“It’s a fine idea,” he said. “Let’s make a celebration for Nouri.”
As he said this, Kavan turned his head to Sharoud and shouted:
“Kaw! Kaw!”
And though Sheikh Bailiri did not speak a word of peregrine falcon, he knew that he would have to keep on the alert.
* * *
WITHIN DAYS OF SHAROUD’S conversation with Sheikh Bailiri, preparations for Nouri’s birthday celebration were under way. The brothers did not have the means to take the festivities too far. But Piran Nazuder erected a tent over the courtyard, Jamal al-Jani got down on his knees and scrubbed the stones, and with the help of Ali Majid—who had sprouted into a loose-limbed lad of seventeen—Salim Rasa spent hours drawing kashk out of the yogurt, pounding walnuts and almonds, steaming huge pots of fragrant rice. By the average standards of the people of Tan-Arzhan, it would be a humble meal. But to the brothers, it would be a feast.
On the morning of the celebration, Nouri lay on his bed in Habbib’s cell thinking about the dream he’d had the night before. He was wandering through the streets of Tan-Arzhan, yet it was the city and not the city, familiar and yet utterly strange. As he made his way along, he took note of the girl carrying the large clay jug upon her head, the pure white horse drawing the bright green cart, the haggard woman beating the rug. It was a bright day, full of smiles and good cheer. Wherever he looked, there was a sense of purpose. As he approached the town square, however, he felt something dark and sinister dogging his heels. And when he turned he saw a ferocious-looking creature following behind him. He quickened his pace, but he could not seem to lose it. He broke into a run, but the creature did too. Before it could reach him, however, he awoke, heart pounding, in Habbib’s cell.
It took a while for Nouri to shake off the dark dream. But eventually he rose and, with the help of Habbib, began to prepare for the celebration. He put on a fresh tunic and trousers and tied a bright blue sash around his waist. Habbib removed his head garment, brushed his hair, and neatly rewound it. Then they went out to the courtyard, where Sheikh Bailiri and the others were waiting.
When Sheikh Bailiri saw Nouri, he led him to a long wooden table laden with food. He gestured to the boy to sit; then he and Habbib took their places on either side. Then the other brothers joined them and the Sufi master raised his cup.
“We celebrate your birth, Nouri! May you live to be ten times seven. And more!”
The brothers raised their cups. “To Nouri!” they cried. Then Salim Rasa leaned forward and shouted, “Say something, Nouri!”
Nouri looked around at the expectant faces. He feared that the brothers endowed his words with a greater wisdom than they possessed. But he closed his eyes and murmured:
“I am the bell on the collar of the cow.
Tinkling. Tinkling.
And I am the breeze that blows the bell.”
The brothers were silent. Then Sheikh Bailiri reached for one of the bowls and the feast began.
“You’re a poet, Nouri!” said Salim Rasa, as he ladled some of the mirza ghasemi onto his plate.
Nouri said nothing. He simply grasped the four withered fingers of Habbib’s hand and turned his attention to the meal. No one, in fact, said anything more. Instead, they slipped into a communal trance as the savory tastes danced upon their tongues. Only when the last grain of rice had been devoured did Piran Nazuder suddenly cry out, “We mustn’t forget the sema!”
The others turned to him, their eyes glazed over.
“Do we have to?” said Jamal al-Jani.
“I’m too stuffed,” said Hajid al-Hallal, “to rise up to heaven!”
“One is never too heavy to strive toward God,” said Sheikh Bailiri. “And never too humble to perform the sema.”
Centered on the chanting of litanies and accompanied by the playing of music, the sema was deep at the heart of Sufi practice. Some, overcome by the words, would begin to weep. Others, inflamed with joy, would throw their heads back and fall to their knees. But the most sublime response to the chanted words—which had been introduced to the order by Piran Nazuder, who had learned it on a visit to Anatolia—was to spread one’s arms on either side and begin to whirl. There were differing theories as to how the practice had begun. Some claimed a Sufi had been so shattered by the loss of his teacher he’d found that only whirling could ease his pain. Some claimed a bowl of oversalted stew had caused a Sufi to start spinning, and when his comrades followed suit they found the movement to be a tonic for the soul. There were rules to observe: one must never move in an affected manner; one must never cry out while one turned. But for those who sought a true union with God, it was an ecstatic form. So the brothers cleared away the cups and the plates and the bowls and removed the table. Then they donned their woolen hats and dark mantles and spread out across the floor. When all were in place, Sheikh Bailiri began reciting verses from the Qur’an, which the others repeated in unison. Then Ali Majid stepped forward with his ney.
