by Nizami
‘Now a bubbling brook ran through the oasis, like the streams of milk and honey that run through heaven, but when this young picture of beauty began to speak, the words poured from her lips so sweetly and with such eloquence that the stream ceased to ripple and splash, as though it, too, was hanging on her every word. As for her eyes — well, what can I say?! Even a lion would fall into a trance were the eyes of such a gazelle to fall on him!
‘Her appearance was that of a most beauteous book in which all of the subtlest, most beautiful characters of our alphabet had been written. Her hair was curled like the hook of the letter “Jim”; her figure was as lithe and slender as an “Alif”; her mouth was curved like a “Mim”. Yes, when you add these three letters together, they spell “Jam” [goblet], and that is what she was: a precious goblet of crystal reflecting the secrets of the universe!
‘Her eyes are narcissi that flower at the mouth of a stream: look deep into them and you can see her dreams! But with these few words I cannot do justice to her beauty, for it is like the light of life itself. Yet her beauty is scarred by the weakness that comes with a broken heart. Grief has brought her to her knees; for so long have the tears filled her eyes that she can hardly see.’
The old man sighed deeply, wiped a tear from his eye and continued, ‘Believe me, she married out of fear: in reality, you are her only hope. As she spoke, tears misted her eyes; they were like a veil blocking the sun’s light. Indeed, it was a sight to move the stoniest of hearts!
‘I approached her and asked her who she was and why she was so sad. She lifted her face, a weak smile on her ruby lips, and said, “Why do you rub salt into my wounds? Let me tell you that I was once Layla, but I am Layla no longer. I am now mad, more ‘majnun’ than a thousand Majnuns. He may be a crazed dervish, a wild wanderer tormented by love, but believe me my suffering is a thousand times worse!
‘“True, he is a target for the arrows of grief, but so am I — and he is a man, while I am a woman! He is free and can tell his sorrows to the mountains; he can go where he pleases, he can cry and shout and express his innermost feelings in his verses. What can I do? I am a prisoner and I can do nothing. I have no one to talk to, no one in whom I can confide; were I to open my heart to those around me, ignominy would be my only reward. Honey turns to poison in my mouth and everything I touch turns to dust. Who knows how I feel? Who knows how I suffer? I put a brave face on it all, covering my suffering with a thin veil of smiles and laughter, but all the time I am burning, burning, burning!
‘“Love cries out to me in my heart: ‘Run while you can, fly away from this raven of a father, this vulture of a husband!’ But then reason admonishes me, saying, ‘No, to fly away would be to invite disgrace. You must stay and submit to your fate!’
‘“Oh, a woman may conquer a hero and wield the sword of death above his head, yet when all is said and done she is still a woman, oppressed and unable to act of her own accord. A woman may thirst for blood and show the courage of a lion, yet for the sake of honour and dignity she must act according to her nature, as others perceive her. And so, since it is not in my power to end my suffering, I have no choice but to submit. I am not allowed to be with Majnun, but I need to know what he is doing, I hunger for news of him.
‘“How does he spend his days and where does he lay his head at night? What does he do as he roams the desert wastes and who are his companions, if any? What does he say and what does he think? If you know anything at all about him, dear stranger, tell me now!”
‘Such were Layla’s words. As for me, well although I have met you for the first time today, I feel that I know much about you already. I have not grown old and seen the world and all it has to offer for nothing. The story of you and your love is on everyone’s lips; is anyone better known than you among the Arabs? How strange that is, and how cruel: the whole world knows about you, yet Layla alone is not allowed to hear! That is why I stayed with her a while, to talk about you. And believe me, my words made an impression on her.
‘I told her: “Majnun lives alone, like a recluse, with neither friends nor family; he is alone with the memories of his love. His only companions — or so people say — are wild beasts, animals such as wild asses and mountain lions that shun the world of men. But suffering has broken him, too: love is too strong a force for a weak creature like man to repel, and so Majnun is crushed, his mind weakened and sick. His father’s death took him even lower.
‘“Day after day, Fate scatters thorns in his path and now he has become a poet who chronicles his own misfortunes. His verses tell the story of his life, and the story of his life is the story of love and pain. Tears fall from his eyes like rain from a spring cloud, and when he speaks of his dead father his words would melt the iciest of hearts.”
‘Then I recited some of your verses, the ones I had heard in the market and committed to memory. A deep sigh escaped her lips and her head drooped as though she was about to faint or die. She wept — oh, how she wept — until there were no more tears left to fall. And as she wept she prayed for your father’s soul.
‘She wanted to be with you now that you were doubly alone, separated from both her and your dear father, but what could she do?
‘Suddenly, a decision came to her. She gestured towards her tent in the distance and said, “You are a man of integrity with a heart that is pure. I trust you. I am going now to my tent, where I shall write a letter to Majnun. Promise to return tomorrow so that I may give you the letter to take to him. Will you promise?”
‘I promised, and the next day I went to her tent. In mourning for your father she had put on a dark-blue dress: she looked like the most beautiful desert violet I had ever seen. In the folds of her dress she had hidden a sealed letter. This is that letter!’
