The Blind Owl and Other Stories

by Sadegh Hedayat

  The principal of the school where he taught and the rest of the teachers neither liked nor disliked him. Perhaps he made a mysterious impression on them. In contrast to the teachers, the students were satisfied with him, because he had never been seen to be angry or to beat anybody. He was very calm and reserved, and he behaved in a pleasant manner towards the students. Because of this he was known for lacking authority, but in spite of that reputation, the students were polite in his class and were apprehensive of him. The only person with whom Mirza Hoseinali had a warm relationship and with whom he sometimes had discussions was Sheikh Abelfazl, the teacher of Arabic, who was very pretentious. Sheikh Abelfazl was always talking about the degree to which he had mortified his flesh and the wondrous things he had done. For a long time he had been in a state of religious rapture, and he hadn’t spoken for several years. He saw himself as a philosopher, heir to Avicenna, Mowlavi, and Galen. But in reality he was one of those selfish phoney mullahs who liked to show off his knowledge. In any conversation that arose he would immediately insert a proverb or an esoteric Arabic sentence, or he would cite a poem as evidence, and then with a victorious smile he would look for the effect of his words in the faces of those present. And it was strange that Mirza Hoseinali, the teacher of Persian and history, apparently modern and without pretension, should choose Sheikh Abelfazl of all people to be his friend. Sometimes he would take the Sheikh to his home, and sometimes he went to the Sheikh’s house.

  Mirza Hoseinali was from an old family, and was a knowledgeable, well-rounded man. People were impressed that he had graduated from the Darolfonoun. For two or three years he had travelled with his father on duty, but when he returned from the last trip he stayed in Tehran and chose the teaching profession, so that, even though he knew it was a difficult responsibility, he would have time to turn his attention to his own interest.

  From childhood, from the time a mullah started to come to their house to tutor him and his brother, Mirza Hoseinali showed a special talent for learning the literature, poetry, and philosophy of the Sufis. He even wrote poetry in the Sufi style. Their teacher, Sheikh Abdollah, who considered himself a Sufi, paid special attention to his pupil. He indoctrinated him with mystic thoughts and described the mystic state for him. He had especially told him about the distinguished position of Mansour Hallaj, who by the mortification of his passions had elevated himself to such a position that even on the gallows he refused to stop saying “I am God”. This story seemed very poetic to young Mirza Hoseinali. And finally one day Sheikh Abdollah declared to him, “With the nature that I see in you, if you follow the Way of Truth, you will attain excellence.” Mirza Hoseinali always remembered this thought. It took root and grew in his brain, and he always wished for a suitable time to begin devoting himself to asceticism. Later he and his brother entered the Darolfonoun School. There also, Mirza Hoseinali did very well in Arabic and literature. Mirza’s younger brother was not of the same mind. He would mock him and say, “These fancies will only make you fall behind in life and give up your youth for nothing.” But in his heart Mirza Hoseinali laughed at his brother’s words; he considered his brother’s thoughts materialistic and small, and he became even more stubborn in his determination. On account of this difference of opinion they separated after their father’s death.

  Something which reinforced Mirza’s resolution was that on a recent trip to Kerjan he met a dervish* who, in the course of conversation, confirmed the words of his teacher, Sheikh Abdollah, and promised that if he should take up mysticism and discipline himself, he would reach a position of eminence. Thus it was that for five years Mirza Hoseinali had chosen seclusion and had closed the door to family and friends. He lived alone, and after his teaching, he would begin his main occupation at home.

  His house was small and neat as a pin. He had an old housekeeper and an errand boy. As soon as he entered the door, he took his clothes off with care, hung them up, put on a long grey robe, and went into his library. He had allocated the largest room in the house for his library. At one corner beside the window a white mattress was spread. On it were two pillows. In front of it was a low table on which were several volumes, a pile of paper, a pen and an inkpot. The covers of the books on the table were worn. Many other books were stacked on shelves built into the wall.