The brothers would never have thought that Ali Majid would become a musician. He seemed too scattered—too dim—to coax prayer from a simple flute. One morning, however, he saw a ney lying in the assembly hall and when he raised it to his lips a perfect note rose into the air. He quickly returned it to where he’d found it, fearful that he’d be punished for touching it. But Hajid al-Hallal heard the clear, sweet sound, received permission from Sheikh Bailiri to give him lessons, and in no time the boy’s gift was revealed. He still washed the pots and the pans and sharpened the knives. But his playing became the pulse of the brothers’ dance.
Now, as he began to play, Sheikh Bailiri stepped back and the brothers bowed low to the floor. They turned and began to walk in a circle, pausing to bow to one another when they reached the place where the Sufi master stood. When they’d made three rounds, they removed their mantles. Then they folded their arms across their chests and began to whirl. It started slowly, a gentle turning that expressed their longing to be released from their bodies. As the pace quickened, their arms rose up over their heads. Then they spread them wide—their right hands turned upward to receive the grace of heaven, their left dangling down to release their passions to the earth.
Nouri was not permitted to join in the dance like a true dervish, for despite his gifts he was only seven years old. In honor of his birthday, however, Sheikh Bailiri agreed that he could do a bit of turning. So as the music of Ali Majid’s ney dizzied his ever-sensitive ears, he took his place at the edge of the circle and, in his own simple fashion, began to whirl.
Sharoud whirled too. Inspired by the fever of the festivities, he spun like a giddy top. He was aware of the others as he moved through the space, but he was mostly aware of Nouri. He felt his pulse quicken and his heart pound each time they drew near. And on the tenth revolution—as his taut body floated past the child—he suddenly reached out and grabbed the slender tail of his tightly wrapped head garment.
It was like a spool of white ribbon unfurling. A cocoon being unraveled. A present being unwrapped. But it was only when the music stopped—and the brothers, shaken from their trance, suddenly turned and gaped at him—that Nouri understood that his secret had been revealed.
Four
Nouri sat quietly on the blue-and-gold kilim, his legs crossed under him, his hands in his lap, waiting for Sheikh Bailiri to speak. He’d been sitting in the Sufi master’s cell for nearly an hour, but when the dervish entered he seemed to take no notice of him, turning instead to the weathered book on his desk, the goose-quill pen and the crisp sheet of paper, the small bowl of lemongrass tea. He would read for a moment. Then sip the tea. Then write a few lines. And then sip some more. Only after the longest while did he rise from the desk and go to the wooden cage by the window that housed the gray falcon.
He opened the door and placed his arm inside.
The falcon stepped onto it.
Then Sheikh Bailiri drew the bird from the cage and spoke.
“When he dives for prey, he’s the fastest creature in
the world. But look how calm he is in repose!”
Nouri hesitated, uncertain if he should speak to the Sufi master or simply remain quiet. He’d been aware of the bird from the moment he’d entered the room, however. And Sheikh Bailiri seemed to be waiting for him to respond. So he put aside his fear and cleared his throat.
“What does he eat?” he asked.
“Bats,” said Sheikh Bailiri. “And squirrels. And mice.”
He moved across the room until the bird was only inches from Nouri, its dark feathers gleaming, its obsidian eyes boring into him.
“I take him out each morning at dawn,” said Sheikh Bailiri. “You’re welcome to join me if you like.”
Nouri nodded. Then Sheikh Bailiri knelt down.
“Would you like to pet him?”
Nouri nodded again. So Sheikh Bailiri extended his arm and the boy reached out and stroked the bird from his head down to his tail.
“His name is Kavan.”
