A Mirrored Life Read online

  RABISANKAR BAL

  A Mirrored Life

  The Rumi Novel

  Translated from the Bengali by

  ARUNAVA SINHA

  RANDOM HOUSE INDIA

  CONTENTS

  A Note on the Author

  A Note on the Translator

  By the same author

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Follow Random House

  Copyright

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  Rabisankar Bal is a Bangla novelist and short-story writer, with over fifteen novels, five short-story collections, one volume of poetry and one volume of literary essays. Born in 1962, he has been writing for thirty years. His novel The Biography of Midnight won the West Bengal government’s Sutapa Roychowdhury Memorial Prize. Dozakhnama, acknowledged by the late doyen of Bengali literature, Sunil Gangopadhyay, as the finest novel of 2010, won the West Bengal government’s Bankimchandra Smriti Puraskar. He has edited a collection of Saadat Hasan Manto’s writings translated into Bangla. A journalist by profession, he lives in Kolkata and passionately follows literature, music, painting, and world cinema.

  A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATOR

  Arunava Sinha translates contemporary and classic Bengali fiction into English. He has seventeen published translations to his name. Born and educated in Kolkata, he lives in New Delhi.

  By the same author

  Dozakhnama: Conversations in Hell

  Michael Madhusudan Dutt

  Rabindranath Tagore

  Jibanananda Das

  The illuminated life of Anatolia is dedicated to these three lights of Bengal

  ONE

  You have not read this particular kitab of mine before, though some of you may have read my account of thirty years of travel. People refer to it as my travels now, but actually I was on a pilgrimage. Wandering from one land to another over thirty years, it struck me that there is no end to pilgrim spots on this earth; you could even say that the world itself is a place where pilgrims gather. Shaikh ibn Battuta salutes the earth and wind and air and water and fire, again and again.

  Touch me if you don’t believe me, I am indeed Ibn Battuta. I do have a longer name, of course. Abu Abdullah Muhammad ibn Abdullah al-Lawati al-Tanji ibn Battuta. I left Tangiers in the Hijri year 725, 1324–25 by the Christian calendar. Passing through a succession of towns, the first city I was astonished by was Alexandria. I felt I had arrived in a blue city. This was where I met Imam Burhanuddin al-Arz, from whom I heard of Maulana for the first time. The secret manuscript that I am about to read out to all of you features Maulana as its principal character. Forgive me if my idiom seems ragged rather than the language of literature. From what I have seen and understood of Maulana, he cannot be captured by the language in which books are written. Can you put the strains of a flute in words? But still I have tried, if only for myself, to create a halting narrative of this radiance. Maulana’s life is like a patterned quilt. I shall be gratified if I can present even one or two of these patterns here in this majlis to all of you. Allah be merciful. All praise to the Almighty, the Keeper of the World, the Supreme Lord of Judgement Day. We pray only to you, we seek help only from you. Show us the simplest path. Show us the path of those whom you have blessed, not the path of those whom you are furious with, or of those who have lost their way.

  ‘You want to travel in different lands, don’t you?’ Imam Burhanuddin asked me one day.

  — Yes, such is my desire.

  — When did this fancy overtake you, my friend?

  — I had been to the hamam for a bath late one night. There was no one there. It was the night of the full moon, which floated in the water of the hamam. I played for a long time with the moon in the water. I’ve never wanted to live at home since then.

  The Imam burst into laughter. — No one can stay home once the moon has struck them. Now that you have left, travel the world.

  To tell you the truth, I had no intentions of travelling far and wide at that time. My only desire was to visit Mecca. But the Imam sahib stoked my fire. ‘Off you go, then,’ he said, ‘Go and meet my brother Fariduddin in Hindustan. I have another brother in Sindh, Ruknuddin ibn Zakaria, and one more in China. Tell them about me.’ At once I determined to visit all these places, and to take news of the Imam sahib to his brothers.

  That was the beginning of thirty years of wandering. One day, I arrived in Anatolia in the course of my travels. Anatolia. The name called out to me like an evil planet. A song was concealed in it. I had also decided that I would have to visit Konya. As the Imam sahib had said, this city was the Maulana’s playground. The amazing whirling dance was born here. I passed the fort at Tavas and the town of Milak to arrive at Konya. A city of water and of gardens, Konya. It rose after a cataclysmic flood, Konya. St Paul, along with Barnabas and his disciple Timothy had come here. The Christians’ village conference took place here. Even after being ransacked by the Crusaders, Konya was revived as the capital of the Seljuk sultans. Not even the invasion of the Mongols could vanquish the city. And what about the people of Konya? The entire world seemed to have gathered here. Besides Turks, there were Greeks, Arabs, Indians, Iranians, Armenians, Venetians, even some Chinese. It was from this Konya that the glow of love spread to Samarqand and Bukhara. So Maulana wrote.