The old messenger took the letter from his bag and handed it to Majnun. At first, Majnun showed no reaction. He stared at the parchment in his hands as though he were dreaming.
Was it too much for him to take in? Had word from his beloved come too soon? Was it too much for him to bear?
Suddenly, he came to life. It was as though he had been seized by several crazed demons whose intention it was to pull him to pieces. His body jerked this way, then that, until finally he started to whirl around like a demented dervish. He whirled around so fast that he became a blur; finally, the sweat pouring from his skin, he sank into a heap at the old man’s feet.
There he lay, like a man knocked into a stupor by too much wine, completely robbed of his senses. Yet throughout his fit of madness the letter was held tightly in his fingers; it was still in his grasp as he lay there unconscious.
And when he came to, the letter was the first thing he saw. His heart was beating more calmly now and so he slowly broke the seal.
Chapter 40
Layla’s letter began with an invocation:
‘I begin this letter in the name of a King who gives life to the soul and succour to the heart. His knowledge encompasses all things and His wisdom is absolute: He sees and hears all things — even the prayers of those creatures that cannot speak. It is He who divides the world into light and darkness; it is He who gives every creature an allotted time on earth, from the birds in the air to the fish in the depths of the ocean. He has spangled the heavens with stars and filled the earth with people of different races and colours. He has given each man and woman a soul, and He has lit each soul with the torch of reason, so that all of His bondsmen may attain salvation.’
Then, she addressed Majnun:
‘This is a parchment of sorrow, sent by one grief-stricken soul to another. It comes from me, a prisoner, and is meant for you, you who have broken through your chains and attained freedom. How long ago was it, my love, that I sealed my bond with you? How many soulless days, how many tear-filled nights have passed since then?
‘How are you, dear heart, and how do you pass your days? Where have the seven planets, the heavenly guides, taken you? I know that you still stand guard over the treasure of our friendship, and I fee
l in my heart that love derives its majesty only from you. I know that your blood reddens the earth at sunrise and at sunset, yet you live deep in the heart of the mountains like a gem trapped in stone. In the murky darkness you are the very well-spring of Khizr, the source of the water of life itself. You are the moth who encircles the flame of eternity; you have stirred up the oceans of worldly existence, yet you turn your back on its storms and hide in the tomb of your own loneliness, with only a few wild beasts for company. All tongues wag against you, sending arrows of reproach towards your heart, but what does that matter to you? You have set your sights on eternity; even now, your caravan is on the road to the Hereafter.
‘I know how much you have sacrificed; I know that it was you who burned down your own cornfield, set fire to your own harvest. You dedicated your heart to me and put your soul at my disposal, and thus became the target for gossip and slander. But that is of little consequence; neither of us cares what others think or say. Whatever they throw at us, we will face together: at least I can depend on your loyalty, and you on mine. But if only I knew what you are thinking, what you are feeling! If only I could see how you look and what you are doing! With all my love and all my heart I am with you, but what about you? With whom do you spend your time? True, I am separated from you in body, but in spirit we are as one.
‘Yes, it is true: I have a husband. I have a husband, but not a lover; he has never shared my bed. Believe me, the situation has worn me down until I no longer have strength enough to fuel my thoughts, but I promise you that no one has touched my treasure: that has remained sealed like the bud of an enchanted flower that will never be opened. And so he waits, this husband of mine, behind a door whose key is hidden from view and forbidden to him.
‘And yes, he is a man of great fame and nobility, but what do these things mean to me? Compared with you, dear heart, he is nothing. When seen from afar even wild garlic looks like a lily; if you smell it, however, the truth soon becomes clear. Wild garlic is not even worth gathering!
‘O my love! How I wish we could be together, but we cannot. Fate has decreed that we remain apart, and so remain apart we must. Am I to blame for the workings of Fate? My heart weeps at the very thought of it.
‘My darling! Send me a lock of your hair — it would mean the world to me. Send me one of the thorns that lie in your path, and I will nurture it until it blossoms into a rose-garden before my eyes! For wherever you tread, the desert breaks into bloom: you are my Khizr, my messenger from God, my water of eternal life! I am the moon and you are my sun, giving me light from afar; forgive me that my orbit, being different to yours, keeps me away from you always.
‘I heard of your father’s death and it grieved me beyond belief; it was as though my own dear father had died. In deference to his memory I dressed in a mourning robe of dark blue, like a desert violet, and for many days the tears did not leave my eyes. Do you understand me, dear heart?
‘I have done everything to share your grief, everything but this: I did not come to you myself, for that was impossible. But what does it matter? As I said, we are apart in body but in spirit we are one: my soul is with yours at all times. I know how much you suffer and how your tender heart consumes itself with grief, yet there is only one way out of this misery for both of us: patience and forbearance.
‘Yes, my love: patience, forbearance and hope. What is life? It is but a tale and a cry, a swift sojourn in life’s caravanserai that is over almost as soon as it has begun: those who arrive barely have time to unpack their bags before they must depart! They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, and that is true. But a wise man does not let others look through that window, my love! Do you want the enemy to laugh at our tears, to mock us in our misery? Never! A wise man must hide his grief lest others feast on it, like grubs on a leaf.
