A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

  Forgive me, I am being snared in a web of my own words. I must return to the original subject. But do you know what is real and what is a copy, Ibn Battuta? I am about to tell you about the lives of the shadows that appeared on the walls of the cave referred to by Aflatoon, whom all of you know as the noble Plato. These shadows are a lie, and yet they are the truth too. This story shall proceed towards its destiny through a game of noughts and crosses between truth and falsehood. Shaikh Ibn Battuta believes that all stories in the world are bound by fate.

  So, what happened was that some people came to meet me the next morning. All of them were members of the Futuwwa. The Futuwwa was not just an organization, it was also an ideology for reaching moral heights through compassion. I accepted the hospitality of many such Futuwwas in Turkman cities. They comprised Sufi monks, merchants and artisans. The idea of the Futuwwa was brought to Anatolia by Umar-al Suhrawardi, the principal advisor to Al-Nasir, the Abbasid Caliph. He even wrote a book about the principles of the Tokat-e al-Nasiri Futuwwa in 1290. It said that the Futuwwa is one of the levels on the way to uniting with Allah. Those who did not have the qualities necessary to lose themselves in the Lord through the annihilation of the ego, Fana fi-Allah, could at least go as far as the Futuwwa to sense him. The head of a Futuwwa was known as the Akhi, meaning brother, and his disciples were the Fityan, or young men. The place where they stayed was known as a Jawaiya—the Dervish Inn. I even saw some Futuwwas with two or three Akhis, under whom groups of Fityan worshipped in silence. The Fityan were primarily merchants and artisans. They worked all day at their business and their craft to make a living, and then found their happiness in serving guests all evening. No matter where a traveller came from, what kind of person they were, or what their religion was, everyone was equal at Dervish Inn. Whenever a member of the Futuwwa heard of the arrival of a guest to their city, they sought out this guest. This was how Qazi Ibn Kalam Shah came to meet me at the inn with his band of young men. They were dressed in khirqas, or patchwork robes.

  Kissing my hand, Qazi Ibn Kalam told me, ‘As long as you are in Konya, Shaikh, you must stay at our Futuwwa. You mustn’t say no.’

  — But I’m comfortable at this serai.

  — You’re a guest of this city, Shaikh. We won’t receive Allah’s mercy unless we are given the chance to look after you.

  Putting his hand on my back, Kostis Palamas said, ‘Pack your bags, Shaikh, unless you visit the Futuwwa you’ll never know how noble hospitality can be.’

  — Maulana’s house was always filled with people. Gripping my hand, Qazi Ibn Kalam continued, ‘Maulana would say, how will you serve your guest unless he visits you at home? You will reach him, Al-Kabir, through hospitality to your guest.’

  Turning to my companions, I said, ‘Then all of you must come too.’

  — We’re leaving in a short while, Shaikh. The horses are feeding, as soon as they’re done . . .

  — Aren’t you going to explore Konya? I asked.

  One of the Arab merchants said miserably, ‘We’ve come to—and left—Konya so many times. But we haven’t had the chance to explore. It’s not in our fate, Shaikh. The demands of business are very selfish.’

  Qazi Ibn Kalam said, ‘Why not stay back in Konya? You see these young men, they’re the Fityan from our Futuwwa, but many of them are actually merchants. Even traders have to think of the Lord.’

  The Qazi’s young men packed my belongings without allowing me to help.

  Palamas walked me up to the gate of the caravanserai. When I said goodbye, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘We shall meet again, Shaikh.’

  — Where? I smiled. — I shall wait.

  — Here, in this very Konya.

  — How?

  — I decided last night. I shall move here and join the Fityan in one of the Futuwwas.

  — When?

  — It will take a year or so.

  — But I won’t be here then. I’ll have to leave too. Hindustan, Sinhala, China, Espanha . . . I must visit these places.

  Palamas was silent for some time. Then he took a tiny mirror from the pocket of his coat and handed it to me.

  — Keep this, Shaikh.

  — Why?

  — I’ve noticed that you haven’t a mirror of your own.

  — But I can see my reflection in a hundred different places. In shops, at inns, at the barber’s.

  Palamas smiled. — That’s like looking at yourself in the marketplace. You’re going to be travelling a long way, you’ll visit so many different places, you’ll see and hear so many different things, and as you go through all these experiences, I am certain that you will grow more beautiful, more pure. Take a look at yourself then.

