Muhammad

by Deepak Chopra

  “My concerns are God’s, and he takes no offense. Yet I still need to speak to you.” I kept my words and my eyes fixed on the boy.

  He pondered for a moment.

  “Are you asking your gods to decide for you?” I asked.

  I named Al-Uzza, one of their female idols—a bitch goddess they pray to for fertility—whose name I had once overheard.

  The boy scowled.

  “She isn’t your favorite? She’s beautiful and has large breasts,” I pointed out.

  “Mocking me will only make me run away,” he replied. “I won’t touch any idols or perform their rites. “

  “Why not?”

  “If you’re a holy man, you already know. There is no God but God.”

  My heart jumped in my chest, and I had to hold my arms tight around myself to keep from reaching out to this strange child. If only he stood closer to the fire, so I could see his eyes. They would tell me. Abu Talib was gazing proudly at his nephew.

  “He is special,” I said, and he nodded. His uncle had no idea. None of them did. Their caravan would be moving on before dawn. Whatever I had to say, it had to be at that moment. Boldness was the only way.

  “I know about you, far more than you imagine,” I said. I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him away from his uncle. Abu Talib could have taken serious offense, but he didn’t move. I led Muhammad to a bowl-shaped depression in the ground. It was as far around as a man could stretch out and three hands deep.

  “Can you guess who dug that hole? A crazy man. He was living in this cave before I came here. If I hadn’t dragged him away, he would have clawed at the earth until his hands bled. He died one night without recovering his wits.” I wasn’t lying. Toward the end Celestius had forsaken the Bible and became obsessed with digging where his voices told him to. I tried to coax him out of his mad fixation, but he still managed to dig a sizable hole.

  The boy’s eyes widened with curiosity. “Why?”

  “He thought the water of life was down there, and he had to find it.”

  Muhammad pointed to the jugs of water lined up at the mouth of the cave. “You mean them?”

  I shook my head. “No, the villagers haul that up to me. The water of life doesn’t flow out of the ground. It flows from here.” I lightly touched his chest over the breastbone. “You were born in the desert, but it’s a fearful place for me and every holy man. We come here for only one reason, to find the water of life.”

  “And did you find it?” he asked solemnly.

  “Not for many, many years. The old monk who scratched at the earth had lost his mind. He despaired of ever finding it. But tonight my quest may be over.”

  Muhammad listened calmly, as if this all made perfect sense to him. His uncle was now visibly agitated. Unable to keep quiet, he burst in. “My family found it. The well was buried for centuries. But a dream came to my father, Abdul. He saw the very spot where Zamzam lay under the ground. He was our savior, blessed be his name.”

  In an excited voice he unfolded the tale, and even with a mongrel blend of Greek and Arabic, the tongues of traders, I understood. This well they call Zamzam was promised to them by God at the time of their ancestors, and it was to flow as long as time. But God became angry when the people turned to idol worship, and he made the well disappear. Mecca could have been a great city glorifying his name. Instead, God granted it only enough water to survive, and that had to be obtained by hard labor.

  Abu Talib’s father, “the Slave” as he was known, became obsessed with finding Zamzam. Some say he secretly swore an oath to sacrifice one of his sons if the gods showed him where to dig. Others say that he converted back to the one God of their ancestors. Whichever it was, Abdul was given a dream. He saw a spot between two of the largest idols, near to their house of pagan worship, the Kaaba. Everyone in his tribe laughed at him, but the Slave insisted on digging everywhere around that spot. Lo and behold, one day a man thrust his spade into the ground and hit something hard. It was a well cover, and when they removed it, water came forth. Zamzam had been found again, along with the golden hoard and idols that had been stolen from the Kaaba. Abdul returned them, keeping only a portion of the booty for himself.

  Abu Talib stuck out his chest as he finished his tale. “So you see, my people have found the water of life. God showed it to us.”

  “God’s works are mysterious,” I said mildly.

  His eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe me?”

