another way too. The season is actually the time of retreat, of Khalwa, in the lives of dervishes, when they sit in the darkness to gather their spiritual strength in silence. Like trees. The old leaves from winter will be shed to give birth to new leaves in spring. The dervish will enter the Jilwa stage of the retreat, when Allah’s mystery will be revealed to him. The seed concealed in the darkness of the snow-covered earth will germinate.

  The raven caws and flies about all winter. He is the representative of the grave. When Cane did not know how to hide his brother Abel’s corpse after murdering him, it was the raven who taught him the technique. Is there anyone who doesn’t know of the friendship between the world’s first murderer—the first one to commit fratricide— and the raven?

  The advent of spring marks the end of the raven’s importance, of the memories of killing and burial. The souls of the birds begin their return journey. The nightingale starts singing for his favourite, the rose. The herons arrive too, on their way to their annual pilgrimage to Mecca. Their arrival means that Nauroz, the first day of the year, is coming.

  The tribes of Turkistan would pitch their tents around Konya and other towns before the cold season. They spent their lives in the mountains, coming down to the plains only during severe winters. Maulana could be seen walking around their tents sometimes, talking to the mountain people. His son Sultan, Hussam and Thereanos accompanied him like shadows. And, holding Sultan’s hand, Atabeg would take it all in with his enormous eyes.

  One day Maulana sat down in front of the Kislak, the winter home of the tribes, and asked, ‘Do any of you know the meaning of the word Turk?’

  — No, Maulana, said Sultan.

  — Words are not born without reason. They pass through the uterine passage of a deep mystery. Turk. How magnificent! Have you never felt a thrill uttering this word, Hussam? All that is beautiful is Turk. The ashiq, for instance, the lover. Or take the inhabitants of paradise, they’re Turks too.

  When the tribes rolled up their tents and began their journey back to the mountains, everyone knew that it was time for new leaves and flowers to sprout on plants. Spring, the messenger of Jannat, was at hand. Dressed in garments of leaves, he was on his way from the blue home of heaven. Then it would start raining. The sky would be covered in thick black clouds. Maulana used to say, those clouds are born in oceans of love to climb to the sky. The more the clouds weep, the more it rains, and the more the gardens smile. The lover’s tears also take us towards divine love, Hussam. The embrace of sunshine and rain will reveal our hearts. Rain is the compassion of our lives, Hussam.

  Maulana’s book of poetry, Divan-e Shams, was full of hymns of praise to spring. He observed the marriage between the light of the earth and the light of the sky with the wonder of a child. Walking along the paths of Meram, he was engrossed in the sounds of the whirlpool. ‘Do you get a message from the sound of the water, Hussam?’ he whispered.

  — What message, Maulana?

  — The desire to go back home. This is not our home, Hussam. Where did we come from? That’s where we must go back.

  The nightingale sings from the treetops throughout spring, the call of the cuckoo can be heard. Cuckoo, cuckoo . . . Where, where? Surely the memory of the first day is hidden in the dance manifesting itself through trees and leaves and flowers? Human beings had not yet been born. It was to this non-existence that he had said, ‘I am your Lord.’ Maulana felt that these words of Allah’s were actually the bandish, the melodic line, of his music, and that the eternal dance of life began on hearing this melody.

  The beginning of life was in the cosmic dance, my learned readers. The boughs and leaves and flowers start dancing when the spring breeze brushes past them. Walking along the paths of Meram, Maulana would dance too, his favourite dance, the whirling dance, the Sama. Sometimes he spoke incessantly, ‘I feel spring is an extraordinary tailor. Indefatigably stitching different kinds of green brocade clothes. Tell me, Sultan, don’t you think the tulip bathes in blood like a martyr before revealing itself to us? Do you know the story of th
e birth of the rose, Thereanos? When Muhammad was on his way to paradise, riding Buraq, the beads of perspiration from his body fell to earth and gave birth to roses. It is the fragrance of the Prophet’s body that the rose delivers to us.