  — Why?

  — Let me tell you a story. Maulana wrote it in his Masnavi. You know of Joseph, the man of God. No man more beautiful has ever been born on earth, or ever will be. One day a friend was visiting him. ‘What gift have you brought me?’ asked Joseph. Shrinking back in shame, the friend said, ‘You lack for neither beauty nor wealth. I thought hard about what to bring you, but there was nothing I could think of. Whatever I give you cannot be anything more than a drop in the ocean. So I have brought you a lovely mirror. Even the sun is jealous of you. You can see your beauty in this mirror, nothing could be more beautiful.’

  Smiling, I said, ‘I am not Joseph.’

  — I am fortunate that I could give you this mirror.

  — Why?

  — In my head it is Joseph I am giving it to.

  TWO

  The Caliph Ghazi Dervish Inn. A building surrounded by gardens at a distance from the city. Currents of water as clear as crystal flowed around the inn, with snow white swans swimming in them. Columns of water rose skywards from fountains in the sky, arcing outwards like petals. Swarms of cranes waded in the water. Many of the people I had met on the way had told me that it was a matter of great fortune to live in Konya in the springtime. The city turned into a second paradise in this season. One of the primary subjects of Maulana’s poetry was spring. He sang praises to the season in many different ways. The sun was at the centre of his imagination. In spring the sun enters Aries, distributing new life across the world. Roses bloom, there is a celebration of green everywhere, and the streets are perfumed with the fragrance of oleaster trees. Resembling the willow, this tree has unusual yellow flowers. The Caliph Ghazi Dervish Inn was also redolent with the sharp scent of the oleaster. We shall have more to say about spring later, for it is impossible to reach Maulana’s soul without this season.

  Sometimes, after the young men at the inn had left on their respective businesses after the early-morning namaz, Qazi Ibn Kalam and I conversed as we strolled in the garden. He told me about the devotion needed for a Sufi life, and the different routes that devotees take, but Maulana was woven into every single thing he said. One day, I asked him, ‘What did Maulana look like?’

  — I have never seen him, Shaikh. But I have heard stories.

  — Who told you?

  — Many who have seen him. Maulana was tall, thin, pale. His beard was grey, his eyebrows were bushy and his eyes were reddish brown. It seems he was very embarrassed one day to see his own reflection while bathing at the hamam. Later he said, I have caused so much suffering to this body given by Allah. Apparently he was underweight, because of long periods of fasting. I’m told he used to eat once in three days, sometimes even once a week. It’s a mystery how he survived.

  — On my travels I have heard of many holy men in Hindustan, Qazi sahib. It seems they meditate in the Himalayan mountains without food for years on end.

  — How is that possible, Shaikh?

  — How much do we know of what is possible and what isn’t, Qazi sahib?

  — I believe Maulana would say, ‘I have no appearance, no colour. When I cannot see myself, how can you expect to see me? I am nothing but a solitary mirror.’ Let me tell you a story, Shaikh. It’s from Maulana’s own life. Parwana Moinuddin Sulaiman’s wife Gurcu Khatun was
Maulana’s disciple. It was Moinuddin Sulaiman who actually ruled Konya on behalf of Sultan Ruknuddin. One day Gurcu Khatun desired to have a portrait of Maulana painted. The artist arrived. ‘Come,’ smiled Maulana. ‘Paint me if you can.’ When he completed his portrait, the artist turned to Maulana to discover a face completely different from the one he had just painted. He started afresh. After he was done, he looked at Maulana only to see yet another face. When this had happened several times, the artist put down his palette. That was when Maulana said, ‘I have no appearance, no colour. Considering I cannot even see myself, how can you expect to see me?’

  — Amazing.

  — Indeed. I cannot grasp the idea.

  Qazi Ibn Kalam was lost in deep thought. He detached himself from me and began to walk about the garden by himself.

  I seldom confined myself to the inn. I preferred to roam the streets of Konya. The fact is that spending too much time indoors or within a limited space makes me choke. There is no friend more intimate than the road. It’s the kind of friendship that holds back nothing, only taking you from one mystery of life to another.

