A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

Shams said loudly, ‘Just a minute, my friend. Let me tell them about the third butterfly.’ Looking at Maulana intently, he said, ‘The third butterfly dived into the flames. Who but the burnt butterfly can find out what fire is?’

  Sultan and Hussam saw Shams’s face losing colour slowly. Maulana’s eyes were fixed on his sun.

  Shams said, his voice wavering, ‘They want to kill me. The murderers are here.’

  Maulana did not answer.

  Once again the voice was heard. ‘Come out at once, Shaikh Shamsuddin.’

  Shams got to his feet, his knees trembling, looking at Maulana with fear in his eyes, along with hope for protection.

  Maulana was silent. Sultan jumped up, saying, ‘Let me see who it is at this hour . . .’

  — Sit down, Sultan. Maulana issued a command.

  The voice was heard again. ‘Are you coming, Shaikh Shamsuddin?’

  Shams’s eyes reflected the look of a sacrificial cow. Shutting his eyes, Maulana began to recite the Surat ul-Ikhlas, ‘Say, Muhammad, he is the only Allah. He is the Eternal Refuge. He neither begets nor is born. He has no equivalent.’

  Shams waited no longer, opening the door and going out. A shriek was heard a little later.

  Going out, Sultan and Hussam saw fresh blood on the snow. But there was no one to be seen. Shams was nowhere to be found.

  There are many mysteries surrounding the last disappearance of Shaikh Shamsuddin, my learned readers. I heard a great deal about this in Konya. Ala was supposed to have had Shams killed by hired assassins, and then thrown into a well. Apparently Maulana broke off all ties with Ala after this. Ala died before Maulana, who was not present at the prayers for him. Many people felt that Sultan was also involved in the conspiracy, which Maulana had not come to know. And the wandering dervishes said that Shaikh Shamsuddin was united with Allah that night—it was the night of Shaikh’s urs—his wedding night.

  Forty days after the disappearance of the Sun of Tabriz, Maulana Rumi’s garments changed. His white turban became grey, his robe was striped black and white. He wore these signs of separation till the day of his death. He even went to Damascus twice or thrice in search of Shams, but no one could give him any news.

  One say Hussam told him, ‘You needn’t go looking for him. We will find him for you.’

  Maulana smiled. ‘Don’t look for him anymore, Hussam. It was I who let him go out that night.’

  — Why did you? I was astonished, Maulana. Your silence that night still weighs me down like a rock.

  — I know, Hussam. But this parting was necessary. Do you know another word for parting? It’s ‘cook’. Our parting is cooking me, I am becoming more delicious as I am roasted in its oven. I get the smell of delectable kebabs from my own body. He had become a burden, you know. A heavy burden. He is a dove, who flies constantly from one sky to another. He is a migratory bird. I am a robin or a sparrow. I don’t like flying incessantly, I prefer to alight on earth from time to time, I have an urge to peck at grains scattered on the ground. I am distressed, Hussam. I do not understand who I am.

  — Don’t you want Shaikh to come back?

  — I don’t, Hussam. During his absence I have realized that he is I. He is inside me, I am inside him. We are not separate.

  That night the drums sounded, the weeping of the flute spread across the earth, while Maulana Rumi lost himself in his whirling dance.

  The Sama ended late at night. When everyone had left Maulana sent for Hussam. — Get your pen and paper, Hussam. A poem has been born for him.

  Hussam prepared to write. Maulana recited:

  When the prayers begin after my death

  Don’t think I’m sad to leave this world

  You mustn’t cry for me or mourn my going

  Don’t fall prey to the devil, that would hurt

  Never say at the funeral, ‘He is leaving’

  For this is when I shall be reunited

  Do not say ‘goodbye’ when you lay me down

  The grave is but the lid to the meeting in heaven

  When you see me lowered, think of rising high

  Can the sun or the moon ever be lost?

  What you think of as sunset is the sunrise

  The grave is not a prison, it frees the soul

  Haven’t you seen the tree sprout from a seed?

  I’m a human seed too, don’t you see?

  When you close my mouth on this side

  It opens at that moment on the other

  Let your song echo in the emptiness.

  When he had finished, Maulana sat in silence for a long time. Then he said, smiling, ‘So he did leave eventually, Hussam? Where did he go? Into what invisibility? Just think, Hussam, how marvellous this disappearance is. He unfurled his wings, broke the cage, and flew away. Like a nightingale desperate for love amidst owls, who flew to the rose garden as soon its fragrance wafted in. Don’t grieve, don’t weep, be joyous, Hussam. He is manifest everywhere today. Call him the sun of Anatolia.’