  Maulana believed that all our thoughts and deeds are like a garden bedecked by spring. I am tempted to read one of his sayings from Fihi ma Fihi, It Is What It Is. Maulana says, ‘If you speak well of others, it will come back to you as praise for you. If you plant roses and fragrant plants around your house, you will see them all the time, and feel as though you are in heaven. If you speak well of someone they will become your friend; to think of them will be to think of a dear friend. And the rose, the rose bed, and fragrance are the dearest of friends. If you have the constant company of roses, will you ever seek out wild animals in the dense forest?’

  It is in spring that bees fly about in Konya’s gardens, making wax and honey in their hives. Maulana used to say, ‘Each of these bees is a dervish, Hussam. They bring nectar and light to the world just as dervishes do.’

  Strolling in Hussam’s garden, he stopped at the sight of a peacock with its tail spread out. Glancing at his followers, he said, ‘Who but the peacock can offer such beauty to its lover? Look, Sultan, how his neck is swollen with pride, how it pulses. If this isn’t spring, what is?’

  — But where is the room for pride in Allah’s world, Maulana?

  — Some forms of pride are not arrogance but joy. The joy of expressing oneself. The peacock had thought this way too once upon a time. That fanning his tail was a display of pride. Was he demeaning Allah? Wracked by remorse, he tore out the feathers in his tail with his beak. A dervish who was passing burst out in protest, saying, ‘What are you doing, peacock?’

  — I do not wish to keep my false pride on my body anymore, said the peacock.

  The dervish smiled. ‘Did you create the beauty of your plumage? This is the Lord’s gift. You do not have the right to destroy this beauty. Don’t you know that it is your feather which is used to mark the page in the Quran?’

  The children start playing again when spring arrives. The long winter has passed in imprisonment in a small room. Now it is time for liberation through the joy of playing. Play as much as you want, roll in the dust, you can even forget the way back home. Only then are you a true companion of spring. In his Masnavi Maulana has written of a shaikh who lost himself playing with children all day. Everyone knew there was no one more learned than him in the city, that he knew the answer to every question. But he used to hide behind the passion of playing with children. Someone had asked, ‘How can a learned man like you spend your time in frolic with children? This is not befitting of you, Shaikh.’

  — Do you think you know better than I what suits me or not? Some say, be a lawyer, some say, be a religious scholar. How much do I know? And what I do know has nothing to do with law or religion. You see, I am a field of cane, but I’m savouring the cane sugar at the same time. I don’t care whether people believe that I’m learned. You’ll never understand the joy of playing all day.

  My wise readers, Shams of Tabriz took Maulana into this very joy of sport. The celestial music of the flute played in the empty house of literature, along with the rhythm of drums. The Sama began, a whirling dance linking the earth and the sky. The Sun of Tabriz brought spring into Maulana’s life.

  One night, when the dancing had ended in the early hours of the morning, Maulana sent for Hussam and said, ‘Write down, Hussam . . .

  Only music day and night

  Calm and bright is the melody

  Of the flute. When this melody is wiped out

  So are we.

  FIFTEEN

  It was the height of winter in Konya, but still spring had arrived. Shamsuddin, the Sun of Tabriz, had risen in Maulana’s life. Shams knew that he had been born in the house of Aftab, the sunlight, which was why his eyes had been fixed on the sun since birth. One day he told Hussam, laughing, ‘Someone asked me, what can you tell us about the moon? Speak about Mars, too. I said, I’m not meant to know all this. Does the sun know that there is something called the moon in the cosmos? The moon and the planets and the stars are all helpless before the sun. Anyone can gaze at the moon, but how many people have that ability when it comes to the sun, Hussam? There was the Sisphur. It didn’t drown even in an ocean, but it was burnt in a fire. There are very few birds that neither drown in the water nor burn in a fire.’

  — You are that bird, Hussam said.

  — No, Hussam. I am merely a pigeon, flying about everywhere. Though I have now been imprisoned in Maulana’s cage. But then, you know, some bonds mean freedom. Do you ever feel that way, Hussam? I am complete in you. This skin, blood, bones, marrow, mind, soul . . . all, all of it is you. There is no question of belief or scepticism. This existence is your existence. This is the way I have come to Maulana.

