A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

  Hussam smiled. ‘The entire world, and even whatever lies outside it, is a story. The Lord has written all our stories with his own quill.’

  — Let’s hear it, then.

  Taking the merchant’s arm, Sultan said, ‘But first come and have some hanim gobegi. You’re a guest of Konya’s, it is our duty to look after you.

  — What’s hanim gobegi?

  — It’s a marvellous pastry. The name means a woman’s navel. You won’t get this famous sweet of Turkistan anywhere else in the world.

  The merchant listened to Hussam’s story as he ate a woman’s navel at a sweetmeat shop.

  Hussam began the story he had heard from Maulana. — There was a philosopher who did not believe in the existence of Allah. One day he fell severely ill and was forced to visit the doctor. The doctor was a very devout man who believed that the world runs according to the wishes of the Lord. Examining the philosopher, he asked, ‘What do you want?’

  — I want to regain my health, said the philosopher.

  — Hmm . . . said the doctor, looking grave. — Do you know what health looks like? I can restore it to you if you do.

  The philosopher said in surprise, ‘Can it be seen? How can I tell you what it looks like?’

  The doctor smiled. ‘How can you want something if you don’t know what it looks like?’

  The philosopher said in agitation, ‘It’s true I cannot explain it. But you can understand what health is when you see a healthy person. I have lost the energy of a healthy man.’

  — But I was asking about health. The philosopher said grimly, ‘How can I describe what cannot be seen?’

  — But still you believe in the existence of health?

  — Of course. How can people be healthy otherwise?

  The doctor burst into laughter. Shaking with rage, the philosopher asked, ‘Are you insane?’

  — What if I am? The doctor was still laughing to himself. Then let me ask you a question.

  — What is it?

  — You cannot see health, but you believe in its existence. Then why don’t you believe in the existence of the Lord even if you cannot see him?

  The philosopher said loftily, ‘It’s a philosophical question, hakim sahib, you won’t get it.’

  — Philosophy that has no relationship with common sense is not worth its name. Let me ask you one more question.

  — All right.

  — You’ve seen the fountains at inns, haven’t you? Some of the spouts are made like humans, some like birds. Water flows from their mouths. Now water cannot emerge from the mouths of statues. Where does it come from?

  — The source of the water lies elsewhere, smiled the philosopher.

  — Yes. And the source isn’t visible. All we can see is the fleeting flow from the fountain. But does the source not exist only because we do not see it?

  The merchant was listening open-mouthed to Hussam’s story. When Hussam stopped he practically shrieked, ‘Both of you are very mysterious people. Are you magicians?’

  ‘Would you like another woman’s navel?’ asked Sultan with a smile.

  — Not a bad idea. The merchant’s face brightened. ‘Far more delicious than an actual woman’s navel.’

  — No, my friend, said Hussam, smiling. — The taste of a flesh-and-blood woman’s navel is indescribable. Every woman’s navel has a unique taste, but all hanim gobegi tastes the same. Do you know why?

  — Why? The merchant looked at him in surprise.

  — Hanim gobegi is made by humans. And a woman’s navel, by the Lord. Its flavour and aroma are beyond description.

  Coming out of the sweetmeat shop into the market, Sultan told the merchant, ‘Will you honour a request?’

  — Of course. I like you very much.

  — Will you meet Maulana Rumi?

  — Who is he?

  — My father. The greatest scholar and spiritual soul in the city. All of us are his pupils.

  — What do I have to gain by meeting him?

  — Nothing at all. The benefit will be all his. Shaikh Shamsuddin is a part of his soul. Ever since he left, Maulana has been like a tree struck down in a storm. He will be very happy to hear you talk of Shaikh.

  — That’s not a difficult request. The merchant smiled. If it makes a person happy to hear something, it is our duty to say it.

  — That’s noble of you.

  — Not at all. I’ve travelled all over ever since I was a boy, all in search of money. Not that I haven’t amassed a good deal already. But the joy of returning home is special. Now that I’m over fifty, I’ve realized that happiness is the main thing.

  Evening was descending on Konya. Maulana was standing outside his front door. ‘Who is he?’ he asked, pointing to the stranger accompanying Sultan and Hussam.

  — He has seen Shams of Tabriz, Maulana.

