A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

  Maulana smiled. ‘I know I will lack for no comfort in your house, Hussam. But I need something else now.’

  — What do you need, tell me, asked Hussam like an obdurate child.

  — I am about to enter the tandoor, Hussam. Only then can the kebab be made.

  There was an uproar in Konya again. Maulana Rumi had apparently told everyone that Shams was his lover and the two of them needed to live together by themselves. No one should disturb them. Only Salauddin and Sultan were allowed to visit them—not even Hussam.

  But they did not spend forty days together in a locked room, as they had last time. Both Salauddin and Sultan visited Maulana occasionally. The madrassa had reopened, and Maulana even taught there regularly. Shams wandered about alone on the roads now and then.

  Hussam alone had noticed some sort of restlessness growing in Maulana. A few days later Maulana once again stopped visiting the madrassa and his own house. He spent all his time in Salauddin’s room, staying back alone when Shams went out.

  One day Maulana sent for Hussam. Going out for a walk, they stopped at the fields outside the city. Maulana sat down on the road, and so did Hussam, after kissing his feet. Maulana was a silent statue. ‘What is it Maulana?’ asked Hussam. ‘Why are you so worried?’

  Taking Hussam’s hands in his own, Maulana said helplessly, ‘What will I do, Hussam? He wants to leave.’

  — Why?

  — My work is done, he says.

  After a silence Hussam said, ‘Can I ask you something, Maulana?’

  — Yes.

  — I want to know what this unknown fakir has given you.

  Maulana smiled. ‘Listen to a poem. I composed this in my head last night for my sun:

  Love and patience are not companions

  Logic cannot stem your tears

  Madness is the name of a beautiful city

  Which none of its inhabitants can tame The caravan of life moves on

  But no one can hear the bells ringing

  He made me listen to a bell, Hussam. Unless he had arrived I would never have known that I am an uprooted man. There are so many things he told me during those forty days, showing me the entire world in that room. The famous prince’s story was enacted inside the room.’

  — Which prince?

  — An Indian prince. His name was Siddharth. He received enlightenment, bodhi, and became a Buddha.

  — What’s bodhi?

  — The knowledge that frees you. The knowledge that says, this is not where your home is. This resonates within me constantly, Hussam, this is not where your home is. Then where is it? What foreign land am I living in? Will death take me home again? My sun says, ‘No, there is nothing after death. Look for your home while you’re still alive.’ How will I look for it? ‘Lose yourself in love, let madness overcome you.’ Mad for whom? ‘For he who created your ancestor, Adam. Your home lies in his formlessness.’ But Hussam . . .

  — Tell me everything that’s on your mind, Maulana.

  — Hussam, all I do when I hear all this is to write poetry in my head. As I arrange the words, I feel my home is in this very world, I can touch it, feel it. I cannot bear formlessness, Hussam. Am I an infidel, then? I am still amazed by Kira’s loveliness.

  — Her beauty is a gift from heaven.

  — I know, Hussam. But this is still physical, bodily desire. This curtain must be torn apart one day. Only then will I be able to glimpse Lord Jesus Christ. But see, I’m still trapped in the body of a fat donkey. When will I grow lean and become Jesus’s donkey? I have been waging this battle for a long time. Who will win—the donkey or I? Let me tell you a story, Hussam.

  — Tell me.

  — This is the story of a merchant’s wife. The merchant travelled from one country to another on business. His wife stayed at home with maids and servants. Her principal maid was involved in a strange act. Every day she would go into the cattle shed to copulate with a donkey. You have seen the size of a donkey’s penis, haven’t you, Hussam? How can a woman survive with such a huge organ in her vagina? The maid had devised an ingenious method. She would induce the donkey to insert his penis into the frayed husk of a gourd, and then press the gourd to her own vagina, so that only a portion of the organ entered her. The maid achieved sexual satisfaction in this way. As the days passed, the donkey grew thinner and thinner. The merchant’s wife was astonished. What was this, why was the donkey turning into skin and bones by the day? She sent for a veterinarian doctor. His examinations revealed nothing. Then the merchant’s wife decided to unravel the mystery herself. One day she peeped through the door of the cattle shed to discover the maid lying beneath the donkey, moaning in pleasure.