Nouri looked at Kavan and Kavan looked at Nouri. Then Sheikh Bailiri carried him back to his cage and placed him inside. He paused a moment, as if he and the elegant bird were exchanging a few words. Then he returned to where Nouri sat and lowered himself beside him.
For seven years, Sheikh Bailiri had been closely watching Nouri. He’d observed his grace, his tenderness, his beauty, aware of the potential for spiritual growth that was lodged in him like a seed beneath the earth. He knew, however, that the first seven years of a boy’s life were for his mother and that, without a mother, that role fell to Habbib. So he allowed the simple groundskeeper to care for him, all the while hoping some sign would appear to announce that the next seven years should be his. Now, with perfect timing—indeed, on the child’s seventh birthday—that sign had appeared. And Sheikh Bailiri understood what he had to do.
“God’s creation is infinite. There are trees. Insects. Mountains. Rivers. Birds of prey like Kavan. There are flowers so fragrant they can make your head spin. There are creatures beneath the sea so strange they would leave you speechless if you saw them.”
The Sufi master was silent a moment and Nouri had to work hard not to tumble into his radiant eyes.
“You, my child, are an expression of God’s diversity. His abundance. His playfulness. So you must never allow yourself to be ashamed of how he made you.”
Sheikh Bailiri paused again. Then a laugh bubbled up.
“Your ears, Nouri! Your ears! If ever there were ears created to hear the Word of God, yours are the ones!”
Nouri’s ears, beneath his head cloth, grew hot.
“A seven-year-old is too young to become a dervish. And even after an aspirant has taken his vows, it takes many years to become a true servant of God.”
Sheikh Bailiri leaned forward.
“But a Sufi is born a Sufi. It only requires the right teacher to reveal him to himself.”
At these words the falcon suddenly cried out, “Kaw! Kaw!”
“I’d like to be your teacher, Nouri.” He smiled. “Would you like to learn the secrets of the universe?”
Now, there are many things that are hard for a young boy to resist. Riding a camel. Holding a scimitar. Eating sharbat-e limoo. But nothing is more tempting than the chance to learn the secrets of the universe. And Nouri felt sure that if anyone knew them it was Sheikh Bailiri.
“Yes, please,” he said.
The Sufi master nodded. And Nouri’s education began.
* * *
“THERE ARE A GREAT MANY rules to learn. And they must be adhered to with great strictness. But the point—and you must remember this, Nouri—is not to become good at following the rules. The point is to bring discipline to the animal part of your nature. So that your spirit—which is who you truly are—can be free.”
It was a crisp winter morning a few months after Nouri had begun his studies with Sheikh Bailiri. They were strolling through the market, past the dried figs and the salted fish and the bowls of ground fennel and sumac and coriander. Sheikh Bailiri found that his mind worked best when he was walking, so each morning, after he’d prayed and broken fast and taken Kavan out to hunt, he would roam with Nouri through the streets of Tan-Arzhan. The boy’s head cloth was tied tightly in place—for once he’d seen the stunned reaction of the brothers to his ears, he preferred to keep them safely concealed, even behind the walls of the lodge.
“All is one,” said Sheikh Bailiri, as he plucked a large onion from one of the stalls. He held it up to the light as if he was waiting for it to transform into a dove and fly away. Then he handed the man behind the stall a coin, and handed the onion to Nouri. “Things look different. But their inner spirit is the same.”
Nouri ran his thumb over the smooth, papery skin and tried to focus on what the Sufi master was saying. He loved his morning walks through the city with Sheikh Bailiri. And for all the curious sights, what truly dazzled him were the sounds that pierced his sensitive ears: the ping of the blacksmith’s hammer, the braying of the wine merchant’s donkey, the chatter of the spice sellers, the gurgling of the fountain. Yet no matter how alluring these things were, Nouri was always drawn back to Sheikh Bailiri’s words.
“God is too great to be perceived directly, which is why He fractured into so many forms. You, Nouri, are one of those forms. When you know yourself, you will know God.”