  The subject matter of these books was Gnosticism, mysticism, and ancient philosophy. His only recreation and pleasure was reading these books, and until midnight, behind the table under the oil lamp, he would pore over them and read. He would interpret them to himself and whatever seemed to him difficult or doubtful he would make a note of and later discuss with Sheikh Abelfazl. Not because Mirza Hoseinali was unable to understand their meaning: on the contrary, he had passed many of the spiritual stages and could penetrate hair-splitting ideas and the fine points of some Sufi poems better than Sheikh Abelfazl. He let these things inside, and he had created within himself a world beyond the material world. This had become a cause of egotism, because he considered himself to be superior to others, and he had complete faith in this superiority.

  Mirza Hoseinali knew that there existed a secret in the world which the great Sufi had discovered, and it was evident to him that to begin the search he would need a preceptor, someone who would guide him. Sheikh Abdollah had told him, and he would read, that “because the initiate’s thoughts are scattered at the beginning, he should concentrate on the teacher in order to collect his thoughts.”

  Thus it was that after searching a great deal he found Sheikh Abelfazl, even though he was not to Mirza’s taste and knew nothing except for how to pass judgement. Whenever the Sheikh encountered something difficult, he would say that it was too soon and he would explain it later, as if he were working with a child. In the end the only thing that Sheikh Abelfazl recommended to Mirza was to kill his passions. The Sheikh considered this the beginning of everything. In other words, by means of asceticism one could prevail over the senses, and the Sheikh delivered detailed lectures full of hadith* which he had prepared about killing the passions. Among the things he said was: “Your worst enemy is inside you”. Another was: “Your fight is with your passions”. He quoted Chadi, who said: “Whoever kills his passions is a crusader”. He also quoted the poem:

  If the self can’t be contained

  It must somehow be restrained;

  The fatal sword of ignorance

  Should be sheathed in continence.

  Another one he liked was:

  To kill the passions should be our delight,

  Man’s highest honour is winning that fight.

  Among other things which Sheikh Abolfazl preached there was this: “The seeker of the Truth should hold in contempt wealth, position, splendour, power and pomp, because the greatest wealth and pleasure is the subduing of the passions.” He quoted Maktabi, who said:

  Win the battle over self,

  And attain eternal wealth.

  And he said, “Know, oh friend of the Way, that if you are seduced once by the bodily senses, you have walked in the valley of death, just as Sanai says:

  Keep your passions under control

  If you would have them your slave.

  Give them control and they will send

  A thousand like you to the grave.

  “And as Sheikh Saadi says:

  If you help a man attain his ends

  He’ll help you achieve your desire.

  The passions are different: foes, not friends.

  Instead of helping, they’ll rule you entire.

  “And learned men of the Way have considered the passions as a vicious dog which must be bound by the chain of self-discipline and which one must avoid letting free. But the disciple must not become proud and reveal hidden secrets to the uninitiated. He should consult the preceptor at every difficulty. As Khawje Ha¯fiz, God bless him, says:

  ‘This gallows was erected,’ someone said,

  ‘For
giving secrets. Now the giver’s dead.’”

  Mirza Hoseinali had always had a special interest in asceticism and Indian philosophy, and he wished to go to India to pursue his studies. He wanted to meet members of Indian religious sects and learn their secrets. Thus he was not surprised by the suggestion that he should control his passions. On the contrary, he greeted it wholeheartedly, and the same day, when he returned home, he opened his handwritten copy of the Masnvai* to find an omen. As luck would have it, these lines came up:

  The passions do not keep their promises

  For breaking faith they should be doomed to die.

  The passions and their purpose both are base

  And do their best themselves to justify.

  In this society the passions fit

  As aptly as the corpse fits in the grave.

  The passions may be shrewd and full of wit

  But to the temporal world they are as slaves.