  — Where did you hear this story, Maulana? Hussam looked at Maulana in surprise. Maulana had never recounted a tale like this before.

  — In Aleppo. In the markets of Aleppo.

  — And then?

  — The merchant’s wife began to tremble with arousal at what she was seeing. Is this even possible, she wondered. Then I have the first right. A little later she knocked on the door, whereupon the maid hid the gourd and began to sweep the floor as she opened the door. Sending her out of the house on the pretext of an errand, the merchant’s wife locked the door of the cattle shed. She was maddened with desire. Meanwhile the maid mused, ‘It wasn’t wise of you to push me out, Bibi sahiba. You do not know how to use the gourd, what if you die?’

  — And then? Hussam was aroused too. Maulana laughed. — You feel desire, don’t you, Hussam?

  — Maulana . . .

  — You’re human. How can you escape it? In the meantime the merchant’s wife’s vagina was singing like a nightingale with sexual arousal. Lying beneath the donkey, she pulled it close. At first she felt great pleasure, but as soon as the donkey’s organ penetrated her, she could not utter a word, dying at once. Her blood flowed all over the shed. When the maid returned, she found her mistress dead. ‘Bibi sahiba, you saw what I was doing,’ she told herself. ‘But you did not know my secret. You saw the donkey’s enormous penis, but not the gourd.’ What do you make of this story, Hussam?

  Hussam was silent. The story was a conundrum.

  Maulana continued, ‘We are human beings, Hussam. Do you know what humans are like? Like a donkey with a pair of wings. Whether you will stay in the cattle shed or fly in the sky depends on your wishes and your abilities. You mustn’t die because of the donkey—you must control it. Like Lord Jesus Christ’s donkey. It grew more and more emaciated by the day. But all our donkeys are fat creatures, bloated with blubber. Allah alone knows when my donkey will become skin and bones, it’s all Lord Jesus Christ’s will.

  — You need rest, Maulana.

  — What sort of rest? Maulana smiled.

  — Come and live in my house. I shall look after you.

  — And my sun?

  — He’ll come too.

  After being silent Maulana said, ‘It’s not so simple, Hussam. There’s something I have thought of. How about bringing Kimia along with my sun?’

  — What are you saying? Kimia is a young girl. Shaikh Shamsuddin is forty years older.

  — So what, Hussam? If they get married the sun won’t be able to leave me anymore.

  My learned readers, I have told you about Kimia already. As you can understand now, she was not Al-Mustasimi’s daughter. Maulana had adopted this girl from the hills. He loved Kimia very much. He had personally taught her to read the Quran.

  Maulana made the proposal to Sultan Walad. Bowing his head, Sultan said, ‘Perhaps you do not know, Maulana, that Ala likes Kimia very much.’

  — So what?

  — Ala and Kimia . . .

  — I was wrong to consult you, Sultan. Ala is not worthy of Kimia.

  — You consider the old man worthy of her?

  — I do. I want the sun to stay with me.

  — You’ll use Kimia for that purpose?

  — Are you arguing with me, Sultan?

  — No, Maulana, I have never disobeyed y
ou. But I am saying that this decision is wrong.

  — Why?

  — You cannot ruin a twenty-year-old girl’s life like this.

  — Don’t you know my sun, Sultan? Are you not aware of his powers?

  — But what about Kimia’s wishes?

  Maulana smiled. ‘What wishes can a little girl like her have?’

  Grasping Maulana’s feet, Sultan said, ‘Don’t do this, Maulana. You have never harmed anyone. This will cause irreparable damage.’

  Maulana said grimly, ‘Stand up, Sultan. Arrange for the marriage of Shaikh Shamsuddin and Kimia.’

  Sultan stood in silence. Maulana said, ‘What you waiting for? Do you have anything else to say?’

  — Reconsider your decision, Maulana.

  — You do not trust my judgement?

  — It’s not that. You know Shaikh. He considers himself a pigeon. He told me once, birds never roost in the same place, they fly away from their families to other skies in search of other lives.