  It was like a bright morning dawning after a night of snowstorms and rain. Maulana was playing the rubab in the library. A sight such as this had been beyond the imagination even a short while ago. The whispers in Konya’s homes and streets about his transformation grew louder. Would Maulana repudiate Islam, then? What was this path he had chosen? He immersed himself in dance and song and music all day long. Didn’t he know that all this was forbidden in Islam? He even forgot to offer the namaz at times, and didn’t answer people’s questions. Had he forgotten that he was Maulana-e Buzurg Bahauddin’s son? How many believers, how many learned men, were there like him in the world? Imagine him falling into the hands of a wandering dervish and giving himself up to singing and dancing.

  Maulana spent his entire day with Shams in the kitab khanah. He met almost no one, either from his home or from elsewhere. Only Sultan Walad, Hussam and Thereanos had the right to visit them. Musicians who played the rubab or the lute, the ney or the flute, and the kadam or the drums were allowed in too. Moinuddin Sulaiman and his wife Gurcu Khatun were also occasional visitors. I must tell you a little history here. In 1214 AD, after conquering Anatolia, the Mongols installed Sultan Ghiasuddin’s son Ruknuddin on the throne. But he was a mere puppet, with the administration actually still in the hands of Moinuddin Sulaiman.

  One evening, Moinuddin Sulaiman and his wife Gurcu Khatun were visiting Maulana and Shams. The finest rubab player of Konya had begun his music. Swaying in time with the music, Maulana rose to his feet a little later. Shams looked at him intently. Maulana held his hands out to Sultan and Hussam. Both of them stood up. Taking their hands, Maulana began to dance. And as he did, he recited:

  Dance, now that you’ve been torn apart

  Dance, now that you’ve ripped the bandage off

  Dance in the middle of the battle

  Dance within your blood

  Dance, now that you’re a free soul

  When the dance had ended, Moinuddin said, ‘Why does the rubab make you so restless, Maulana?’

  After a pause Maulana said with a smile, ‘I hear the doors of paradise opening.’

  — But I’m not transported to your delight. I have no wish to dance.

  — Perhaps you hear the doors of paradise closing.

  Shams shouted, ‘Khamosh! Why do these Sultans and their acolytes still visit you?’

  — What do you mean? Moinuddin jumped to his feet, trembling with rage. — You dare insult me through the words of this qalandar, Maulana?

  Maulana said placidly, ‘My friend has not insulted you.’

  — Then what is the meaning of what he said?

  Turning to Sultan, Maulana said, ‘Explain what it means, Sultan.’

  — What can I say, Maulana?

  — Then why are you with me? Leave me and go.

  — Am I supposed to say everything, Maulana?

  Maulana smiled. — Everything. You, I, Hussam, Thereanos, we don’t fear anyone anymore. Looking at Shams, he said, ‘The sun is with us, Sultan. Whom should we fear? Should we fear Sultan Ruknuddin? Or even Parwana Moinuddin?’ Maulana burst into laughter. No one had seen him laugh this w
ay before.

  Touching Maulana’s feet, Moinuddin said, ‘Are you well, Maulana?’

  Embracing Moinuddin, Maulana recited:

  We have barrels brimming with wine, but no goblets

  What a perfect arrangement this is, every morning

  We brighten, and our glow radiates in the evening too

  They say we have no future, and they’re right.

  What a perfect arrangement this is for us.

  Shamsuddin applauded. ‘Magnificent! Shall I tell a story then, Maulana?’

  — Tell us.

  Clearing his throat, Shams began, ‘A long time ago, there were two friends who lived together, and couldn’t bear to be parted. One day they went to a shaikh to listen to a story.’

  — A story? Hussam asked.

  — Why not? Shams smiled too. — A story is no small thing, Hussam. This world of ours was made by weaving stories together. These two friends were addicted to stories.

  — And then?

  — The shaikh told them a story.

  — What story?

  — A story about two other friends. They had also been to a shaikh for a story. Before beginning, the shaikh asked them many questions and then said, ‘How long have you two been friends?’

  — Many years, huzoor.

  — How many years?

  — Nearly forty. The other friend said.

  — That’s a long time. You’ve never quarrelled?

  — Never, said the first friend with a smile.

  — That means both of you are living a life of pretence. You must have irked each other sometimes, didn’t you?