A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

  — Yes, huzoor.

  — But you didn’t dare tell each other out of fear.

  — Yes, huzoor.

  — There’s no need to keep such friendships alive. You can’t build a friendship on deception. You were never friends, you only flattered each other.

  After a pause Shams said, ‘I told Maulana the very first day, all hypocrisy has to be eliminated. You must seek more solitude. Truth does not live in a crowd of people. When I’m on my own, it’s my business when I shall shit or fart or piss. If you cannot be alone, when will you get rid of your impurities? Get rid of all the gatekeepers from your life. Most of those who come into your life under the guise of friends are actually gatekeepers. They won’t let you go anywhere near the truth.’ Shams laughed. ‘Moinuddin sahib here is a gatekeeper too.’

  ‘Your friend is insulting me again, Maulana,’ muttered Moinuddin.

  Maulana bowed his head. ‘I beg your pardon, Parwana. But Shaikh has not insulted you.’

  — Then what does he mean?

  Looking at Sultan, Maulana said, ‘You tell him, Sultan.’

  Kneeling as though he was praying, Sultan Walad began, ‘What I am telling all of you now is what Maulana Rumi told me once. He had said, “Don’t rub shoulders with navabs and sultans. These powerful people eventually turn into dragons. Those who converse with them, become their friends or accept their wealth all begin to talk like them on the dragon’s wishes. They become preachers of the dragons’ credo, losing all power to question them. And that is when a spiritual crisis erupts. The closer you get to dragons, the more you will deviate from the true path. The more you are attracted to worldly things, the more love will slip through your fingers.”’

  Turning to Maulana, Moinuddin said, ‘Do you mistrust me, Maulana?’

  — No, but I do not trust your throne.

  — The throne is inanimate, Maulana.

  — Who says that? Maulana smiled. — Every throne in the world is bloodthirsty, Parwana. Every throne is an unfulfilled soul.

  — I respect you, Maulana.

  — But your throne and my rug are far apart.

  — You can close the distance easily.

  — It can’t be done. I am travelling a different road, Parwana. It is a path of poetry, of music, of dance, of beauty.

  — I love all this too, Maulana.

  — I know, Maulana smiled. — But none of this holds any value for the state. The state cannot proceed except through the route of violence. Nor can you. Murder or be murdered—you do not have the power to escape this fate. I am telling you today that the same Mongols who have vested so much power in you today will be responsible for your death in the future.

  Gurcu Khatun shrieked, ‘What are you saying, Maulana?’

  — Man himself will curb the power of man. It is a spiritual battle to the end. Until it occurs there is no salvation for the world. Parwana . . .

  — Yes, Maulana?

  — I could have confronted you as a rebel.

  — What are you saying, Maulana?

  — You are dancing to the tune of the Mongols.

  — It is my duty to maintain peace in this city, Maulana.

  — Peace? This is a city of the dead. What need does it have for peace? The sword and blood are not my path. Will you join us on our road?

  — Which road?

  — Singing and music and dance.

  — Who will protect the city?

  — The people of Konya themselves.

  — There will be chaos, Maulana.

  — In that case, goodbye. Maulana rose to his feet. — We wish to be left in peace now. Let not the slightest whiff of power enter this room, Sultan.

  Without another word, Moinuddin Suleiman and Gurcu Khatun touched Maulana’s feet and left.

  A few days later, Maulana spoke silently once more against power. That day Amir Jalaluddin, a rich man, had opened a madrassa named after himself in Konya. Maulana arrived with Shams and several disciples for the inauguration. Shams was asked to sit where people took their shoes off, where ordinary citizens sat. He was not Maulana, he was only an ordinary ascetic. Maulana was asked what the seating arrangements should be. Smiling at the question, he said, ‘The Maulvis should find room in the centre. The Sufis will sit in the corners. The lover will sit by his lover.’

  ‘Then sit at the centre,’ said Amir Jalaluddin.

  — But I’m no Maulvi.

  — What are you saying, Maulana!