  Since in no afterlife do they have a part,

  Leave them for dead. But God, who can’t despise,

  Can make his inspiration touch their heart –

  From lifeless dust a being will arise.

  This augury became the reason that Mirza Hoseinali decided definitely to spend all his effort in overcoming his natural instincts and devoting himself to asceticism. At first, the more profoundly he studied Sufi books, the more emphasis he put on this struggle. In the Treatise of the True Light it was written:

  Oh master! Discipline yourself for some time

  and occupy your passions in this endeavour,

  until your false ideas leave and in their

  place comes the truth.

  In the Conzelor Romus of Mir Hoseini he read:

  Destroy the passions, and their power break,

  As you would destroy a vile snake.

  In the book of Marsad ol’Bad it was written:

  Know that when the initiate starts the struggle on the path of asceticism and the purification of the heart, the way to the Kingdom of Heaven appears to him; and at every stage secrets will unfold themselves to him befitting his state.

  And in the poetry of Naser Khosro he read:

  There stands a dragon over your treasure,

  Slay it, and find sorrow turns to pleasure.

  To appease it, as the coward tries,

  Forfeits claim to that endless prize.

  All of these threatening verses full of fear and hope, the writing of which had worn out countless pens, left little doubt in Mirza Hoseinali that the first step towards the goal was the killing of the devilish and animal passions, passions which prevented mankind from reaching the truth. Mirza Hoseinali wanted to purify his passion both through thought and reason and through rigour and struggle. Approximately a week of this passed, but then he began to be discouraged. The reason for this loss of hope was doubt and suspicion, especially after becoming involved with such poems as these by Ha¯fiz:

  Seek not the mystery of the universe,

  Rather tell tales of musicians and wine.

  For solving the riddle of our existence

  Requires a wisdom which no one can find.

  Enjoy each pleasant note that comes along,

  For no one knows the ending of life’s song.

  Although Mirza Hoseinali knew that words such as “wine”, “cup­bearer”, “tavern”, “wine seller”, and so on are mystical terminologies, still, in spite of this explanation, some of Khayyam’s quatrains were very difficult for him and left him confused. For example:

  No one has seen Heaven and Hell, oh heart.

  From there none has returned, news to impart.

  Our hopes and fears are idle, for we have

  Nothing except the names from which to start.

  Or this quatrain:

  Khayyam, if you are drunk with wine, rejoice,

  Happy with the beloved of your choice.

  Because the end of life is nothingness,

  Be glad that end has not yet stilled your voice.

  These masters invited one to pleasure, whereas he had forbidden himself all pleasures. This thought produced a bitter regret in him for his past life – that life in which he had given up so much and which he had made so difficult for himself. Even now his days were painfully spent seeking imaginary ideas! For twelve years he had been giving himself sorrow and affliction. Of pleasure, of the happiness of youth, he had no share, and now, too, he was empty-handed. This doubt and hesitation had turned all his thoughts into frightening shadows which followed him everywhere. Especially at night, when he turned and twisted in the cold bed. Alone, no matter how much he wanted to think about spiritual worlds, as soon as he fell asleep and his thoughts grew dim, a hundred demons would tempt him. How many times did he leap awake in fright and pour cold water on his head and face? The next day he would eat less, and at night he would sleep on straw, because Sheikh Abelfazl was always reciting this poem for him:

  The passions are like furies, hard to restrain,

  The more they get, the louder they complain.

  Mirza Hoseinali knew that if he slipped, all his efforts would be wasted. Because of this, he intensified the torturing and mortification of his body. But the more he disciplined himself, the more the demon of lust tortured him, until he decided to go to his only friend and teacher, Sheikh Abelfazl, relate his problems, and get complete instructions from him.

