A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

  — He’s coming today.

  — You’re sure?

  — My heart says he is.

  — Tell me what I should do.

  — Take care of everything, Sultan.

  — Very well.

  — Where are Hussam and Thereanos?

  — They’ll be here soon.

  — Did I tell you something, Sultan?

  — What, Maulana?

  — Die before you die. Do you know who said this?

  — No.

  — Shaikh Burhanuddin. It’s in the Hadith. Do you understand what it means, Sultan?

  — You tell me, Maulana.

  — If you do not die, how will you rise again? You will die and be resurrected in different ways all your life. Today is my day to rise again.

  I must tell you about Atabeg now. Atabeg Arsalandogmas. No one knew who this boy was. Where did his name spring from in that case? Asking in Konya’s market would have revealed the answer.

  Atabeg lived in the market, spending his nights in one shop or another. But who had named him? His parents had abandoned him in the market at birth. Where had his name sprung from, then? Some said there was no reason for surprise, if you’ve been born you’re bound to have a name. Why lose sleep over who named the boy? As long as Konya’s market existed, so would Atabeg. What kind of question was this? When Allah sends someone to the world, he sends a name too. All names are his choice.

  Some people said as they wandered around the market, ‘Atabeg, fine. But Arsalandogmas? Who gave such a name to the bastard?’

  It was snowing that winter night. Atabeg was roaming around Konya’s silent market alone. He simply couldn’t sleep. Pigeons flew about in the central square all day. Who knew where they were now? Why doesn’t a single pigeon call me to bed, wondered Atabeg? Why don’t they tuck me under their wing and tell me to go to sleep? Walking around the empty market of Konya, Atabeg called out, ‘Ma . . . my mother . . . my Paloma . . .’

  — Yes, my darling?

  — Why did you abandon me in this huge market, Ma?’

  — Idiot!

  It was like the roar of a lion. Atabeg whirled around and jumped out of his skin. He had seen the old man who had just spoken wandering around Konya’s market for the past few days. He appeared to be searching for something constantly. Shaggy, unkempt hair, his moustache and beard a forest. Every time Atabeg’s eyes fell on the white-haired, white-bearded man, he looked away in fear. The old man’s eyes were blazing.

  The man put his hand on Atabeg’s shoulder. — Whom are you looking for, you idiot? For your mother? Come to me . . .

  The old man knelt on the ground, clasping Atabeg to his chest. — You have no parents, and nor do I. We’re both wanderers, aren’t we? Come with me, it’s madness to walk around in this cold.

  — But so were you.

  He burst into laughter. — I walk around, I fly around too. ‘Isn’t that the ancient bird,’ says everyone. ‘Catch him.’ But it’s not so easy to catch me. Do you know what the Lord whispered in my ear when I was born? ‘Shams, my boy, I didn’t bring you into this world to live in a cage.’ Come along now . . .

  Shams took Atabeg’s hand as they started walking. He took the boy to the inn where sugar merchants lived. This was the inn where he had taken shelter on his arrival in Konya. Making a bed for Atabeg, he made the boy lie down and began to tell him stories. Soon Atabeg fell asleep. Shams smiled at the boy, and then looked up at the sky. ‘Take your servant’s life and give the boy a new one, my Lord.’

  Shams sat looking at Atabeg all night. He had once told Rumi, ‘Love is actually a prolonged vigil. The long wait for your sleeping lover to awaken while you sit alongside.’

  Let us look closely at this old man, my learned readers. He is over sixty. Shamsuddin Tabrizi. People had shortened his name to Shams Tabrizi. His parents had named him Muhammad Malekdad. It is said that the souls of Sufi mystics would fly every night from the western Iranian town of Tabriz to Mecca in the form of red and green doves, circling the Kaaba all night. When Shamsuddin was young there were seventy Sufi dervishes who placed more faith in the awakening of the soul than in knowledge and education. When telling Maulana about Tabriz, Shams had once said, ‘It is an incredible, mysterious city, filled with people in comparison to whom I am a mere buoy deposited ashore by the ocean. Just think of them. How impoverished the world is growing now day by day.’

  About his father, Shamsuddin said, ‘He was a good man, extremely courteous. But being a good man and being Allah’s lover are not the same thing.’