  Without another word Maulana Rumi took his seat next to Shams. The hostility to Shams that had been gathering in Konya came to the forefront after the inauguration. Who was this aged dervish who was misleading Maulana? Didn’t Maulana know where his seat should be? Had he gone insane?

  Many years later, Shams had melted into the wind by then, Maulana stopped at a scene on a road in Konya, where he had been walking with Sultan and Hussam. A she-dog was gnawing on a bone while suckling her puppies. Maulana watched their frolic.

  — What is it, Maulana? Why did you stop? asked Sultan.

  — Don’t any of you have eyes, Sultan? Do you only orbit around me all the time? Look at the world. You might just find me there.

  — Tell us what we are unable to see, said Hussam.

  — Why shouldn’t you be able to see, Hussam? The world can be seen easily enough. But all of you weave a web of explanations and confuse everything. I was once a frog in the same well too. Can explanations offer anything at all? All that we get is on the shorelines of dreams. Do you know who this she-dog is, Sultan?

  — No, who is she?

  — Mother Mary. Ameen. The little puppies cannot eat solid bones, so their mother is doing it for them. And the babies are drinking her milk. The bone will make fresh milk in her body, which the puppies will drink tomorrow. I know that there are many questions in your mind about my sunlight. What Shaikh used to tell us was like that bone, which you could not digest. I chewed and digested the bone, and all of you drank my milk.

  Shams’s enemies in Konya were multiplying by the day. What sorcery had this doddering dervish used to captivate Maulana? Unless the infidel was driven out of Konya, Maulana could not be saved. Another of Maulana’s sons, Alauddin, had disliked Shams from the beginning. He had even told Sultan Walad as much, but the dutiful son had dismissed his brother’s complaints. Barging into the library in Maulana’s absence one day, Alauddin told Shams, ‘Leave this building at once.’

  — Why? Shams smiled.

  — Because I say so.

  — Who are you? Are you worthy of talking to me?

  — I shall kill you.

  Shams laughed loudly. — Pull out your weapon. Where is it? Bring it out.

  Unable to stand his ground in the face of Shams’s words and his laughter, Alauddin ran away. When Maulana returned home, he sent for Alauddin and said, ‘Don’t try this ever again, Ala. He is here on my wish, you cannot be his enemy.’

  — Will you answer a question?

  — What is it?

  — Whom do you belong to? To us or to this qalandar?

  — To the Sun of Tabriz.

  — Are you sure, Maulana?

  — I’m absolutely certain.

  — What does he have?

  — Be civil, Ala. You do not know him at all.

  — I don’t want to.

  — Then stay away.

  — Will you not be at our side?

  — I will, Ala. I am with all of you. But a time comes when I have to leave everyone. Do you know why? Because I will come back again. Shaikh Shamsuddin is so much older and wiser. Is it right to insult him?

  — He has taken you away from us.

  Maulana smiled. ‘Listen to me, Ala, no one can take a person away from anyone. Nor have I gone away from all of you. If I ever do, it will be on my own compulsion. You cannot count the number of creatures lurking inside a man. There’s a rat, there’s a bird too. Don’t be the rat. Try to be the bird.’

  The pigeon flew away four hundred and sixty-eight days after
being seen for the first time. One morning Maulana discovered that Shams was not by his side. He wasn’t to be found anywhere even after searching across the length and breadth of Konya. Maulana sat alone in his library. Evening fell, enveloping the room in darkness. He didn’t allow the lamps to be lit. Kira came in, sitting opposite Maulana for a long time, but he didn’t utter a single word.

  Very late at night Maulana went out of the room and called out, ‘Hussam . . .’

  — Yes, Maulana?

  — Come to my room.

  Holding Hussam’s hands tightly, Maulana said, ‘Where has he gone, Hussam?’

  — I don’t know, Maulana.

  — He didn’t tell you either? Maulana broke down in tears. — Whom will I live with, Hussam?

  Hussam could not answer. Sometime later Maulana began to murmur:

  Deep in this new love, let there be death

  Your road lies elsewhere

  Be the sky

  Take an axe to the prison walls. Escape

  Emerge like a life born suddenly out of colour

  Now, at once

  You are shrouded in dense clouds

  Run away in secret. Die

  And be calm. Tranquillity proves

  That you are dead

  You had an old life

  Running away desperately from silence

  Wordless, the full moon

  Has just been revealed.