‘Do not consider the seeds that are scattered: think only of what will grow from them. Today your way may be blocked by thorns and stones, but tomorrow you will harvest figs and dates in abundance! Where there is a closed bud today, tomorrow there will be a rose. Do not forget this!
‘And do not be sad! Do not let your heart weep such copious tears of blood, and do not think that you are alone and friendless in this world. Am I not your friend? Does the fact that I am here for you not help you? It is wrong, dear heart, to complain that you are alone. Remember the One who created you; remember that God is the Friend of all those without friends.
‘You grieve for your father and your tears fall like spring rain, but remember this: the father may have gone, but the son remains! The rock may have split and crumbled, but the precious gem that it once enclosed has rolled free!’
Majnun read the letter over and over again, his eyes widening with each reading. For a long time he was beside himself, trembling like a bud ready to burst into blossom. All he could say was: ‘O God, dear God!’
He folded the letter and sat down. Only then did the tears begin to fall in hot streams down his cheeks. He wept uncontrollably while the messenger looked on. Then, Majnun seized the messenger’s hand and began to cover it with kisses of gratitude. Finally, he prostrated himself in front of the old man and kissed his feet. When he had regained his composure he decided that he must answer Layla’s letter immediately. But how? The poet whose pearls of wisdom were common currency throughout the land had never before committed his verses to paper. ‘What am I to do?’ he cried, ‘I have neither parchment nor pen.’
The old messenger smiled, then took out a leather case from his bag, opened it and produced everything Majnun needed to answer his beloved’s missive: pen, parchment, ink and seal. ‘Here,’ he said with a knowing smile, ‘be my guest!’
Majnun thanked the old man and sat cross-legged in the dust with the parchment on his knees. Then with tender strokes of the pen he began to write. The words came easily and he hardly had to think what to write next. How long these words had remained hidden in his heart, nurtured by love and pain and the grief of separation! Now he fathomed the depths of his own soul like a diver, plucking out pearl after pearl that he strung together in a necklace of letters and words, of dots and curves, of flourishes and arabesques. Piece by piece, he put together a picture of his grief.
When he had finished, he handed the letter to the old man who, aware of Majnun’s impatience, mounted his horse without further ado and galloped away like the wind. Presently, he arrived at Layla’s tent and handed Majnun’s letter to her. Her heart beating like the wings of a trapped moth, she read through a mist of tears the tender words her lover had written.
Chapter 41
Majnun’s letter also began with an invocation:
‘O Lord! Your knowledge encompasses all things: You know what is manifest and what is hidden, for You have created both the rock and precious gem that lies trapped within it. Yours is the dominion of the heavens with their constellations. You merge night into day, and day into night. The secrets and mysteries that lie hidden in the human heart are known to You, for nothing escapes Your vision. You cause the sap to rise in the blissful days of spring; You cause the blood to rush through our veins until the day we die. And You are the One who hears the prayer of those in need when they turn to You.’
Then he addressed Layla, saying:
‘I am writing this letter as one who has renounced all ties with the world, as one whose fate now lies in your hands, as one whose blood is yours to sell as cheaply as you wish.
‘You say that I am the keeper of the treasure; true, I am close to it, yet at the same time I have never been so far! The key with which I am to open that treasure has not yet been made; the iron from which it will be forged still lies sleeping in the rock.
‘I am the very dust that you trample underfoot, while you are the water of life — but for whom? I lie prostrate beneath your feet while your arms embrace — who? I would even suffer harm from you, while you are caressing — who? I am your slave and your load is on my shoulders, but what about you? Whose ring hangs from your ear? You are my ka’ba, to you
I turn in prayer, but what am I to you?
‘You are the cure for all that is wrong with me, yet at the same time you are my sickness! You are the wine in my goblet that does not belong to me; you are the crown that was made for me, but which adorns some other brow. Yes, you are my treasure, but you are in the hands of a stranger, for him to enjoy: I am but the poor beggar who is bitten by the serpent who guards you.
‘You are paradise itself, of this I am certain. Yet nowhere do I find the key to open the gate! You are mine, yet you are not mine: you are heaven itself, but so distant that you might as well be hell with all its tortures! The tree of my being grows in the forest of your soul and belongs to you: fell that tree and a part of your own being will fall and die. I am the earth beneath your feet: if you tread lovingly, I will be the sweet spring soil that brings forth endless flowers for your enjoyment; if you stamp on me, I will be the swirling dust cloud that envelops and suffocates you.
‘Did I not give myself up to you willingly? Am I not known the world over as your slave? And rightly so, for I carry a slave’s burden. So act as a slave’s mistress should act and do what is right! I have nothing with which to defend myself: my weapons, my shield — I have surrendered them all. I have become your prisoner without a fight, but if you refuse me I shall be put to the sword.
‘Have mercy on me, and thus on yourself. Do not cut off your own nose to spite your face; do not fight your own army; do not harm your own soul! Be gentle and kind and give solace to my aching heart. Only by accepting me can you set me free.