by Asen Djinah
‘Look over there,’ he pointed the boy out to the other scholars, ‘I have never seen someone so young being so devout.’
Everyone turned to look at the boy. He was dressed in clean but worn-out clothes and was very skinny. He wore a white skull cap, quite far back on his head just covering the top of his neck-length hair. His long hair was often in his eyes, causing him every now and then to flick his head sideways to clear his vision. The loose hair over a low forehead and a pointy chin gave the boy a youthful and almost a feminine look.
‘He looks like a girl,’ one of the scholars remarked.
His bright penetrating eyes were in sharp contrast to the rest of his appearance. When the scholars were served dinner on the large communal plate, the boy looked away so that no one would notice the hungry look on his face. Every evening, the boy would stay behind for the few hours until the night prayer and then leave. During that time he would listen to the scholars’ conversation, whilst at the same time doing Zikr – prayer on his tasbih – rosary.
Kateb and the other scholars’ curiosity was piqued by this young boy, the only devotee to stay behind and listen to their meetings and deliberations. During prayer times, they noticed that he kept to himself, not once engaging in conversation with other devotees. The fact that he didn’t read from any of the few books on the side shelf convinced Kateb that he was illiterate. This routine continued on for some time until one day, feeling sorry for the boy, Kateb approached him
‘Please come and have dinner with us,’ he addressed the boy.
The youngster looked hesitant and did not answer.
‘It would be a great honour for us if you would share our meal,’ Kateb pressed him.
The boy nodded and got up from where he was sitting to move within the circle around the large plate.
‘Shukran,’ he simply said.
From that day onwards, the boy would still sit aloof of the group, only to move closer at meal time and then return back to his usual place after eating. He never ate more than six balls of rice. With his right hand he would take some rice, roll it into a ball in the palm of his hand before dipping it in the gravy bowl placed in the centre of the large plate. Then, using his thumb, he would push the ball of rice into his mouth before chewing it slowly. Eating too fast would show greediness. If there were meat in the gravy, he would only take one small piece before his sixth and final ball of rice. It was customary and good manners for a guest not to eat too much.
‘Have some more,’ one of the scholars once prompted him.
But the boy held up his right hand whilst rubbing his stomach with his left hand, indicating that he was full; he even burped noisily to emphasise that he had eaten enough.
If bread was served instead of rice, he would break off a piece using the thumb and index fingers of his right hand, while the other fingers held the flatbread in place. Like the others, he would never use his unclean left hand to eat. It would have been improper, for the left hand was used for personal hygiene. Again, he would only eat six mouthfuls of bread. After the meal, he would wait patiently for the bowl of water to be passed around to wash his hand.
‘Shukran,’ he would then say to his hosts before moving back to his place to wait for the night prayer.
Respecting his aloofness, no one asked him any questions. This continued on for a couple of months until one day, out of the blue and after swallowing his sixth ball of rice, he broke his silence.
‘My name is Jaffar,’ he simply said.
Kateb and the other scholars nodded at him and smiled warmly. The boy was finally ready to engage with his hosts.
During the fasting month, Jaffar started to come for the morning prayers also. A meal was served at dawn during this holy month for all devotees to start their fast, attracting many poor people to the mosque. Large prayer mats were laid outside in the courtyard to accommodate the additional devotees. After eating and praying, Jaffar would disappear for the day only to reappear in the evening. Kateb again thought it peculiar to have such a young boy being so devout. He suspected that Jaffar did not have enough to eat at home and must either be from a very poor family or was an orphan.
One day, Kateb pulled the boy aside to question him and find out more.
‘Jaffar, are you an orphan? I can recommend you to the orphanage. They will help you,’ he told him.
‘Shukran, Imam Kateb, but I live with my family,’ he replied.
Jaffar did not want to tell the truth about his parents and that he was living with a Jewish family.
‘Would you like to be able to read and write and learn how to count?’ Kateb persisted, desperately wanting to help the young boy.
‘I work as a cobbler during the day and do not have time to attend the madrasah,’ he said with a saddened look, recognising Kateb’s good intentions.
When the fasting month was over, Kateb instructed one of the scholars to sit with Jaffar every evening to teach him to read, while the rest carried on with their meeting. Kateb was hardly surprised to see that the boy was a fast learner. With his sharp mind, combined with the one-to-one approach with his tutor, it was no surprise that Jaffar was making progress in leaps and bounds, much to the delight of the scholars. They had all taken a liking to the quiet boy.
After all these years, old Kateb looked again at the grand vizier and could not quite believe his eyes. The once quiet, illiterate boy had risen to one of the highest levels of power in the empire. Kateb felt a sense of pride and ownership at the success of his protégé.
Chapter 3
As always Caliph Omar went directly to his private quarters after court. His three wives and children knew very well that on court days he would not be visiting them. Instead, he would retire to his personal suite. Acting as Qadi always drained him emotionally, for he found the responsibility of making sure that justice prevailed both overwhelming and exhausting. Far too often the tragic cases upset him deeply. As always, empathising with the victims, he put himself in their shoes and sometimes in those of the defendants. He needed the privacy of his personal chambers, away from his family, to shed his sombre mood and recover. The case of the woman accused of adultery had troubled him very much. From his interpretation of the law, the woman was definitely innocent and it confounded him that Kateb, with all his knowledge and wisdom, had recommended a guilty verdict.