  Maulana died once that night. The death before death which hundreds of storytellers in this world have talked of.

  SIXTEEN

  Everyone had expected Maulana Rumi to return to his former life as a teacher after Shams’s departure. A glow of happiness spread across the faces of his students and disciples. But Maulana withdrew himself even more. He spent all his time in the library, without meeting anyone. He asked for all the musical instruments to be removed. No lamps were lit when darkness fell. Despite the extreme cold he often stood stock still in the veranda all night.

  A year passed this way. There was no more dancing at Maulana’s house, he did not send for Hussam anymore to dictate his poetry.

  Sultan described Shams to everyone who came to Konya, asking them whether they had seen the fakir anywhere. Enquiring after his whereabouts became Sultan’s principal activity during the day. Atabeg was his constant companion. Sultan knew that his father was going through intense anguish because of Shams’s disappearance. Shams would have to be brought back if Maulana was to be saved.

  My learned readers, it was during this period of Shams’s disappearance that Maulana Rumi was being cooked in the Lord’s kitchen. Don’t be surprised to hear this. The kitchen and the process of cooking are both connected with our story. To the Shaikh every disciple was a pea, and he, the cook. The cook at Maulana’s house was Ahim Baz, whose grave you can see if you ever visit Konya. Maulana loved him very much, often going into the kitchen to watch him cook. But he did not eat most of the things the cook made. He would ask Ahim Baz, ‘Where did you import this aroma from, Ahim bhai?’

  — I only present what the Lord sends, Maulana.

  — Does the Lord talk to you?

  — He does.

  — What does he tell you?

  — I don’t understand any of it, Maulana. The Lord only talks through my hands. He mixes the spices, stirs the pot, sometimes I even hear him tasting what I’ve made. That’s when I know the food is ready.

  Listen closely to the story about peas that Maulana wrote in his Masnavi, learned readers. It’s an amusing qissa. The peas had been put in the pot to be boiled. How could they stand so much heat? They tried to leap out.

  One of the peas asked the cook, ‘What are you trying to do with us?’

  Rapping the pea with her ladle, she said, ‘Don’t you try to jump out. Do you think I’m trying to torture you?

  — It hurts a lot, wailed the pea.

  Smiling, the cook said, ‘You have to bear it. After this I’ll fry you in spices. Can you imagine the taste? All that water you fattened yourselves on in the garden during the rains—what was it in aid of? So that I could cook you, what else. And then everyone will relish eating you. That’s how men will grow sperm in their bodies. And there will be new people in the world.’

  The pea smiled too. ‘Cook me even better, then.’

  — That’s just what I want to do, said the cook. — I was like you once. Then I was cooked. So many pure souls ate me. Only then was I born as a cook myself. You won’t understand right now what joy it is, pea.

  Maulana sent for Sultan and Hussam one morning. Putting his hands on their shoulders, he said, ‘I want to go out today.’

  — You’ll go out?

  — Sultan, I can tell that Shams will return. I am certain he will.

  — We have not yet received any news of him, said Hussam.

  — There will be news. There can be no alternative.

  When they arrived at Konya’s market Maulana told Sultan, ‘I want some irmik halva today, Sultan.’

  — You? Sultan looked at his father in surprise. Maulana had fasted often during this past year, not even touching any of his favourite foods. He was asking for irmik halva after a long time.

  Maulana smiled to himself as he ate.

  ‘What are you thinking of, Maulana?’ asked Hussam.

  — Of Shaikh Bahauddin.

  — Did Maulana-e Buzurg say anything about halva? Sultan asked with a surge of paternal affection as he watched Maulana eat his halva.

  — No, Sultan. He had once said, ‘I’ve eaten a lot throughout my life. I can see so much bread and water in my stomach.’ Allah says, ‘The water and the bread and fruit all sing my praises from your belly.’ We have come into this world as raw vegetables and raw meat, Sultan. We look beautiful at that stage. But there will be no release for us till we have been cooked and transferred into people’s stomachs. We’ll have to die many times before we die, for only then can we reach our companion.