  I heard many stories of Maulana’s magical life from the Imam sahib of Alexandria. He told me, ‘Maulana’s poetry is written on every rock and every tree on the road to Konya. But you must discover it. And listen, examine the inns carefully. That’s where the soul of Anatolia is hidden. Maulana said this world is an inn, where we wait in the depths of winter for the first day of spring, when the ice will start melting, the road will be visible, and our caravan will be on its way again.’ Imam sahib used to say such strange things. One day he told me, ‘Anatolia isn’t just a place, another name for the soul is Anatolia.’

  Anatolia got a new lease of life when the Seljuk sultan Alauddin Kayqubad ascended the throne in 1219 AD. There was a wave of construction, with new mosques, walls and inns coming up. Trade routes radiated out from Konya towards Constantinople, Aleppo, Mosul, Tabriz—and even further, to the port of Sinop on the Black Sea, to Mediterranean harbours. And countless inns came up on either side of these roads. Konya was an important centre of trade then—its only comparison could be with Baghdad. When I reached Konya sixty years after Maulana’s death, it was just as lively, as full of spirit. Konya would awake to the sounds of water being splashed on the roads after the azaan at dawn. Then came the water-carriers, transporting water in goatskin bags on camelback from the canals outside the city to every home. The washermen rushed between houses to collect dirty clothes. Masons squatted by the road, waiting for work. Konya was coming alive. The lilting tones of children reading out aloud from the Quran could be heard. The fragrant vapours rising from the water suffused the hamam. Shops opened for business, deals and bargaining gathered momentum. A lunatic walked past, muttering to himself. A girl’s face appeared in the window of a house, the window emptying as soon as someone’s eye fell on it. Only the memory of a beauty floated about in Konya’s air. All writing is actually a short-lived attempt to hold on to memory. The secret manuscript that I am about to read from is also a memory, the memory of Maulana, whom I have never seen. But how can I write about my memories of a person I have never seen? I have asked mysel
f this question repeatedly. And a voice has asked me in return, ‘Do you love Maulana?’

  — Yes.

  — How?

  — I don’t know.

  — Let’s say you are lost completely as you love, you do not exist anymore. Is that how you love Maulana?

  — I don’t know.

  — Then begin, Shaikh. This ignorance will lead you to Maulana eventually. You have to move forward so that you can cook yourself.

  — Cook myself?

  — Do not question everything, infidel. You will understand as you write. You are the food, you are the one who eats, you are the cook.

  Many years later, after I reached Tangiers on my way back home, I finished dictating the accounts of my travel to a scribe, after which I began to write Maulana’s life story myself. I felt I would have to write it in my own hand, for I have heard the strains of the flute, the melody that weeps to go back home.

  My learned readers, you know that there are stories even before there are stories. That is why I must first tell you about Konya. This kitab has its origins in a munaqib, a book about holy people. I must also tell you how it reached me. Unless you know this you will not be able to trust the unworthy Ibn Battuta. Moreover, I believe that before tasting a story, it is necessary to know a few things about its history and geography. For instance, the climate of the area. Unless you are aware of the weather patterns in Anatolia, much of what Maulana said would make no sense.

  I was staying at a caravanserai with some merchants. The inn was named Horozluhan. There were many inns on either side of the road to Anatolia, for this was the route along which people travelled long distances for trade. Beside rooms for people, there were also arrangements for horses and camels. Even a small mosque to pray in. You had to pass through an enormous gate inlaid with intricate designs to enter the inn. I was to share a room on the first floor with three merchants. Two Arabs and one Greek, but all three knew Persian. We started talking of different things, and one of the stories I heard in the course of the conversation made a permanent spot for itself in my head. The Greek merchant told the tale. His name was Kostis Palamas. His style of storytelling was admirable, you had to hold your breath as you listened.

  According to Kostis Palamas, the story was one about life’s savings and expenses. Laughing, he said at one point, ‘All I’ve done as a merchant is to save money. Now I’m waiting for a time when I can spend it.’

  — A time to spend? What’s that? I asked.

  — The day someone in my heart tells me, spend now, spend now, spend now, Palamas.

  — What will you do then?

  Palamas was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, scratching his head, ‘That’s just what I don’t know. I don’t know how to spend. But I’ll manage.’

  — How?

  — Maulana will show the way. I consider him my mentor. I have decided to become a follower of his silsilah, his religious order.

  — Is this your way of spending? One of the Arab merchants asked.

  Once again Palamas was silent for some time. Then he said with a smile, ‘Let me tell you a qissa then. I heard it from a dervish in an inn at Aleppo. Apparently Maulana included the story in his Masnavi-e Ma’anavi.’