‘Did I miss something from the facts presented?’ he asked himself as he walked up the stairs to his retreat.
‘Well, I will definitely ask Kateb to explain his interpretation of the evidence.’
He was relieved that he had the presence of mind to delay the verdict, taking the opportunity that the woman was with child.
‘I should not allow myself to worry as there is plenty of time to debate the verdict with Kateb,’ he told himself.
‘In the future, I should remain more detached from the cases,’ he vowed as he pushed the curtain aside to enter the foyer.
Despite his mood, he was looking forward to his evening meal. Usually he ate with one of his families, but on court days his servant Ibrahim would prepare his favourite dishes to cheer him up. As he entered the anteroom, the aroma of the freshly prepared dishes hit his senses and made his mouth water. Ibrahim heard him coming in and rushed to welcome Omar with a tumbler of lemon sherbet. The servant helped the caliph take off his bisht – coat.
‘Sit down and enjoy your drink while I ease your tension,’ Ibrahim greeted him with his usual wide smile.
As the caliph sat on a cushion, Ibrahim moved behind him and gently massaged his neck and shoulders. Omar closed his eyes and started telling the servant about the various cases of the day. He ended with the details of the adultery case and described how he and the leader of the ulamas came to opposing conclusions.
‘I simply cannot believe that Kateb, with all his knowledge, came to the conclusion that the woman is guilty,’ he said.
As usual Ibrahim simply listened, knowing very well not to express his opinion. When Omar finished his drink, he sig
nalled Ibrahim to help him up. He knew that Ibrahim had already laid out a change of clothes and put water in the wash room for him to freshen up.
By the time Omar had changed, the servant had already laid out the dishes on the table.
‘Ibrahim, you have truly spoilt me tonight,’ Omar said to his loyal servant and friend when he saw his favourite dishes on the table.
There was a plate of labneh, dried yogurt balls covered with herbs and spices, soaked in olive oil. Omar knew that his labneh would be made from camel’s rather than goat’s milk, giving it a richer and saltier taste which he preferred. There was also his favourite kibbeh, balls made of soaked, cracked wheat, minced onions and finely ground goat meat with cinnamon, nutmeg, clove and allspice, cooked in a thick, creamy broth. Finally, a plate of baba ganoush – a dish of aubergine cooked with onions, tomatoes, olive oil and various seasonings – completed the menu. Side dishes were freshly made flatbread and rice flavoured with rose water and pomegranate seeds. He felt his mouth water as he sat down.
‘Come, let us eat before the dishes get cold,’ Omar said to Ibrahim.
Omar never liked to eat alone and on the rare occasions that he did, he found himself unable to fully enjoy his meal. Some years ago, before being appointed as caliph, he had asked Ibrahim to join him for dinner. At that time, Ibrahim was still his slave and out of respect for his master, he had politely declined. Omar had ordered him to sit down and eat with him. From that day onwards, whenever Omar was alone, master and slave would sit opposite one another, sharing the intimacy of the meal.
Omar’s father had bought Ibrahim from his neighbour, when the boy was fifteen years old. He was the son of a slave couple and his previous master did not want to separate him from his parents. When the boy came of age his master had sold him to Omar’s father on one condition.
‘You have to promise to let him visit his parents daily. Since we live close to each other, it should not be a problem,’ his neighbour had said.
From the very first day, Ibrahim had proved himself to be a faithful and loyal servant to his new owner and family. When his father died, Omar had inherited Ibrahim, being the eldest of two brothers. The first thing Omar did was to inform Ibrahim that he would be paid for his work.
‘When you have earned enough to buy your freedom, you will be free to leave,’ Omar had told the slave.
According to the Holy Book, to provide for the emancipation of a slave was a means of religious atonement for past sins. In his last speech, the Holy Prophet had said that all men, including slaves, were siblings. He himself had adopted a slave as his son. So it was common practice for slave owners to free their slaves after years of faithful and loyal service.
When the day came, after twelve years of loyal service, Omar informed Ibrahim that he had earned enough for his freedom and he was free to leave.
‘Please Master, let me continue on. You are the caliph now and I have a high status being your slave,’ Ibrahim had pleaded much to Omar’s surprise.
Caliph Omar had many acquaintances but no real friends aside from Ibrahim. After much thought, he accepted since he could not bear to part with his only friend.
‘I will only agree if you work for me as a paid servant and not a slave,’ Omar had compromised.
Although he was no longer a slave, he continued his duties as if nothing had changed. There was a brotherly bond between the two of them, as strong as the attachment between Omar and his younger brother Numan. Ibrahim had since got married and had moved to a house not far from the palace.
The two friends sat down to enjoy their meal.
‘You spoil me, Ibrahim, with such tasty food,’ Omar complimented his friend again.
‘Your dishes are not even close to any of my wives’ cooking, but please don’t tell them I said so, especially Alima,’ he added.