  Suddenly Maulana rose to his feet, still eating. A rhythmic sound was floating in from the distance. Maulana followed it back towards its source, stopping in front of a particular shop in the goldsmiths’ section in the market. A hammer was falling on gold plates to its own distinctive beat. Like drums. Maulana felt that the flute had struck up a tune too. He stood still for some time. And then the whirling dance began. The people in Konya’s market froze. The goldsmith kept hammering the gold plate in time with Maulana’s dance, so that the rhythm was not destroyed.

  This was how Maulana met the goldsmith Salauddin Zarkub for the first time in the bazaars of Konya. It is said that Salauddin danced that day with Maulana too. Then who had played the beat of the hammer on the gold plate? We do not have the answers, learned readers. It is all the will of God.

  Salauddin is supposed to have been born in a village named Kamil, quite some distance from Konya. The son of a fisherman, he had never been educated. Trying to make a fortune in Konya, he began working with a goldsmith, eventually opening his own modest establishment. Although he met Maulana late in life, Salauddin was also a student of Burhanuddin’s.

  When the dance ended Maulana clasped Salauddin to his breast. After this Salauddin became Maulana’s intimate friend and disciple. Maulana would often visit Salauddin’s shop, losing himself in the rhythms of the gold plates being hammered. Salauddin was a reticent man, who could not even express himself properly. But Maulana loved his silent company. He had once told Sultan, ‘After the Sun of Tabriz, Salauddin is the moon of my life.’ And Hussamuddin Chalabi, his star.

  One day Sultan became acquainted with a merchant who had come from Damascus. When he heard Shams being described by Sultan, he said, ‘I’ve seen this sage. Spoken to him too.’

  — Where?

  — In Damascus.

  — What was he doing when you saw him? Was it in a mosque?

  — No. A new inn was being constructed. That was where I saw the old man. He was bearing stones on his head. I saw him several times afterwards, reading the Quran to the children
of the poor on the street. One day I asked him, ‘Who are you?’ He looked at me for a while and then answered, ‘A pigeon.’

  — A pigeon?

  — You know what a bird is, don’t you?

  — But you must have a name.

  — Why do you need to know it?

  — You seem to be a wise man.

  — A wise man? He began to laugh. — What use is wisdom? Let me tell you a story then. A wise man once boarded a boat to cross a river. The boatman began to sing as he rowed. This accomplished individual had his nose buried in a book. A little later he shouted at the boatman, ‘Stop singing. I can’t read.’ The boatman was poor and unread, he fell silent, as the poor always have to. The genius asked, ‘Have you ever read a book?’ ‘No, huzoor, answered the boatman diffidently.’ The know-all laughed contemptuously, saying, ‘You have lost half of your life.’ The boat moved on, the boatman rowing in silence, the genius reading. Suddenly the skies darkened, and a storm was whipped up. The waters began to seethe, the boat began to heave. The know-all was frozen with fear. ‘You know how to swim, don’t you, huzoor,’ said the boatman. Speechless with terror at the violence of the storm, the wise man could barely stammer, ‘No.’ Even the poor have their day. What else is the Lord here for? Laughing, the boatman said, ‘Then you’ll lose your entire life, huzoor.’ This is the plight of geniuses. They don’t even realize how their entire life has been wiped out while they’re reading their books.

  — Did he say anything more?

  — No, he walked off as soon as he had finished the story. A frail old man, but how fiercely he walked.

  — He’s the sun, said Sultan.

  — What do you mean? The merchant looked at Sultan in astonishment.

  — The Sun of Tabriz. His name is Shamsuddin.

  — The sun or the moon or whatever you may call him, he’s a crazy old man. But why are you looking for him?

  — Because he is our sustenance. Our wine and our bread.

  The merchant laughed. — What you say makes no sense either.

  Hussam had been listening in silence. Now he said, ‘Listen to a story then.’

  — Another story?