  When Shams was a child, a shadowy figure had materialized in front of him for a moment before vanishing. Shams gave up his regular life after this incident. One day his father asked him, ‘What’s the matter, Muhammad?’

  — Nothing.

  — Why do you look so agitated all the time? You seem distraught. You’re not even eating properly.

  Muhammad stared at his father for some time. ‘Shall I tell you a story?’

  — Tell me, my son.

  — A hen was trying to make some duck’s eggs hatch.

  — How peculiar. Muhammad’s father smiled. — What happened then?

  — One day the eggs did hatch and the ducks tottered out. When they grew a little older they began to swim in the river. The mother hen could only watch from the edge of the water, she didn’t know how to swim. All she could do was run up and down the bank.

  — What does this story mean?

  — I am a duck and you are the hen.

  Trembling with rage, Muhammad’s father said, ‘If this is how you talk with your own people, who knows how you will talk to your enemies.’

  — I have neither people of my own, nor enemies.

  — What do you mean?

  — I’m here to see the world just this one time, Abba.

  — Have you gone mad, Muhammad?

  — You won’t understand me. I don’t expect you to, either. We aren’t cut from the same cloth, Abba.

  That is why Shamsuddin Tabrizi was a mystery, my learned readers. Some used to say that he was an uneducated ascetic who knew all kinds of magic. Others claimed he was another Socrates. As all of you know, unrestrained passion, extreme poverty and a violent death were what fate held in store for Socrates. Shamsuddin appeared a similar figure to me. Nothing but a thirst for something he was seeking, though he himself did not know what it was. But he was convinced that one day he would find the flintstone which he could rub to turn life into a sacred flame. That was why Shams would scream without warning, weep like a torrential downpour, or spit on ‘infidels’ while speaking. Who were these infidels? Those who were imprisoned in cages of knowledge, who did not know Majnu. It was in search of his personal Majnu that Shams had set forth from Tabriz one day. Baghdad, Damascus, Aleppo, Kayseri, Sivas, Erzurum, Erzinkan—he visited many different places, spent many hours in the company of holy men, and still told the sky every night, ‘And yet my heart is not fulfilled, my Lord.’

  You will recognize Shamsuddin, the Sun of Tabriz, from a story or two about the company of holy men. In Damascus, Shams became the disciple of Ibn Arabi. Some say that Maulana Rumi and Ibn Arabi were the two trailblazers of Sufi mysticism. One of them walked the path of love and the other, of logic and philosophy. Ibn Arabi was born in Espanha in 1165 AD, twenty years before Shams’s birth. He used to address Shams as ‘my son’, while Shams considered him a giant. And yet he felt that Ibn Arabi did not walk the path of the prophet. Much later he had told Maulana Rumi, ‘I learnt a great deal from Ibn Arabi, but it cannot be compared to what I got from you. Can a pebble be compared to a pearl, Maulana?’

  In Baghdad there was a famous Sufi mystic named Wahaduddin Kirmani. I’m told he met Maulana Rumi too. Maulana did not care for Kirmani. One night Shams saw Kirmani gazing at a pot of water.

  — What are you looking at, Shaikh? Shams asked.

  — The moon.

  — Where is it?

  Kirmani smiled. ‘In this pot, my son.’
r />   — Have you sprained your neck?

  — Why do you ask?

  — Why aren’t you looking at the moon in the sky?

  Kirmani smiled again. ‘You won’t understand, my son.’

  Shams left Baghdad the same day. Kirmani may have been a famous mystic, but Shams did not need him on his own journey of devotion.

  Famous. Shams had begun to suspect and despise this word. Fame was actually a collection of misconceptions about a person. Shams set himself on a road of concealment. I am nobody, just a wasted man. I am an oyster, Allah, a mere drop you have drawn.

  It was in Damascus that Shams had the first dream. Wandering around the city, he kept saying in his head, ‘Let me meet your closest friend but once, Lord.’

  One night he heard in his dream, ‘Do not worry, you shall be united with him.’

  — Where is he?

  — In Anatolia, in the kingdom of Rome, which is why his name is Rumi, my son.

  — When will I meet him, my Lord?

  — It is not time yet. You will meet him when the time is right.

  That was why Shams had laughed loudly on seeing Maulana Rumi in Damascus, saying, ‘He hasn’t been cooked yet. Wait, my friend, we shall meet again.’

