A Mirrored Life

by Rabisankar Bal

  One day Sultan had asked him, ‘Why are you so angry with the ulema?’

  — Angry? Why should I be angry? I don’t even know what a religious scholar is. Have I ever told you what Shaikh Sanai said at the time of his death?

  — No.

  — Sanai was mumbling at the moment of his death. Unintelligibly. His pupils laid their ears close to his mouth to find out what the master was saying. Sanai was saying, ‘I have moved far away from all that I have said all this time—everything I said was meaningless.’ Just imagine, Sultan, if Shaikh Sanai could utter such a thing on Judgement Day, who can have anything meaningful to say? Education serves no purpose, Sultan, it is like the frog in the well. You keep licking the sides of the well, but nothing enters your stomach.

  On a dark night in the desert, Shaikh Shamsuddin began another story. As he listed, Hussam noticed one particular star in the desert sky becoming increasingly brighter, casting a red light from millions of years ago.

  Shams kept talking to himself, as though he were praying. ‘I heard about an ancient Jew in Damascus. One day, while reading a book about the saints of the world, he discovered Hazrat Muhammad’s name in it. In annoyance he scratched Nabi’s name out. On the second day, he found the name back in the book. He smeared ink on it. On the third day, too, he found Hazrat Muhammad’s name shining brightly.

  — The Lord is merciful, exclaimed Sultan, raising his arms to the sky.

  — May Allah shower peace on all of you. Shams returned to his story. ‘The Jew assumed that a prophet must have come to Earth. The book said that he was in Medina. So he set off for Medina. But when he reached, he knew no one there. Seeing him wandering about, one of Nabi’s pupils came up to him to ask, whom have you come to see in Medina?

  — Take me to Prophet Hazrat Muhammad.

  The pupil escorted the old man to Hazrat’s mosque. Everyone was overcome with grief there, lamenting with bowed heads. Nabi’s inheritor Abu Bakr was present too. The old Jew mistook him for Muhammad. Going up to Abu Bakr, he said, ‘This old man has come a long way to see you, Hazrat. I am honoured.’

  Everyone broke down in tears. The old man was bewildered, not knowing what he should do.

  — And then? Hussam asked eagerly.

  — The old man said, ‘I am a Jew, I’ve travelled a long way, and I am a foreigner, moreover, I do not know the rules of Allah’s faith. Have I done something wrong? Why are all of you weeping?’ Nabi’s companion Omar said, ‘It is not your fault. The Prophet left this world a week ago. When you mentioned his name we could not contain our tears.’ At this the ancient Jew began to tear at his clothes in a frenzy. Abu Bakr himself went up to him to calm him down.

  After a silence Shams said, ‘See how the desert sky has turned red, Sultan. It’s an omen.’

  — What omen? Sultan asked in a wavering voice.

  — I cannot tell, answered Shams helplessly. — Perhaps it will take longer to understand. I’d better go on with the story instead. The old Jew said, ‘I seek a favour from all of you.’

  — Tell us, said Omar.

  — I could not see the Prophet. Can you give me one of his cloaks? I will at least feel his touch.

  — Only his wife Zohra Bibi can give you his cloak, said Ali. But no one is allowed to visit her.

  — Can’t we try? the old Jew asked plaintively.

  — Come with me.

  Pacing up and down, Shams turned to Sultan suddenly. ‘Answer a riddle, Sultan.’

  — Yes?

  — Will he get the Prophet’s cloak?

  After a pause Sultan said, ‘Of course. He will certainly get it.’

  — How do you know?

  Sultan smiled. ‘Your story says as much, Shaikh.’

  Shams burst into laughter, twirled a few times, and then stood still to continue, ‘They went to Zohra Bibi’s house together. When they knocked on the door she asked from within, “Who is it? What do you want?” Abu Bakr explained everything. The door opened. They found Zohra Bibi standing there with the Prophet’s cloak. Slowly she said, ‘The Prophet had said as much before his death.’

  — What did he say, asked Abu Bakr, his head bowed.