  — Where? Where has he seen him, Sultan? Maulana gripped his son’s arm.

  Maulana listened to the merchant’s account in his empty library. Sometimes his face shone with eagerness, at other times anxiety cast a shadow on his eyes, followed by tears of despair. There was a constant play of light and shade on his expression. As soon as the merchant finished his story Maulana took his hands. ‘Who are you? What is your name? Where have you come from?’

  — My name is Chandradhar Gupta. I’m coming from India.

  — India? The land where Shakyamuni was born?

  — You know of him?

  — I’ve heard many stories about him that came floating on the wind. Can you tell me more? How many years before Christ was he born?

  — I am a mere trader, Maulana. How much do I know about the Buddha? I’ve heard he reached the status of Buddha only after being reborn many times. The stories have been written in the Jataka tales in the Pali language.

  Maulana began to pace up and down. A little later he muttered, ‘Search for me elsewhere if you don’t find me here. I am waiting for you somewhere, my friend.’

  It seemed to Hussam that a planet was trying to break out of its orbit. At that moment Sultan said, ‘I want to go to Damascus to bring Shaikh back, Maulana.’

  — You’ll go, Sultan? But I have to write him a letter first. Why will he come unless I invite him?

  Maulana sent four letters to Damascus. Shamsuddin replied too. In one of the letters Maulana had written, ‘The light of our hearts, the wish to end all our wishes, our lives have been surrendered to you, do not prolong this separation. Return to our midst soon.’

  Shams had responded, ‘I have nothing but prayer in my life, Maulana. I no longer have a relationship with anything that is living. Besides you, no other living being exists for me. Wait. I shall return, only for you. Wait. The other name of waiting is prayer. You know this.’

  Maulana went mad on receiving this letter. The Sama dances began again. Even on his walks Maulana lost himself in his whirling dances. One day he disrobed entirely while dancing in the market. He started talking to trees, to dogs, as though they were the only ones who could understand him.

  Sending for Sultan and Hussam a few days later, Maulana told them, ‘You’d better leave for Damascus tomorrow morning, Sultan. Don’t travel alone. Let us not lose any more time.’

  — Very well, Maulana, said Sultan.

  — So much of my life has been wasted, Sultan. Maulana’s voice held the dense fog of the Konya winter.

  — What are you saying, Maulana?

  — I’m right, Hussam. I am renowned the world over as Maulana. I have wasted a great deal of time on this fame. Fame is nothing but shackles of iron. Even those who do not know me claim they love me. There can be no greater misfortune. I don’t want to squander the rest of my life, Sultan.

  SEVENTEEN

  Madinat al-Yasmin. The city of jasmines. I do not know who gave Damascus this poetic name, my learned readers. Do any of you know? The people of Damascus also refer to their city as ash-Sham. The city was built two thousand years before Lord Jesus Christ. I went to Damascus too on my travels, even be
fore reaching Maulana’s city, Konya. The walled city has seven gates, their architecture constantly reminding us that Damascus is indeed the city of jasmines. As you know, every beauty has its own distinct fragrance. The gates are beautifully named too—the Bab al-Faradis is the gateway to paradise, the al-Salam is the gateway to peace.

  I’m sure you know that after the war at Karbala, the Umayyad Caliph Yazid had brought Imam Husain’s severed head to Damascus. It was displayed in the turret of Yazid Manzil for everyone to see. War ends, but its barbarity and cruelty continue to be revealed in different ways. Imam Husain’s slow death at Shemr’s hands was the most tragic scene from all the wars on earth. But let us not talk of these heartbreaking events and turn back instead to the city of jasmines.

  Damascus was redolent with the aroma of knowledge and learning. As you know, Shaikh Bahauddin had sent Maulana to Aleppo and Damascus for a deeper study of religious theory. Maulana lived here for four years. This was where he met the Sufi saint Ibn al-Arabi and Sadruddin Kunai. More important, it was in Damascus that the Sun of Tabriz saw Maulana for the first time, telling himself with a smile, ‘He has not been cooked yet.’