  Take this city, Konya. The more I explored it, the more I felt its mysteries will never end. The enigma of any city is most obvious in its markets. Let me tell you about Konya’s market. It’s a bustling place from early in the morning to late at night. Walking along the lane running past the goldsmiths’ shops, you hear the rhythmic, metallic sound of gold plates being hammered. The sound keeps ringing in your head. This is where Salauddin the goldsmith had his shop. It was while walking along this path that Maulana had suddenly discovered Salauddin, the uneducated artisan who became his favourite friend and follower. After the goldsmiths, it’s the turn of carpet merchants and needlework artists. Most of the carpets come from Damascus or Silesia. The needlework shops are small, the artists doing their work on the spot, bringing intricate patterns to life in different colours, the swift piercing movements of their needles giving birth to creepers and flowers and birds. One of the artists told me that Maulana had apparently wanted an embroidered cover for Buraq’s saddle, made with his own blood and tears.

  The bookshops are like an art gallery. Each book is a painting. Qurans in hundreds of forms, each one more beautiful than the next. The smallest of the Qurans can be concealed within a fist. Silver muhafazas or boxes with decorative designs are available to store these tiny Qurans. How soft the velvet boxes are. The tapestries hung on the walls are mesmerizing, each of them a breathtaking universe of artistry depicting a saying from the Quran or the Hadith.

  The perfumeries are shishmahals. Their walls are covered in mirrors, while rows of shelves are stacked with vials of ittar in different colours. Pouring a drop or two on their fingertips, the shopkeepers rub them on your wrist, enough to make your entire body fragrant. One of the perfumers told me about the mystery of scents. Why are we overcome by them? Pleasant scents take us to the distant past, arousing memories of our happiness in the company of the most loved persons in our life.

  The fragrance is not limited to the perfumes. There’s the aroma of a variety of kebabs, venison, lamb, and a profusion of sweets. The smells are intoxicating. The kofte iskender kebab and the alti izmeni kebabs vary in taste and flavour. The taboos seekh kebab melts in the mouth like butter. And why not? Turkey meat is marinated for a long time in a mixture of milk, onions, olive oil, tomato juice, salt, and pepper. The arabasi is a delicious soup made with turkey, while the caskek is made with a shoulder of lamb. Its taste is unparalleled. The karniyarik doesn’t lag behind either. Succulent eggplant stuffed with minced lamb. Vinegar-marinated venison coated with spices and grilled on skewers, its taste unfurling its wings slowly. A memorable sweetmeat made with almond paste and pomegranate seeds. It’s a variety of halva. And is there anyone who isn’t aware of Konya’s famous halvas? Let me tell you a little about irmik halva. The butter must be heated on a low flame without salt. When bubbles appear, the farina, a flour of ground wheat or barley, must be fried in it. Now add water and sugar and deep-fry it.

  One of the sweets has a startling name—hanim gobegi, meaning, a lady’s navel. I must mention the baclava too. Thin layers of flour fried in butter, with sliced nuts and honey deep in the centre. I have to return to food and cooking later. Some of the principal themes of Maulana’s devotion and poetry are accompaniments to cooking. All that is raw must be made delicious and digestible through the process of cooking. The Lord will cook you with his own hands, for only then can he savour you.

  Sometimes I go to the enormous mosque located on top of a hill a short way from the city. Sultan Alauddin Kayqubad had built this mosque in the year 1221 AD. Its exterior is unadorned, but inside, the minbar of expensive wood, the pulpit from which the Maulvi sahib delivers the khutba, the Friday sermon, is laid out in an extraordinary geometric pattern. The eyes are drawn to the semi-circular mihrab, the niche indicating the direction of Mecca, whose beauty lies in its fine inscriptions in which Allah’s names are written in patterns of sky-blue, black and white tiles. This mihrab is luminescent with the uniqueness of Seljuk art. Maulana would come here to read the afternoon namaz on Fridays. Qazi Ibn Kalam told me that Maulana wrote in his divan:

  All my praying has turned me into a prayer

  Anyone who sees me only wants prayer as alms

  Descending from the hill, I stand in front of the Karata Madrassa. A small domed building. Maulana’s friend Wazir Jalaluddin had founded this madrassa in 1251 AD in Karata for studies in natural science. The most beautiful names of Allah are inscribed in Arabic on the stone. The interiors are astounding. The dome is covered with a pattern of stars, an uncountable number of them, all linked to one another. The observatory had been constructed with the same sky-blue, black, and white tiles. I’m told that the patterns of stars cannot be deciphered without higher mathematics, and once they are deciphered, the positions of the stars in the sky can be calculated too.