  Kissing Maulana’s feet, Hussam said, ‘You are the light of Anatolia.’

  Maulana planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘My liberation is in light,’ he said, quoting a poet from the future.

  A few days later he sent for Sultan and Hussam. — I need some rest. And there’s something important that has to be done. So I had to take a decision.

  — What is it, Maulana? Sultan asked.

  — I wish to pass on the responsibility for all my work to the goldsmith Salauddin. I hope the two of you have no objection.

  — How can there be any objection once you have stated your wishes, Maulana, Hussam said.

  — Salauddin is a very ordinary man, not very well educated. But you won’t find a heart like his anywhere in Konya. He is the moon of my life.

  — And what is the important thing you spoke of, Maulana? Sultan’s eyes were questioning.

  — Something quite useless, Sultan. Maulana smiled.

  — Useless?

  — I have no use for important things.

  — What are you saying, Maulana . . .

  — Hussam.

  — Yes, Maulana.

  — Do you have pen and paper?

  — I do.

  — Then write.

  Hussam prepared to write. Maulana recited:

  Listen to the mourning of the flute,

  The lament of separation in its heart

  Since I was uprooted from the bed of reeds

  My tunes have only held the grief of men

  I just seek the heart that has broken

  Into two, I can talk only to this heart

  Everyone exiled from their roots dreams

  Of returning, of being reunited

  I wander all alone in a crowd

  I talk with people, make friends too

  Still my mystery remains unfathomed

  My melody holds the burden of eternity

  Neither eyes nor ears can touch it

  This body and soul are fused together

  But not everyone can enter the soul

  The weeping of the flute is not just wind,

  It’s fire too. Without a fire within,

  It’s better to die. The desire of the flute

  Is love’s flame, its warmth inspires wine

  The flute befriends lonely, banished men

  It draws the curtain away from their heart

  Nothing can cure like the tune of the flute

  The road ahead is difficult, the flute says so

  Writing of the lover’s bloodstained heart

  Anyone can survive on a single drop of water

  Still the fish wants the ocean every day

  What the kebab thinks

  Is impossible for raw meat to imagine

  Break your chains, my child, be free

  How long will you remain a slave to gold?

  You’re trying to capture the sea in a goblet

  It can hold things for only a day

  Greedy eyes hold no satisfaction

 
Content oysters give birth to pearls

  The lover’s clothes are torn off the same way

  The madness of love makes him fly

  Through the air, but he who is abandoned

  By love wanders on empty roads

  The wingless bird knows this regret

  ‘How shall I be calm on this lonely night

  For my lover casts no light here.’

  Love wants its story to be heard

  But this sun shall not rise in the mirror

  Of your heart. Do you know why we cannot see him?

  The mirror is soiled, bring its sparkle back.

  This was the poem with which the composition of the Masnavi began, learned readers. Many people term it the Persian Quran. I only call it poetry. It was written in six volumes, strung with the flowers of 25,668 couplets. Maulana would recite the verses, and Hussam would write them down. There was no specific time of day for composing the Masnavi. Maulana would dictate at the madrassa, at the hamam, in Konya’s markets. As though it were a tree growing slowly within Maulana, without his knowledge, and now rich with flowers and leaves and fruits. Shamsuddin, the Sun of Tabriz, had planted the seed. Sometimes Maulana recited all night, Hussam would have no opportunity for sleep. After every volume was completed, Hussam would read the verses out to Maulana, who made corrections as required. The title and introduction to each volume was written in red ink. It was to Hussam that Maulana dedicated this epic in verse.

  Our kitab ends here, learned readers. Maulana would recite the introduction to each volume in prose. I wish to read part of the introduction to the fourth volume to end this majlis. Shut your eyes, all of you. If the Lord so wills it, you may be able to hear Maulana’s voice.

  This is our fourth journey homewards. Home—that is where all our wealth lies. Mystics will be happy to read this book, just as the prairie is pleased by rolls of thunder and signals of rain, just as tired eyes await sleep. The sun is rising, and its light will convey these volumes to our successors. May Allah, who sang all creation into existence, bless all of you. Ameen.

  THE BEGINNING

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  VINTAGE BOOK

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  Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  This collection published 2015

  Copyright © Rabisankar Bal, 2013

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Jacket images © Pia Hazarika

  ISBN: 978-8-184-00615-5

  This digital edition published in 2015.

  e-ISBN: 978-8-184-00678-0

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.