  Shamsuddin searched for Allah’s closest friend everywhere. He had no choice but to seek shelter somewhere at night. At that time one’s profession and social status determined where one would sleep. The merchants would put up at caravanserais, the maulanas at madrassas, and mystics at the Dervish Inn, which was free. But Shamsuddin always slept at a caravanserai, so that he wasn’t recognized as a dervish. However, he needed money to stay and eat at the caravanserai. Where was he to get money? Why, just teach children the Quran. Shams had discovered a technique to teach the entire Quran in three months. Whenever he stayed in a city for a long time, this was how he made a living. As for short stays, he would stitch and mend clothes and even shoes. As a young man he had actually worked as a mason. All of this with just one objective. Conceal yourself. No one should recognize you. You’re worthless. You have only one task, to find the Lord’s closest friend. After that you could go to your grave in peace. You have to pay to see the world before you can leave.

  Look, Atabeg is mumbling in his sleep. The aged Shamsuddin is leaning over him. He shakes the boy gently, and Atabeg opens his eyes. The feeble sunlight of winter has entered the room.

  — Atabeg.

  Atabeg sits up with a start. — Yes, huzoor?

  — There’s only one Huzoor, Atabeg. I am your friend.

  — Yes. Atabeg’s eyes sparkle. The fire that he has seen in the old man’s eyes all these days had now been extinguished, leaving only a benign blue flame.

  — Come, we must go now.

  — Where?

  — On our travels. I shall meet him today.

  — Meet whom?

  Embracing Atabeg, Shamsuddin said, ‘The one I have been looking for all these years. I was looking for you too, Atabeg. I have found you. But I haven’t found him yet.’

  TWELVE

  We seldom know exactly when a character who has never been mentioned earlier infiltrates a story. The boy named Atabeg Arsalandogmas also stole in this way, my learned readers. He may have no existence in history. But to me, Ibn Battuta, he is so very real. When and in which land did I hear such names? What made me think he is Greek? There are no answers to such questions. I only felt the presence of a young boy wandering about in this story, seeing everything, questioning everything. Do you not feel that as Shamsuddin walked along holding Atabeg’s hand, it was his own childhood he was leading by the hand? The day our childhood leaves us is the day we will die.

  All morning Atabeg and Shamsuddin kept walking, through wide avenues, narrow roads, and dingy lanes. Atabeg asked, ‘Where do you live?’

  — Very far away.

  — Where?

  — In Tabriz.

  — How far is it to Tabriz?

  Shamsuddin laughed. — As far as your heart is from mine.

  Atabeg laughed too. — You talk like a lunatic.

  — That’s what my father used to say too. Now here you are, echoing him.

  — I’m hungry. Atabeg tugged at the sleeve of Shamsuddin’s tattered robe.

  — Let’s go. How will you get any food unless we go to the market?

  It was almost time for the afternoon namaz. Everyone was on their way to the Jama Masjid. Entering a kebab shop in the market, Shams ordered parathas and a meat soup for Atabeg. Suddenly the Maulvi’s azaan was heard from the minaret of the Jama Masjid. ‘Won’t you offer the namaz?’ asked a round-eyed Atabeg.

  — Nonsense. Eat first, you can worry about the namaz later.

  Even after the namaz had ended, Shams remained sitting inside the shop with Atabeg. The boy kept badgering him to take him somewhere else. Finally an annoyed Shams said, ‘You idiot! Didn’t I tell you I’m going to meet him today?’

  — Meet whom?

  — Shut up. Shams clamped his hand over Atabeg’s mouth. Suddenly, Shams said ‘He’s coming,’ and raced away.

  The owner of the kebab shop chased him and held him from the back. — Who’ll pay for the kebabs?

  — The Lord.

  — The Lord? Are you playing games with me? Out with the money. The owner threw himself at Shams. Atabeg caught up with them and began to hit the attacker from behind.