  I too met an extraordinary individual in Damascus. Taqiuddin bin Tamia. People would throng in thousands to hear him talk at mosques and madrassas. Some of the things he said would enrage scholars. They claimed he was speaking against the religion. He had had to go to jail at least twice. The first time he was imprisoned, he annotated forty volumes of the Quran. But he did not change his ways even after being released. I went to the mosque one Thursday to hear him speak. He climbed down the stairs leading to the prayer platform, and then looked up and said, ‘Just like I came down these stairs, Allah too had descended to paradise on Earth.’ There was an uproar in the mosque. What sort of assertion was this? Allah had descended to Earth? This was no different from the audacity of the infidel Al Hallaj’s saying, ‘I am Allah.’ Taqiuddin was sent to prison again. Later I heard that he died during imprisonment. Sometimes I think Taqiuddin was actually a ray of light that had burst out of the Sun of Tabriz.

  Now we have to go to the forecourt of the Umayyad Masjid, one of the largest mosques in the world. It was originally the Basilica of St John the Baptist. When the Arabs conquered Damascus in 634 AD, the Basilica was converted into a mosque. Searching for Shaikh Shamsuddin on Damascus’s roads and in its inns, Sultan and Hussam found him in front of the Umayyad Masjid. He was dressed in a tattered, faded robe, his hair was matted, his beard had turned white. Shamsuddin was talking to a boy, so absorbed that he didn’t even look up when Sultan and Hussam appeared.

  Clearing his throat, Hussam said, ‘Shaikh-e Alam . . .’

  — Yes, sir, said Shamsuddin without lifting his head.

  — We have come to fetch you.

  — Which angels are you? Am I going to Jannat or Dozakh, heaven or hell?

  — To Konya. Maulana is waiting for you.

  Now Shamsuddin looked at them. To Sultan, his face appeared as calm and bright as the morning light. Raising his arms towards Sultan, Shamsuddin said, ‘You’ve come, Sultan? To fetch me. Oh my Lord, you chose to send a prophet to bring the infidel back.’

  — What are you saying?

  Shamsuddin jumped to his feet, shouting. — Do you now know who gave birth to you? His seed can only produce prophets.

  — What about Alauddin then? Hussam exclaimed.

  Shamsuddin began to laugh, rolling with mirth in the forecourt of the mosque. A crowd gathered around him. Shamsuddin said, ‘It’s all the Lord’s wish. Had it not been for Ala who would have recognized Sultan for who he is? But do not ignore Ala, Hussam. The darkness is also necessary. Do not forget that even the darkness carries Maulana’s seed. All the stories in this world are soaked in light as well as darkness, Sultan. You cannot ignore either of them.’

  When Shamsuddin had sat up again, Sultan touched his feet, saying, ‘We shall spend the night here, and leave early tomorrow morning. Come with us, arrangements have been made for all of us to put up at a khanqah.’

  — A rest house? Why?

  — Where would you like to stay?

  — At an inn. On the road. Why a rest house?

  — Would you prefer to stay at a madrassa?

  — Why, Sultan? Let me tell you something then. When I came to Damascus, I used to live on the streets or in the forecourts of mosques. I did a few odd jobs and made some money, whereupon I moved into an inn. I would tell stories to merchants every night. Because of these stories, they began to consider me an important person, someone who knew the different roots of religion—it didn’t befit me to live at an inn. One day a merchant said, ‘You should stay at a rest house.’

  — Why?

  — You are a holy man.

  — Who told you that?

  — That’s how you appear to us.

  — No, I am not worthy of living in a rest house. Do you know who likes staying at a khanqah? Those who do not want to work for sustenance, those who are afraid to cook. Their time is so precious. It does not suit them to find ways to earn a living or cook their own food. But as for me, I work hard for my money, and I eat off it. You know that building coming up near Bab al-Sharqi? I worked as a brick-carrier there all day. I am not worthy of a khanqah.

  Smiling, Sultan said, ‘Then we shall sleep on the road. Or we could spend the night on the terrace of the mosque.’

  — All in good time. But listen to my story first, Sultan. Another evening, the same merchant told me, ‘Then you could stay at the madrassa. A nobleman like you . . .’