  Maulana smiled. ‘That is why I thought of getting Kimia married to him. I want to tie him down with love, Sultan. Make the arrangements.’

  Kira tried to dissuade her husband too, but to no avail.

  Smiling at Maulana’s proposition, Shamsuddin said with a smile, ‘It shall be as you wish, Maulana. I have never been a slave to my own wishes. Whatever I have gathered on the road is the treasure of my devotion.’

  Maulana went into the mahalsarai to speak to Kimia. Touching his feet, Kimia said, ‘Your wish is my command, Maulana.’

  — You’ve seen Shaikh. He is an old man, much older than . . .

  — I don’t know Shaikh, I don’t know who he is. I know only you. I can lay down my life for you, Maulana.

  — What are you saying, Kimia! Could I ever ask for such a thing?

  Kimia’s words seemed to foreshadow the future. Kimia did lay down her life for Maulana. More of that later. Meanwhile Alauddin was furious at the news. He had had his eyes on her ever since she had started living in Maulana’s house. It was his ardent desire that Kimia be his wife one day.

  He cornered Sultan Walad outside the house. — Kimia getting married to the old man? Is this true, Bhaijaan?

  — It is.

  — Has Maulana gone mad?

  — Don’t talk about Maulana like this, Ala.

  — All of you are turning into puppets, Bhaijaan.

  — What would you suggest? Sultan smiled.

  — Throw the old fool out of the house at once. Or else I shall kill him.

  — What are you saying, Ala!

  Ala pulled a dagger out of his cummerbund and showed it to Sultan. — You don’t know me, Bhaijaan. I have waited a long time. If Kimia gets married to the senile fraud, blood will be shed in Maulana’s house.

  — Listen to me, Ala, opposing Maulana’s wishes would mean none of us is his disciple.

  — Yes! Ala laughed loudly. — I am not his disciple, Bhaijaan, I am his son.

  — You’re walking the path of Iblis, Ala.

  Ala was silent for a while. Then he said, ‘Iblis too is one of Allah’s angels. Wasn’t he cast out of heaven only because he did not wish to bow before a man made of clay? But he also managed to extract from Allah the power to live till Judgement Day and lead people astray. As you know, his punishment has been suspended till Judgement Day. But do any of us know when Qayamat will come? I am prepared to be punished. If I can’t have Kimia, Bhaijaan, I am prepared for any punishment.’

  Kimia was married to the Sun of Tabriz. A short conjugal life. Could it even be called conjugal? Shams and Maulana spent most of their time together, while Kimia stayed in the ladies’ chambers. It was said that Maulana often slept alongside Shams and Kimia at night.

  Kimia and Shams were married at the end of autumn, and on a freezing winter night that same year, Kimia went missing. Shams was unhappy. How could his wife go out in the evening without seeking his permission? After a great deal of searching Kimia limped back home on her own, bedraggled after a snowstorm.

  — Where did you go? Shams snarled.

  — To the garden at Meram.

  — Alone?

  — Yes.

  — Why?

  — I wanted to go for a walk. Kimia slumped to the ground, unconscious. The best doctors of Konya came, but Kimia died on the third day. For a long time Maulana sat looking at her face, heavy with death. Then he went out to the balcony. Sultan went up to him, saying, ‘Shall we arrange for the burial?’

  — Yes.

  As Sultan was leaving, Maulana called him back. ‘Listen, Sultan.’

  — Yes?

  — I have punished you harshly.

  — What do you mean?

  — You had to make the arrangements for Kimia’s wedding as well as funeral. Maulana started sobbing.

  Sultan grasped his feet. — Calm down, Maulana, I’ll make all the arrangements.

  — Do you know what Kimia told me?

  — What?

  — I can lay down my life for you. I had never imagined she would lose her life, Sultan. May the Lord forgive me.

  Sultan stood next to his father in silence for a long time. Then he said, ‘I want to tell you something.’

  — Yes?

  — Kimia died with peace in her heart, Maulana.

  — What do you mean?

  — She had gone to the garden at Meram to meet Ala.

  — How do you know? Maulana dug his nails into Sultan’s shoulder.

  — Ala himself told me. Kimia had wanted to meet Ala in private at least once.

  — And then?