  I had a polite answer on my tongue, but the boy Muhammad spoke up. “The well was a sign, sir. There is water no one can see, that never wets anyone’s lips. That’s what the holy man means.”

  The uncle looked confused, torn between anger at being called a liar and pride in his precocious nephew.

  “Not just a sign,” I said hurriedly. “A great sign. God has showered blessings on your tribe.”

  You’d think the uncle would have been pleased to hear this; after all, he had just said the same thing. Instead, his face darkened. “My father, Abdul, used to swear that God’s love is hard to tell from his hate. His favorite son, my brother Abdullah, died from a sudden sickness while coming home with a caravan. When we heard about it, messengers and physicians were rushed to him, but he had already been buried, no more than two days journey from his wife. They had been married only two months. She perished from grief, and now, but two years ago, my father followed them. If you really are a holy man, find the blessing in that.”

  The blessing is that you brought this boy to me.

  Hiding my thoughts, I mumbled again that God’s works are mysterious, and Abu Talib nodded sadly. This talk had unfolded many things close to his heart. Between that and the wine, he seemed to trust me, so I held tight to Muhammad’s rough wool cloak and pulled him near the fire. He didn’t object, and for the first time I could look into his eyes.

  Ah.

  “What do you see? Is he cursed too?” asked the uncle gloomily. “I took in my brother’s son after he was orphaned. I’ve always tried to keep him safe.” “You haven’t protected him well enough,” I warned.

  “No, don’t say that! Only one good thing came from Abdul’s dying. It broke his heart to lose Abdullah. He couldn’t bear it if Muhammad will be snatched away too.”

  Abu Talib had misunderstood my meaning, but the boy didn’t. He allowed me to keep gazing into his eyes. He was willing to let me see. Suddenly I couldn’t keep back the tears. I began to weep silently, turning away so that the two of them might not notice.

  “It’s all right,” Muhammad whispered. He laid his hand gently on my gray head, as if we had changed places and now I was the boy, he the man.

  The uncle became even more alarmed at my behavior. “Tell me!” he cried.

  There was no explaining my anguish. I felt my faith slip away from under me like sand under my feet. Where was my Lord? What would become of us poor seekers in the wilderness, waiting these long centuries?

  I regained control and turned to Abu Talib.

  “Pardon me. There is no curse. You must protect this boy as if he were your most precious possession. He is God’s.”

  The uncle looked astonished, not just by my words, but by the calmness in Muhammad. “You still haven’t told me what you saw.”

  “A light. Here.” I put my finger lightly on the space between the boy’s eyebrows.

  I waited for the uncle to protest. Instead, he froze, and his head trembled. He turned to the boy. “Go.” The word came out as a hoarse croak. He pointed toward the bottom of the hill, where the man who had brought Muhammad from camp was waiting in the dark to take him back.

  Muhammad bowed without saying anything and left. When he was out of earshot, Abu Talib recovered the power of speech.

  “There’s a secret the boy doesn’t know,” he said. “He was born nine months to the day after Abdullah got married. My brother never saw him. Before he set out on the journey from which he never returned, Abdullah took me aside. He had a premonition, and he begged me to take care
of his son. I was astonished, for no one knew that Aminah, his bride, had already conceived.

  “Why come to me?” I asked. “There was our father, a wealthy man, to take care of his grandsons. And besides, of my father’s ten sons, we all knew who his favorite was.”

  Abu Talib paused and waved his hand. “Never mind. It’s all in God’s hands. But Abdullah had a guilty conscience. That was his real reason for seeking me out in private. On his wedding day, he told me, he was walking to Aminah’s house for the ceremony. My brother, being blessed with a handsome face, was used to women and their come-hither looks. And why not? He gave in more than once. On this day a married woman spied him from her window above the street. She became instantly enamored of this handsome groom and cried out for him to lie with her. My brother was no prude, but he was shocked. Her lustful call could be heard up and down the street. Even more shocking, she ran downstairs in her bare feet and approached him in the street, snatching at his scented robes. ‘I must lie with you now, this very minute,’ she pleaded. With difficulty Abdullah tore himself away, and an hour later he was married in Aminah’s house, to great rejoicing.