  — I could have laughed, Sultan, laughed my innards out. I, a nobleman? I had never even allowed the word to enter my life. So I told him I did not have the qualifications to debate in madrassas. There’s nothing to debate over what can be understood easily, and if I start talking about myself, everyone will call me an infidel. Yes, an infidel. I talk to Allah every day, if it is wrong to say this, then yes, I am an infidel. But I shall talk. I talk to him. And with Maulana. There is no room at the madrassa for either Maulana or me, Sultan.

  — Maulana can scarcely hold his impatience anymore for you to arrive.

  — I know. But this is my last meeting with him.

  — Will you leave again?

  — I may be murdered, or I may disappear somewhere forever, I shan’t be found again.

  — Why not?

  — You won’t understand now. Let me take you to the graveyard of the poor man. We can spend the night there.

  — Very well. Sultan touched Shamsuddin’s feet once more.

  During their journey from Damascus to Konya, which lasted over a month, Shamsuddin came to love Sultan even more. Sultan, too, felt as though he had been cocooned in the mystic’s loving protection from infancy. Shamsuddin had asked Sultan to share his horse, but Sultan hadn’t agreed. He walked alongside, holding the reins. Much later Sultan had told Hussam, this journey was the deepest song of joy in his life.

  Every night Shaikh Shamsuddin would open his sack of stories in the inns, in the tents pitched by the road, even in the middle of the desert. He stayed up most nights. One day Hussam asked, ‘Don’t you feel the need to sleep?’

  — Maulana stays awake for me every night. How can I sleep, Hussam?

  — You’ll fall ill.

  Shams smiled. ‘Is my health more important than Maulana’s desire? I am alive only because he is waiting for me, Hussam. What would my life be worth otherwise? My fate would have led me to die somewhere on the road. I am like that boy, Hussam . . .’

  — Which boy, asked Sultan.

  And then Shams’s story began. Hussam would take his stories down in a notebook. I’ve been told that all these stories recounted by Shams were actually events from his life, which Hussam as well as others noted down. But no one in Konya could lead me to this kitab. When I asked an old man about this in the market at Konya, he said, laughing, ‘Mad Shamsuddin’s book? It must have been written in air.’

  Shams told his story. ‘Once upon a time, i
n my youth, I used to teach the Quran and Hadith. No, not at a madrassa—as you know, I have no faith in madrassas or khanqahs. My little school would be in front of someone’s house, or on the roadside. Children from poor families came to study with me. They had no money for madrassas. One of the boys was always entranced as he listened. He refused to leave my side. His parents pleaded with him, but the wretch would not let go of my tail. His parents cried with grief, I locked myself in an entire day, vowing not to meet him anymore. He knocked on the door for a long time before going back.

  — You didn’t meet him at all?

  — No. He ran up a high fever that very night. Unconscious for a few days, he went directly to his grave.

  — Didn’t you go to see him on his sickbed?

  — Of course I did. I told him so many things, but he was unconscious with fever, he heard nothing. For the first time I realized what love is.

  After a pause Shams said, ‘How is Atabeg, Sultan?’

  — He’s well. He asks about you every day.

  One night Hussam said, ‘May I ask you something?’

  — Tell me. I know what you’re going to ask.

  — You do?

  — You want to know why I haven’t married, why I don’t have a family, isn’t that so?

  — How did you know what I was about to ask?

  — You love me so much . . . I can tell which parts of my life you want to know about. Look, Hussam, I do not have the capacity for love. Or else the boy would not have died of fever at eighteen. I have had a terrible life since childhood. I felt like an outsider in Tabriz, where there was no one to call my own. My father seemed to be a stranger who would pounce on me at any moment and thrash me. He used to love me very much, and I used to think he would beat me up and throw me out. I do not have the ability to love, which is why I used to wander about, directionless. Do you know what my nature is like, Hussam? When I am joyful, no sorrow on earth can affect me. A man such as this cannot love. But I do seek love, which is why I am returning to Maulana. He is the boy who died at eighteen. Maulana alone . . . Maulana is the only person in the entire world who is waiting for me.

  All his life, Sultan did not forget even the minutest of details of this journey from Damascus to Konya. On the way Shams would often dismount from his horse, losing himself in conversations with people. He would make friends with everyone from peasants to labourers, weavers to masons, thieves and cheats to gamblers. But the moment he saw a priest or a scholar he would run away. Even if they came up to him to talk he would avert his face.