  — Ala spoke to me that night and left this house.

  — Where has he gone?

  — He’s in an inn somewhere. I’m told he’s drunk all day. Apparently he has been spotted with hired killers.

  — Why? What does he want to do?

  — I don’t know, Maulana.

  — I’m sure you do. Tell me.

  — I really don’t. I’d better go and make arrangements for the burial.

  Kira bathed Kimia with her own hands. Her body was smeared with sandalwood oil, amber and rosewater, and covered in a light brown shroud. Shams and Maulana were present as people prayed for Kimia. At one point Shams said, ‘This body, this existence, is the source of agony. As for me, I float on an ocean of joy. Why did you have to introduce this external source of pain to my life, Maulana?’

  Maulana smiled. ‘We have to die several times before our death, Shaikh.’

  Gazing at Kimia, Shams said, ‘It is time for me to leave again, Maulana.’

  — Very well. But before you do, let us lay Kimia down.

  Maulana Rumi’s house remained sunk in silence for several days after Kimia’s death. One day Maulana sent for Sultan and Hussam and told them, ‘I have some things to discuss with you. Let’s go to Meram.’

  — Meram in this weather? Hussam asked.

  Maulana smiled. ‘I must test myself. How much can I really bear?’

  It kept snowing that afternoon. Sultan and Hussam walked behind a silent Maulana in the gardens of Meram. Maulana called out to them softly, ‘Sultan . . . Hussam.’

  — Yes?

  — I’m a famous Maulana, am I not? Countless students from near and far came to learn from me. Then the Sun of Tabriz took me flying into the sky. How terrifying the world of stars and planets is, what a cruel game of life and death. I could not bear to be in that sky anymore. Kimia’s death has brought me crashing down on this world of the dead. I know what love is. With her death Kimia has taught me that if you can love someone even for a day, there’s nothing greater. She sacrificed her life for me, she gave up her life for Ala. I remember an old incident. A long time ago, some butchers had captured a female calf and were leading her to the slaughterhouse. Suddenly the calf broke free of the rope and began to run. The butchers chased her, screaming, and the calf ran faster. I was passing that way. Seeing me, the calf stopped. I have no idea why. I caressed its head, its shoulders. She seemed to feel saf
e with me. The butchers had arrived by then. I begged for the calf’s life. The butchers did not slaughter her. But I could not save Kimia, Sultan.

  — It’s all the Lord’s wish, Maulana. Come back home now, said Sultan.

  — I am in a quandary, Sultan.

  — What is it, Maulana?

  — Whom am I bound to? Is it to the one who cannot be seen? Or to the one who is always with me?

  — You are bound to both.

  Maulana shouted, ‘You are my finest progeny, Sultan. Be my master today onwards.’

  — Don’t embarrass me, huzoor.

  Clasping Sultan to his breast, Maulana sobbed, ‘You are my heart, my son.’

  TWENTY

  A harsh winter night. Konya was covered in snow.

  Maulana Rumi, Shaikh Shamsuddin, Sultan, Hussam and Thereanos were seated in the library. For a long time they had all been silent, lost in thought, as though waiting for something to happen, for some news to be brought to them.

  Suddenly Shams said, ‘Would you like to hear the story of Fariduddin Attar, Maulana?’

  — Which story?

  — The one about the three butterflies.

  — Tell us.

  — Tonight is the final night of our stories, isn’t it, Maulana? Shams smiled.

  — If the Lord so wills.

  — Three butterflies were flying about in an empty room. A single candle was burning. The first butterfly flew close to the flame and then shot away. So hot, so hot. How could its tender body stand so much heat? Shams began to laugh. Then he muttered to himself, ‘He was undeveloped. How could he bear the heat?’

  Sultan began to look around suspiciously.

  — What is it, Sultan? Maulana asked.

  — I hear footsteps outside.

  — You’re imagining things, said Shams. ‘Now the second butterfly flew up to the flame and singed one of its wings. In agony and fear this butterfly flew away too. Our Maulana was in the same state once. But neither of these two butterflies found out what fire is.’

  A voice was heard outside the door. ‘Come out, Shaikh Shamsuddin.’