The first thing that Sheikh Bailiri required Nouri to do was to learn the Qur’an. That was the foundation of everything else. The teaching of the Prophet. The Word. Nouri found the book to be both beautiful and direct. But what fascinated him most was the feeling that beneath the words—in the patterns of the syllables and the sounds—was a hidden teaching. After the Qur’an came the Five Pillars of Islam: Faith, Worship, Charity, Fasting, and Pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Only after these things had been explained did Sheikh Bailiri discuss what it meant to be a Sufi.
“Through the Qur’an, the Supreme Being created a holy covenant between Himself and man. A moral guidepost. A set of laws. The Sufis are no less constrained by those laws than any other believers. Their devotion, however, is more inward.”
He explained that each Sufi order was led by a sheikh, who had studied with and been confirmed as a teacher by his own sheikh, in an unbroken chain reaching back to the Prophet himself. To be a Sufi was to be a servant of others. And by serving them, to be a servant of Allah. But one could do this only if one remembered that He was present in all things.
“Constant remembrance, Nouri. That is the goal. But I assure you, it is far more difficult than you imagine.”
When Nouri had been invited to learn the secrets of the universe, he’d expected to receive discourse on how to alter the pattern of the stars in the sky, turn rocks and pebbles into precious stones, manipulate the workings of time. So all this talk about remembrance and oneness and forms was a bit abstract. But he knew that it was a gift to receive private instruction from someone as wise as Sheikh Bailiri. So he kept his ears open—all four of them—and trusted that understanding would come.
Though what mattered most was the inner meaning of being a Sufi, Sheikh Bailiri also explained the Sufi’s manner of dress. A loose frock was worn over the body, made either of a light-colored cotton to express his purity or a patched piece of cloth to express his wish to unite mankind. A battered robe was worn over this to remind him of his vow to poverty. And on his head—sometimes surrounding a domelike hat, which pointed to heaven—he wore a turban.
“The cloth that wraps the head of a Sufi is his funeral shroud,” Sheikh Bailiri explained. “So his turban is a constant reminder of death.”
To Nouri, death seemed far, far away. Yet he knew that the remembrance Sheikh Bailiri spoke of was somehow connected to it. It was only when they paid a visit to the city’s mosque, however—one crisp Sunday in the month of Shawwal—that he caught a true glimpse of what lay beneath the Sufi master’s words.
Nouri had gazed at the vast dome and the slender minarets of the Darni Sunim dozens of times, yet he’d never set foot inside. For d
espite the alluring beauty of the place, the brothers preferred to maintain their worship in the small chapel mosque at the lodge. On this day, however, Sheikh Bailiri slowed his pace as he and Nouri approached the dreamlike structure.
“Allah is as grateful for a simple dwelling as for the most elaborately carved building in the world.” He turned to Nouri. “But it’s very beautiful. Would you like to see what it looks like inside?”
Nouri nodded. So Sheikh Bailiri escorted him up the six weathered steps, where they removed their shoes and placed them beside the others that were lined up next to the door. Then he took Nouri’s hand and they passed through the doorway into the mosque.
As Nouri entered the sacred space, he could feel his breath catch and a shiver run down his spine. The floor was lined with fine woven carpets, the walls were graced with filigreed windows, and the dome—which spread out over their heads—was richly painted with flowers and leaves and suns and moons and stars. But what thrilled Nouri the most was the fact that wherever he looked—on the walls—on the doors—on the frieze that ran in a circle beneath the dome—were the most exquisitely calligraphed words.
“The Prophet came to remind us that we must keep Allah in our hearts at all times.” Sheikh Bailiri raised his hand and gestured toward the river of words. “And praise him!”
Nouri gazed at the curving script that sang from every surface of the room.
Words.
In praise of God.
Words.
Words.
Words.
As he stood there in the cool, filtered light, Nouri could feel a peace wash over him. In the corner, a pair of men in white turbans sat on a prayer rug reading the Qur’an. On a nearby ladder, a young man was hanging a brass lamp from a crossbeam. Everything seemed to be floating in space, from the stairs of the minbar to the mihrab set into the eastern wall. Nouri wondered if the people who knelt before that niche felt the same inner confusion that he did. He wondered if the path he was traveling was affected by his actions or if it was preordained. He wondered why he had to labor to reach God if God was already inside him.
A Poet of the Invisible World Page 4