  “Men are only flesh. Even you, a holy man, must admit this, unless God has completely neutered you. That night Abdullah embraced his bride, but the next day at dawn he saw the face of the married woman. She was beautiful, and my brother felt a wave of lust overtake him. He fought it. He almost woke up his bride. Instead, he sneaked out of the house and ran back to the street where the married woman lived. The sun wasn’t yet up. The cobblestones were cool under his feet. ‘I must be crazy,’ he thought. But he threw pebbles at the window shutters, and luckily for him, the woman heard instead of her husband. She stuck her head out and said, ‘What do you want? Can’t honest people sleep without the likes of you coming around, dog?’ Abdullah was astonished at this change of behavior, and not a little offended. As I say, he was used to the attention of women. He threw a rock at her and demanded to know what had changed her mind. ‘Yesterday when you came prancing down the street, you had a light between your eyes,’ she said. ‘It was as bright as a flame at midnight. I wanted that light for my child, but now you have slept with another, and her child has the blessing. Go away and leave me alone.’”

  The uncle’s agitation had hardly subsided as he recounted this story. “Abdullah never told that story to anyone but me. Is it true? Has the light been passed to Muhammad?”

  There was no need for me to say anything, only to give the slightest nod. For some reason the pain in my heart had lessened. If God was bringing the last prophet, His will be done. It was left for me to pray and count my final days, which I am sure will be few. At least I was safe. The Devil hadn’t been toying with me.

  The uncle was anxious to get back to camp. He bowed to me and started down the trail. The horizon was just lighting up with the palest blue, not often seen by towns people but every day by a hermit who rises to pray five times a night. I could make out the faint shape of Abu Talib’s silhouette as he hurried down the stony path beyond the reach of the cooking fire, which had dwindled to embers.

  Abu Talib would remember to take special care of the boy. Of that I am certain. That, and one more thing. Muhammad would never forget the water of life.

  3

  HALIMAH, THE WET NURSE

  I knew it was him kneeling beside my bed. I felt the breeze as he brought the fan close to my face. The palm frond made a soft swishing sound. My eyes were swollen shut by the fever, which is why I didn’t see him come in.

  “Who’s the only woman in your life, Muhammad?” I asked.

  “You are.”

  I smiled through cracked lips. “You’re becoming a man if you can lie like that.”

  We could talk this way, you see, after so many years. The next thing I felt was a cold dampness. He had brought a bowl of water with him and was pressing a cloth to my eyelids, trying to unseal them. They were gummy and swollen. Only the fan managed to keep the flies away.

  “Do you remember how small my breasts were?” I mused.

  “Ssh. Drink this.”

  Muhammad squeezed the cloth so that drops of water fell on my lips. “What kind of water do you call this?” I grumbled.

  “Holy water, from Zamzam.”

  I would have spat it back into the bowl if I wasn’t dying of fever. There is no holy water in Mecca, I told him, only expensive water. He didn’t have the money to waste.

  They brought in a doctor with smudge pots last week to beat back the fever. He burned some dung chips and threw fresh herbs on them to create a thick, sweet smoke. That cost money too. You don’t get decent behavior unless you pay, except in the desert.

  “Give me my purse,” I said. I wanted to pay Muhammad back for the water he squandered his coins on. In his grandfather’s day the tribes paid their family for water. Not any more. There had been fierce arguing after “the Slave” died. Now gangs of scowling Qurayshi youths circle the well, holding it hostage until the disputes are settled. Will they ever be?

  “Don’t worry,” said Muhammad, refusing any money. Seeing that I could drink a little, he held the bowl up to my mouth and tipped it. “Between you and me, I saw a pilgrim who had left a half-full jug on a window sill. I stole some of his water.”

  I tried to laugh in disbelief, but my throat tightened up, and the laugh turned into a croak. “If you stole, then I marched into the Kaaba and ran away with a big black ram.” I painted a picture for Muhammad of what the ram and I did when we got home.