  The madrassa of the handloom merchants was close by. Emerging from it, Maulana Rumi mounted a mule. He was surrounded on all sides by students. The kebab shop owner was beating up Shams, who was on the ground, while Atabeg had thrown himself at the shopkeeper, screaming. Arriving at the scene, Maulana Rumi dismounted from his mule, grasping Shams by his arms and helping him to his feet. Shams was both excited and embarrassed at the sight of Maulana. It was him! The person whom he had seen in Damascus fifteen years ago when Allah had not yet cooked him in his kitchen. But now? Shams stared at Maulana. The peas were being boiled in the pot as usual. Waiting to be cooked soon. Has the object of my quest finally appeared in my presence, my Lord?

  — What is it, asked Maulana.

  The shop owner said obsequiously, ‘Huzoor, this gentleman ordered parathas and a soup for the boy. But when it was time to pay, he said he had no money.

  — I’ll pay.

  — Very well, huzoor.

  As soon as Maulana walked back to his mount, Shamsuddin screamed, ‘Who are you? Why will you pay off my debt?’

  — I am Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi. That’s the name by which people in Konya address me. Actually my name is Jalaluddin Balkhi. I was born in Balkh, you see. I do not have the power to pay off anyone’s debt. I will merely pay for the food.

  Shams smiled. ‘Will you pay off our entire debt to Allah?’

  — It’s the Lord’s will. Whatever he wants will take place.

  — May I ask a question, then? Shamsuddin clamped his hand on Maulana Rumi’s shoulder.

  Meanwhile the students had ringed around Maulana. Who was this mad man who had sprung from nowhere to question their teacher? Did he not know who Maulana Rumi was and how he was regarded by everyone in Konya, including the Sultan? They were keen to have Maulana remount his mule so that they could escort him home. Maulana kept standing, and said, ‘Ask what you have to.’ He appeared neither to be waiting nor to be agitated, speaking as a cuckoo does when responding to the silent call of spring.

  Pointing to Atabeg, Shams said, ‘Do you know this boy?’

  — No.

  — Why don’t you?

  — I’ve never seen him.

  — His name is Atabeg. His parents are dead, Maulana. He wanders around on the streets of Konya. The roads are his home, he gets a meal when someone gives him food, he doesn’t eat if they don’t. I know he doesn’t steal. A boy who walks around the city roads on winter nights can never be a thief. Haven’t you ever seen him?

  — No.

  Shams burst into laughter. ‘What sort of Maulana are you? A Maulana for whom?’

  There
was an uproar among the students. Who was this vagabond who dared insult their Maulana in public?

  Shams walked off in the opposite direction, holding Atabeg by the hand. Maulana blocked his way. ‘You didn’t ask your last question, though.’

  — That’s true. But your students think I am belittling you.

  — The question comes before everything else. Ask.

  Putting his hand on Maulana’s shoulder, Shams said, ‘I have wandered this earth all these years just for you, Maulana.’

  — The question is essential to confirm whether I am indeed that person.

  — The Lord be praised. Shams smiled. ‘Bayazid or Muhammad? Which of them do you consider greater, Maulana?’

  Much later Maulana had told Hussam, ‘This single question took me to the sky beyond the sky.’

  — What was your answer, Maulana?

  — I stood in silence for a long time, for I had no answer. Then someone seemed to speak from within me, saying, ‘Nabi. Muhammad.’

  — Why? Why? Shams asked in a frenzy.

  — Bayazid’s thirst was quenched with a single drop of water. That was as much as he could hold. But Nabi’s thirst was infinite. As soon as one thirst was quenched a new one arose. Hazrat’s other name is ‘thirst’. One day Bayazid felt he had reached the truth, after which he did not look in any other direction. And Muhammad pursued a divine radiance every moment of every day, saying, it will never be possible for me to know you the way you should be known, Lord of the Universe.

  As Maulana Rumi spoke, Shams slumped to the ground, unconscious. Mounting his mule, Maulana told his son Sultan and favourite student Hussam, ‘Make sure he is not uncomfortable, bring him home.’

  All this was a long time ago, my learned readers. I have heard many other legends in Konya about this meeting between Maulana Rumi and Shamsuddin. It is impossible to distinguish between truth and fable now. It is fascinating how the storms of life turn truths and falsehoods upside down. There was a story I heard at a shop selling food in Konya’s market. I used to visit it every other day for the taboos seekh kebab. I’ve already told you about this kebab, which is made by marinating turkey meat for a long time in a mixture of milk, onions, olive oil, tomato juice, salt, and pepper.