  — A person will arrive, having travelled a long way. He loves me. He is a very good man. He will not have had the chance to see me. But he will come from so far away, give him this patched cloak of mine. Do not do any harm to him, greet him. Give him a warm welcome.

  As he told the story, Shams slumped to the ground, releasing his pent-up tears. Eventually he quietened down and said, ‘The old Jew put the cloak on, went to the Prophet’s grave and stood there. Death claimed him a little later. If you love someone, Hussam, you are bound to visit them even after their death. Maybe even just for a keepsake. That’s no small matter.’

  EIGHTEEN

  The Sun of Tabriz was returning. The entire house was scrubbed and cleaned, rosewater was sprinkled, fragrant incense was lit. A green flag was hoisted over the front door. Singers and musicians were present. Maulana Rumi stood outside the door, along with his pupils and disciples. And Atabeg, holding Maulana’s hand. If I close my eyes I can see the waiting lover, my learned readers, the glow and the anxiety on his face, his eyes lit up with the desire for union and tinged by the agony of separation, as magical as sunset.

  Maulana had once said something beautiful. The walls and roof and doors and windows of a house of love are constructed with ghazals and songs. Love was like an oven in whose flames the roasting heart gave off its aroma. Maulana had written in Divan-e Kabir:

  ‘How is the lover?’ someone said

  ‘Do not ask,’ I answered him

  If you were in my state you would know

  You would also respond to her at once

  We do not know what love is, learned readers, but without love the bud of Maulana’s life cannot be touched. When Shams had left, Maulana asked love itself one night, ‘Tell the truth, who are you?’

  A flock of birds were heard beating their wings, the library grew fragrant. Maulana realized love had come on silent footsteps, as a poet was to write hundreds of years later. Again he spoke. ‘Show yourself to me, tell me who you are.’

  Somewhere a flute began to play a heartbreaking tune. And a voice was heard, ‘I am eternal, endless life. I beget life continuously.’

  — You are beyond time and place. Where do you live, then?

  — In the fire in the heart and in tear-soaked eyes. I live in a house of flames on the bank of the river of tears.

  — You’re an inhabitant of fire?

  — But I am Ranjan, the dyer. I smear saffron on people’s faces.

  — Where is your Nandini from the poet’s Raktakarabi?

  — Nandini pervades my entire body.

  — Your body? Then why is she invisible?

  — Because my body is like light, like sound. The human eyes cannot see it. I am a lightning-fast messenger and the lover is my steed. I am the deep red of the tulip. I am the sweetness of laments. Do you want to hear more?

  — More . . . tell me more.

  — I unveil all that is hidden.

  — Unveil me, love.

  — You have not been cooked yet.

  — When will it start?

  — Wait. Wait for the ultimate separation.

  Look, learned readers, one of Maulana’s students is racing up to him, shouting, ‘They’re here, Maulana, they’re here . . .’

  Maulana embraced him when he came closer. ‘Where are they now?’

  — In the market.

  — Did you see Shaikh?

  — Yes, Maulana.

  Turning to the singers, Rumi said, ‘Sing the lyrics of Sanai and Attar.’ To the musicians, he said, ‘Play the melodies that Shaikh Shamsuddin loves. Yes, the tunes that shepherds play . . .’

  The music came alive. The notes of the flute and the rubab mingled. Maulana stood looking at the road, his hands crossed on his chest. The caravan arrived a short while later. Dismounting from his horse, Shams came up to Maulana. The
y looked at each other for a long time, and then embraced each other, an embrace which wiped out reality. Overwhelmed, Maulana Rumi said:

  I never tired of thinking of you, my beloved

  Do not deprive me of your compassion

  This jar of water, this water-carrier

  Must be exhausted with me

  A parched fish remains within me

  Never given enough water

  To quench its thirst

  Show me the way to the ocean!

  Shatter these half measures

  All these tiny containers

  All this is sorcery

  And mortifying

  Let my hut be swept away

  By the wave that rose last night

  From the depths hidden in my heart

  Just like the moon, Yusuf came down into my well

  Even if the harvest of my hope has been flooded

  What does it matter?