  Walking on, I stop at Sadruddin Kunai’s tomb. This adopted son of Ibn Arabi was the greatest interpreter of his father’s philosophy. Maulana and Sadruddin were contemporaries. Maulana’s path was the one of love, while Sadruddin trod the path of knowledge. Sadruddin used to be suspicious of Maulana once, but the mistrust was wiped out afterwards. Sufis often argue about which of them was greater: Ibn Arabi or Maulana. But they travelled on different roads, one leading to learning and the other, to passion. The sun of Maulana’s life, Shams Tabrizi, had once told him, ‘If you are a pearl, Ibn Arabi is nothing but a pebble.’

  Maulana’s house in Konya is in ruins now. Only homeless pigeons fly around it. With the fluttering of their wings and their cooing ringing in my ears, I approach Maulana’s grave. Engraved with calligraphy and patterns, the tombstone is soiled out of neglect. Someone told me, come instead to the garden of Meram by the river, Shaikh. Hailing a horse-drawn carriage, I climbed in. The coachman was twenty-four or twenty-five at most. ‘How long have you been driving a carriage?’ I asked him.

  — Ten years, huzoor.

  — You started very young.

  — It was a severe winter that year. Everything covered in ice. A powdery snow kept falling incessantly from the skies. Abba died, and with his death, I was yoked to the carriage.

  Meram. A dream laid out on the slopes of hills. A garden made by Allah himself. A stream flowing along. I’ve heard that Maulana often sat down on its banks with his disciples, filling the air with music and conversation. Distracted by the sounds of the currents and whirlpools, he would walk about aimlessly, while lines from his poetry were borne away by the wind.

  The young coachman sat in silence at my side by the river.

  — What’s your name?

  — Mujib, huzoor.

  — Do you know how many names Allah has?

  Mujib scratched his head. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I told him, ‘You’re named after Allah.’

  He looked at me with wide eyes. — Really, huzoor?

  — One of Allah’s names is Mujib. Allah has ninety-nine
names, Mujib.

  — So many names for just one man? He laughed in astonishment.

  — The most beautiful names are all his. Do you read the namaz?

  — I do.

  — Read it now.

  — It’s not time for the namaz, huzoor.

  — You’re right. How do you read it? Loudly or softly?

  — Loudly, huzoor.

  — Never read it loudly. Nor softly. Read it in a middle voice.

  — Very well.

  — In life the middle path is preferable, Mujib.

  He stared at me uncomprehendingly. I realized that this forest and stream in Meram had drawn me into a dream. Why was I telling a young man of twenty-five all this? Why would he even understand? But I felt that Mujib had to understand. He had been born in Konya, and Maulana had been born here too. Mujib had to bear the burden of history. His birthplace had given him this responsibility. A homeless man on a road in Espanha had once told me, history is not an event or a story, history is an obligation, which you are compelled to bear during your human existence.

  The Caliph Ghazi Inn woke up when evening fell. One by one, the young men returned from their day’s work. Every night, one of the Fityan was assigned the responsibility of fetching the requirements for dinner. The cooking proceeded with great zest in the kitchen. And Qazi Ibn Kalam busied himself completing the Halqa. Zikr, or uttering the names of Allah, is an essential task in Sufi worship. Repeating one, or all ninety-nine, of Allah’s names continuously is known as the Zikr, and a collective Zikr, as the Halqa-e Zikr. The voice and the body are both intoxicated by Allah’s names, which Sufis refer to as Zikr-e Zehri.

  Even after reading the namaz five times, the worship of Allah remains incomplete to Sufis without the night-time prayer, the Tahajjud. The Quran says, ‘Pray at night but do not pray all night.’ So Qazi Ibn Kalam had to keep an eye on everything—whether the young men had bathed properly and dressed appropriately, whether the area where they sat for the Zikr had been cleaned, whether enough rose essence had been sprinkled to attract the angels and nymphs. Qazi examined it all personally. He would tell me, ‘What a predicament Allah has placed me in, Shaikh! I pray for darkness all day, the way the shepherd calls out to his flock. I call out to the darkness the way birds search for their nests at sunset. When the darkness spreads and others fall asleep, that’s when we awaken, turning our eyes towards Khuda-tallah to talk to him. The Zikr is nothing but a conversation with the Lord while uttering his names.’