  It was near dusk when this thought occurred to him. He changed his clothes, buttoned his frock, and with measured steps set out for the home of the teacher. When he arrived he saw a man standing angrily in front of the house. He was shouting and tearing his hair and saying aloud, “Tell the Sheikh tomorrow I’ll take him to court, he’ll have to answer me there. He took my daughter to be a maid and ruined her and took all her money. Either he has to marry her, or I’ll tear him apart. I’ve been dishonoured…”

  Mirza Hoseinali couldn’t bear it any more. He went forwards and said softly, “My good man, you’ve made a mistake. This is the house of Sheikh Abelfazl.”

  “That’s the same villain I’m talking to, that same godless sheikh. I know he’s home, but he’s hiding. If he had nerve enough to come out I’d tear him limb from limb. For sure I’ll see him tomorrow.”

  When Mirza Hoseinali realized that the case was serious, he moved off and went away slowly, but these words were enough to awaken him. Could it be true? Hadn’t he made a mistake? Sheikh Abelfazl, who had been recommending to him before anything else to kill the passions, hadn’t he himself been able to succeed in this endeavour? Had he slipped, or had he been fooling Mirza? It was very important that he should know this. If it were true, then had all the Sufis been like this, saying things which they didn’t believe themselves? Or was this typical only of his teacher, and had he found a phoney among the prophets? If this were the case, could he go and tell all his spiritual tortures and his misfortunes and then have the Sheikh recite several Arabic sentences, give him harder instructions, and laugh at him in his heart? No, he had to clear things up this very night. For a while he paced crazily about the empty streets. Then he found himself in a crowd. Without thinking of anything in particular, he walked slowly among the same people he had considered inferior and materialistic. Inside himself he felt their materialistic, ordinary life, and he desired to walk among them for a long while, but he turned once more towards Sheikh Abelfazl’s house, as if he had made a sudden decision. This time no one else was there. He knocked on the door and told his name to the woman who answered it. It was a little while before she opened the door for him. When he entered the room he saw Sheikh Abelfazl, with his squinting eyes, pockmarked face, and beard dyed the colour of plum jam, sitting on a carpet. He was telling his beads and several volumes of books were open beside him. As he saw Mirza he sprang to his feet, said “Ya Allah” and cleared his throat. In front of him was an open handkerchief on
which was some stale bread and an onion. The sheikh looked at Mirza and said, “Come in. Partake of a humble supper with a poor man for the evening.”

  “We thank you very much… Excuse me if I’m causing trouble. I was just passing by. I only came––”

  “Not at all, nonsense. My house is yours.”

  Mirza Hoseinali wanted to say something, but suddenly there arose the sound of shouts and uproar, and a cat leapt into the room with a cooked partridge in its mouth and a yelling woman on its tail. While Mirza Hoseinali watched, Sheikh Abelfazl suddenly threw his cloak at it, and wearing only a shirt and underpants, reached out and grabbed a club from the corner of the room and ran after the cat like a madman. Mirza Hoseinali forgot what he wanted to say and stood transfixed. After a quarter of an hour, panting and with a burning face, Sheikh Abelfazl entered the room and said, “You know, according to religious law, if a cat causes more than seven hundred dinars worth of damage it is a holy duty to kill it.”

  Mirza Hoseinali had no longer any doubt that this was a very ordinary man and that what the old man had charged was completely true. He got up and said, “Excuse me for bothering you… With your permission I’ll leave.”

  Sheikh Abelfazl accompanied him to the door. When Mirza reached the alley he breathed a sigh of relief. Now it was proved for him. He recognized what kind of a man the Sheikh was and understood that this show and intrigue and trickery had been for his sake. He would eat a partridge, then, in order to fool people, he would set the table with dry bread and mouldy cheese or a withered onion to make himself seem pious. He instructed Mirza to eat nothing but an almond a day, while he himself got the maid pregnant and recited with relish this poem of Attar’s:

  Don’t shed blood, like the wild beast, oh son,

  That unbefitting food try hard to shun.

  Be happy with a morsel or a grain,

  Through fasting keep your passions bound in chains.

  In fasting strive for excellence, and find

  You’ll achieve distinction from your kind.