  “Don’t talk like that,” he said.

  I don’t know why I liked to make him blush. Maybe it made me feel more like his mother, poor soul. I reached up to see if his cheek was hot with embarrassment. I felt something else. A beard was coming on. I turned my head away.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  The young never understand the sadness of growing up. They’re too busy doing it. At least my eyes were too swollen to show tears. I said, “Do they still let you tease the girls?” That would be forbidden once he had a real beard.

  “I don’t tease.”

  “Oh, then you’re holier than your precious water.”

  There was a loud knock on the door, but nobody came in. Only one visitor a day was allowed. Doctor’s orders, to keep the contagion from spreading. Muhammad opened the door a crack, and I heard two male voices. They were impatient. One tried swearing a little. He was just a boy, like Muhammad, but he needed to practice cursing the same way he needed to examine his fuzzy beard every morning to see how it was getting on.

  Muhammad had many cousins. At least he enjoyed a scrap of good fortune. I didn’t know all their names. His father, the cursed Abdullah, had nine brothers, so there was an army of cousins for him to run with on the streets. That would go on after teasing the girls had ended. Growing up never stops a man from prowling the alleys.

  I lifted my hand to my breasts. Of course Muhammad didn’t remember how small they were that year. He was barely out of the womb. But it was thanks to small breasts that he came to me.

  Fifteen years ago we made our way to town, as the desert tribes do every spring. The men had lambs to sell and the yarn spun by the women over the winter. They gathered around the Kaaba, and the elders, who were trusted with the money, gathered at the inns. They bartered all day, arguing in loud voices. Every once in a while somebody told a joke, and then the tension was relieved by laughter. You hear those filthy jokes all over the world, and the same laughter. Indecency is how men know that they are men.

  Women didn’t go into the inns, but we had our own business. We sat at the gates of the rich families, holding out our babies and waiting. It was for the milk, you see. City women have babies, but they don’t give them the breast. It’s not because they’re lazy and pampered and don’t want sore nipples. They’re worried. Living in a city like Mecca, where breathing the air is the same as breathing in contagion, they had to be careful. So every spring we came in from the desert to offer our breasts. That was the custom and
still is, although it’s on the decline. It’s a wonder the air in the city doesn’t kill all the babies before they take their first step.

  The newborns were put in baskets tied to the sides of the camels, and we took them back to the desert to nurse. In two years time we returned with them, and then the city women, overjoyed to have their children fat and healthy, showered us with coins and gifts. If you ever see a Bedouin woman with silk around her head, you know she’s nursed a baby, maybe twins if she is wearing gold earrings.

  I had my own boy baby to show them that spring, but times were bad. There had been no rain for months. Everyone’s breasts dried up. Mine were half the size they should have been, shrunk like dried dates. I wrapped my robe around myself and held my arms crossed so no one would notice. Who was I fooling? My own baby was shriveled and crying, desperate for the little milk I had. The spoiled rich women walked straight past me without a glance. I spent three days wandering from courtyard to courtyard, without luck. My husband told me to keep trying, but what was the use? We needed the money, of course.

  “Muhammad?” I couldn’t hear voices at the door and thought he might have slipped out.

  “Just here. Don’t worry.”

  He was by my side again. He pushed up my sleeves and began to wash my arms. We kept quiet. For a boy to do that, washing a woman’s arms…Some people would have frowned, even if I was his milk-mother.

  “Open the shutters. It’s too hot. It’s like a tomb,” I said.

  “You know I can’t do that. It would ruin everything.”

  The doctor with the smudge pots said that the room had to be kept closed and hot, to drive the fever out. I knew no better. In my delirium, I couldn’t even remember being taken to this room. It was small and close; it smelled foul. But Muhammad had no money. With both his parents gone, and now his uncle Abu Talib, he had no right to any fortune. He took what room they gave him for my sickroom.

  I wanted to grumble some more, just to hear his voice, but suddenly I was too exhausted. I let my head loll on the pillow while Muhammad finished my arms.