  The flames have risen over the tombstone

  I seek neither knowledge nor honours

  Nor is respect desired

  I only want music and this dawn

  The warmth of your face on mine

  Travellers of heartache are gathering

  But I shan’t go with them

  This is what happens every time

  When I have to end a poem

  A deep silence envelops me

  And I wonder in astonishment

  Why I have been pursuing words

  Looking into Maulana’s eyes, Shams said, ‘I could see from Damascus that you have become very lonely, Maulana. I have no weakness for anything in this world, except for you. The Lord alone knows the trouble he has got me into.’

  — Come into the house now. Kira has cooked a feast for you, said Maulana with a smile.

  — Really? I haven’t eaten delicious food in a long time, Maulana.

  — Dadajaan! Finally Atabeg took Shams’s hand.

  — What are you doing here?

  — He lives with us, said Maulana.

  — That’s right, that’s right. What’s your name?

  — Atabeg.

  — Yes, Atabeg. A mist has taken over my head these days. There’s so much I’ve forgotten, Maulana.

  — You do not wish to remember.

  — No, it’s not that. He makes us forget because he can. But then forgetting makes life bearable. A wet rag, Maulana, may a wet rag always be with us so that we can wipe out things.

  The Sama began that evening. Maulana Rumi’s reunion with Shaikh Shamsuddin after fifteen months was certainly a night of Muqabla, the Shaam-e Muqabla.

  I must tell you something about the Sama here, learned readers. Just as every star and planet in the universe is strung together on one thread, so too are the Sama and Maulana’s life but a single strand. Let the Zikr awaken within us: Allahu Akbar . . . There is only one god. We are entering the dream world of the Sama now. It was Maulana himself who had said, ‘The Sama is nutrition for the lover’s soul, in it is hidden the dream of uniting with Allah.’

  What is the Sama? Maulana has explained it himself, let us just listen to him like pupils.

  Do you know what the Sama is, Maulana asked in a poem, and answered the question himself. ‘Yes’—listening to this sound is the Sama. Listening to him, recollecting him, that’s what Sama is. Shed your ego, take yourself out of yourself to reach him, where you can see the lover, where you can discover his nature. Behind the divine curtain you can hear Allah’s mysterious conversation. Do any of you know what the Sama is? It is a battle with this flesh-and-blood existence, as though you are writhing like a rooster whose throat has been slit. The Sama is informing you that Yusuf is on his way, the fragrance of his garments is in the air, and Yaqub is on the road to recovery. Do you know what the Sama is? Like Musa, we’re swallowing the tricks of the Pharaoh’s magicians. Just as Shams of Tabriz bares his heart and sees the divine night, the Sama too comes alive in this way.

  After his union with Shams, Maulana would lose himself in a frenzy of dancing, anywhere, anytime. After Maulana’s death, Sultan Walad gave the Sama a formal structure in the Maulvi order. It was on his instructions that the practice of dancing the Sama after the afternoon namaz was introduced. It was a ceremonial Sama that I watched in Konya, a performance rather than divine madness. The Samazans, those who take part in the whirling dance, have to go through strict training and hard work. Maulana’s divine madness might not exist anymore, but that the Sama makes the material world disappear for some time is no small pleasure.

  It begins with a reading of the Naat-e Sharif, praising the Prophet Mohammed. Then the camel-skin drum—the kadam —is heard, its beats containing Allah’s instructions at the time of the creation of the universe: Kun, be, come into existence. Then the flute, the Ney, takes over. Do you know what its sound is like? Like Allah breathing.

  Then the dancers spread across the arena, whirling to the beat of the drum and the homecoming tune of the flute, on their heads the long white camelhair Sikke, symbolizing the grave, the grave of this soul. Their wide milk-white skirt is named the Tennure, the shroud of the dead. And the black cloak stands for the flesh-and-blood identity, which is why the dancers fling it away before the Sama begins. They start with their arms crossed over their chests, touching their shoulders, conveying the fact that there is only one Allah. Then the dance begins with the arms outstretched, whirling from right to left. The faster they whirl, the closer we get to the truth. The right arm is stretched towards paradise, and the left arm, towards the earth. The right arm brings the Lord’s blessings and the left arm passes them on to people in this world of the dead.