They both burst out laughing as they pictured Omar’s third wife Alima throwing one of her tantrums. After eating they sat together in silence for a while, sharing a hookah. When they heard the call of the muezzin, they made their way to the mosque for the night prayer. Afterwards, Ibrahim left the palace to go to his wife and Omar retired to his private suite to sleep.
Chapter 4
The following morning, Caliph Omar made his way to the quarters of his first wife, Maymuna, for breakfast. Omar maintained a rigid schedule regarding his visits to his different wives, to avoid any accusation of favouring a particular one. During the course of a day, he would be seeing all his three wives and children. So far, he had been very diplomatic in avoiding any conflict and he thought himself lucky that his wives somehow got along with each other. Having no official engagement that day, he was dressed casually in a simple white cotton thawb.
‘I will not tell Maymuna about the adultery case,’ he decided, to avoid his wife being upset.
Maymuna was acquainted with the young trader who had gone out of his way to obtain all sorts of remedies for her and she would be distraught to learn about his wife’s misfortune.
Maymuna had been waiting for him and as soon as Omar saw her, he knew that she had something on her mind. He decided to wait until she was ready to tell him about it. His daughter Inaya and son Aydin were already up, waiting patiently for their father to come and have breakfast with them. As usual, Inaya rushed into her father’s arms, almost knocking him over.
‘Abbi, I missed you yesterday. Why didn’t you come?’ she said in the babyish voice that she only used with her father.
She was tall for her age, almost as tall as her mother. She was very pretty, a spitting image of her mother with the same oblong face, high cheekbones, light grey eyes and brown hair. Yet looking at her, Omar could see that there was something in her features that also made her look like him, although he could not put his finger to it.
‘Maybe it is her expression,’ he had always thought.
With everyone else including her mother, Inaya was reserved and mature, but with her father the twelve-year-old behaved like a toddler. She would sit in his lap and play with his beard, asking endless questions without waiting for an answer.
‘Leave your father alone, child. You almost knocked him over,’ her mother reprimanded her.
Aydin, who had been waiting patiently a few steps back, came forward.
‘Hello abbi,’ he greeted his father.
Omar pulled him close and hugged him at length while Aydin stood rigidly. The opposite of Inaya, the eighteen-year-old boy had always been uneasy at displaying affection. He was taller than Omar but more slender in build and looked very serious for his age. He too has taken after his mother, with the same well-defined features and light grey eyes. As he hugged Aydin, Omar felt a sense of pride and tenderness towards his eldest son.
‘I need to take him along with me to meetings and introduce him to the world of politics and diplomacy,’ he thought.
He made a mental note to discuss this with Grand Vizier Jaffar first, before mentioning to Maymuna.
Only then did Omar turn to Maymuna to greet her. Once again he felt sorry for his wife as he looked into her eyes. He could clearly see the lines of pain on her face and in her gaze. Despite her bright red hair, poor Maymuna looked older than she actually was. It had been quite a few years since she had been suffering from terrible headaches, and despite being treated by the best physicians, the various treatments had offered only temporary relief. She had once been bled from her arm with two cups of blood removed, but had only felt faint with little relief to her headache. At another time, a different physician had shaved the top of her head and cupped her naked scalp to remove half a cup of blood from an incision. This had only provided temporary reprieve. The numerous herbs Omar had obtained from traders from distant lands could not provide any long-term relief to her excruciating pain. What worked best was a head massage with an equal mixture of henna extract and lemon juice. Maymuna would also regularly use a tight headband to reduce the blood flow and the throbbing to her head. She was grateful to Sophiya, Omar’s second wife, who would gi
ve her the head massage every day. Her hair had turned a bright red colour, the lemon juice having bleached it, whilst the henna had dyed it.
‘Hello Omar,’ Maymuna greeted her husband.
Omar hugged her and kissed her on the forehead. As usual, her hair smelled of henna.
‘How is your headache today, dear?’ he inquired.
‘I am fine,’ Maymuna lied.
She had always been a proud woman who didn’t like to complain about her troubles and worries.
‘I heard that a new physician has recently arrived in town. I will send word for him to come and see you. He may have new treatments,’ Omar said.
It hurt him to see Maymuna’s daily suffering.
The family sat down to eat. There was warm camel milk, dates, figs, soft flatbread and clarified butter. As usual, Inaya wanted to feed her father. She squeezed through onto her father’s lap and grabbed his right hand to stop him from feeding himself, knowing her father would not eat with his left hand. She dipped a piece of bread in her milk and pushed it clumsily into Omar’s mouth, causing some milk to run down his beard. Omar pretended to be annoyed, but Inaya knew her father loved the attention.
‘How are your studies Aydin?’ Omar asked, so as not to make his son feel left out. This was the one question which was enough to cause Aydin’s eyes to light up and once he started talking about his studies, it would be difficult to stop him.
‘I have been studying the work of Aryabhata, an Indian mathematician. He used just nine numbers and a number called zero in a place-value system to represent any numbers, whether small or large, unlike the Roman system. For example, the number 5 can represent five or fifty or five hundred depending in which column it is placed. Abbi, you won’t believe it, but the number 5 can even represent half! This is called the decimal fractions which I have yet to learn.’