  Do any of you know what the Sama is? Maulana would say, ‘You are Allah’s servant, that is the meagre extent of our knowledge. You are on your knees in front of his greatness. Then you traverse the path of divine love to submit to him. Eventually you will reach the objective of this creation—you are the Lord’s servant.’

  When the Sama ends, when everyone is maddened by the Zikr of ‘hu’, it appears that the universe is being reborn. Who knows the number of times Maulana Rumi must have seen the birth of the universe in the grips of his divine madness.

  Come with me, my learned readers, let us return to the Sama of that night. The wide expanse of the courtyard of Maulana’s house had become the setting for a festival. Maulana was dancing with his pupils, Atabeg was dancing too. Shamsuddin sat in a corner, watching the whirling and muttering to himself. Suddenly Hussam thought he heard someone vomiting nearby. He went out of the house, throwing sharp glances everywhere. There were several shadowy figures nearby, one of them vomiting, the others trying to support him. Going a little closer, Hussam recognized Alauddin, it was he who was vomiting. Hussam clasped Ala in his arms at once. — What is it Ala? Are you ill?

  — Who are you? Ala snarled, still retching.

  — Hussam.

  — My father’s son. Ala laughed. — I am no one for Maulana. You are another son of my father’s.

  — Don’t insult Maulana, Ala.

  — Who Maulana? He’s no Maulana anymore. I don’t consider him one.

  — Don’t drink anymore, Ala. Come home now.

  — To see those clowns dancing? You expect me to sit at home for the sake of an old swine and watch them sing and dance like infidels?

  — Come with me Ala, I’ll help you to bed. You’re unwell now.

  — Who says I am? Alauddin screamed. — Who says I’m unwell? Is it Maulana or the randy old man?

  — I say so.

  — You know nothing about me. Extracting a shining dagger from his cummerbund, Ala brandished it in front of Hussam’s eyes. — I sharpened this thing today.

  — Good for you. Hussam smiled, placing his hand on Ala’s shoulder.

  — Do you know why?

  — I don’t want to know.

  — I’m determined to kill that old wreck.

  — What are you saying, Ala?

  — He has hypnotized Maulana. I’m going to bury the old gizz
ard here in Konya, mark my words. All these people are with me.

  Hussam tried to identify Ala’s companions. He had seen two or three of them at Maulana’s madrassa, but the rest were strangers. Who were these people?

  — Let’s go home now, Ala.

  — No need to worry about me. Go watch the dance. Why are you here? Allah himself will visit today, don’t you want to catch a glimpse?

  The Sama had ended, everyone had gone home, the courtyard was empty. Entering the library, Hussam found Shamsuddin, Maulana Rumi and Sultan all sunk in thought. Maulana said, ‘What is it, Hussam? Where did you go?’

  — I was out for a walk.

  — You never abandon the Sama. Is something wrong?

  — No, Maulana.

  — Hussam! Shams roared. — You’ve just been told about the conspiracy to kill me, haven’t you?

  — No . . . I . . . I . . .

  — Don’t you know Shams can see everything, Hussam? Why are you lying, then? It is for Maulana that I have come to Konya for the last time. It is irrelevant to me whether I live or die. The cooking is almost done, whether the cook survives or not is immaterial.

  — Hussam . . . Maulana sounded like a river flooding its banks.

  — Yes, Maulana?

  — I shall go to Salauddin’s house with Shaikh tomorrow morning. We shall stay there.

  — Why?

  — You won’t understand. Make the arrangements.

  — Very well.

  Shams smiled. ‘There’s no escape, Maulana. The final test is here.’

  NINETEEN

  Maulana moved into Salauddin’s tiny, dilapidated wooden house with Shams. Hussam was a little vexed and disappointed, for he had wanted Maulana to live in his house. He had even told Maulana once, ‘My house is your house too, you can live there exactly as you wish to.’