  I am recounting the story Palamas told us. It’s about a beggar named Farhad. You didn’t normally see a beggar as happy as him. He would wander from one city to another. No one had ever seen the smile wiped off his face. He would always be on his way somewhere, dressed in his patched, frayed and faded clothes, and his tattered shoes. No one had ever seen him begging. He would only ask for food when he was hungry, even starving the entire day. But since there was no lack of good people on earth, he always got some food the next day. If you asked him, tell me, Farhad, what will you do when these shoes are completely worn out? How will you get another pair? Won’t it hurt to walk on bare feet? Farhad would answer, ‘Khuda will find me another old, torn pair. It may be a size too small or too large, but that will not prevent Farhad from moving about, huzoor.’ I’m told someone once took Farhad to a shop to buy him a new pair of shoes. After the measurements had been taken, Farhad got the opportunity he was looking for and escaped. If you asked Farhad, why did you run away? he would answer, ‘I don’t like new shoes, they shine too much, I believe they also lead to sores on the feet, that would be very painful, my old shoes are much better. Old shoes have a warmth in them.’ What warmth, Farhad? ‘Don’t you know? The warmth from the feet of the man who wore the shoes before me.’

  It needs no special skill on my part to tell this story. I am an excellent mimic. People’s gestures, the way they walk and talk, birds and beasts, the wind in the mountains, the cascading waterfalls, the flow of the river, leaves falling from trees, slithering snakes, the water boiling in the pot, the oil sizzling when something’s being fried, the sound of kebabs being charred . . . I can imitate all of these. I have merely copied the way the merchant Kostis Palamas told the story. In the course of thirty years of travel from one country to another, I have come to the conclusion that there’s no such thing as originality in the ways of the world. Only matter and speed are unique. May Allah protect us.

  The fact is that Farhad used to trust the Imam of the mosque implicitly. Hadn’t the priest told him to keep his faith in Allah always? This faith was Farhad’s only resource. Trust the Lord’s compassion, and you will always be taken care of, you’ll see. Farhad used to float about like a current of wind. Sometimes his throat would overflow, sending torrents of music along the road. One day, when he was a long way from his own town—with no human habitation nearby, he was singing and dancing on his way—he heard a sound of weeping and mourning. Looking for the source, he came upon the Imam of the mosque, sobbing loudly beside his dog. The dog was close to dying, he would breathe his last any moment.

  — What’s wrong with him? Farhad asked.

  Looking at him, the priest began to cry even louder. ‘My dog is about to die, Farhad. How I loved him. No dog was ever so trustworthy, Farhad. He kept me company so often, guarded me all night.’

  — What’s the matter with him? Is he sick? Did someone attack him?

  — Hunger. He was starving . . . The priest began to cry again. ‘Look at him Farhad, he’s gone. Gone forever. Starved to death.’

  — Why?

  Farhad gazed in silence at the dog. Imam sahib’s pet had died of hunger? Imam sahib didn’t lack for money. Why should his dog starve to death? What joke was this of Allah’s? He spotted a large sack next to the priest, its mouth closed with a rope.

  — What’s in the sack?

  — My food, the priest answered, weeping.

  — Why didn’t you give some to him? Farhad shouted.

  — I’m going on hajj, my boy. Just imagine how far away Mecca is. I doubt if this food will be enough even for me.

  — Are you human? You read sermons, but you allow your dog to starve to death.

  — Consider reality, Farhad. What will I eat if my food runs out? It’s a long way to Mecca.

  Farhad couldn’t say another word. He realized that Allah’s enemy in the guise of the Imam was shedding false tears. So Farhad, what do you do now? You don’t have the ability to bring the dog back to life. But say to yourself, clench your teeth and say to yourself, ‘Imam sahib, you used to say that the ego is the greatest barrier to faith—one shouldn’t use the word “I”. You said, if you cannot love someone, Farhad, you must realize that your ego stands between the two of you. The reason that man thinks so much of the future is the ego. It was you who said over and over again, allow the “I” to go away, and you’ll see that all fear and all conflict will vanish on their own. Just have faith and love, that’s all you need to have Khuda on your side. But what did you do? A slice of bread was more important to you. The Lord has said, spend, spend, spend. Don’t save anything. Dive like a moth into the flames of love. Try to dive in just once, Imam sahib.’

  This is the qissa of the savings and expenses of life. Finishing the story, Kostis Palamas sat in
silence once again. Then, rising to his feet, he said, ‘Let me go and pet my horse in the stable.’

  As I wandered around on my thirty years of travel, I felt that the horse is the loneliest creature in the world. A thousand times more lonely than humans. I have seen solitary horses in the field on scorching afternoons, shadowy horses have appeared in my line of sight in torrential rain. Have any of you seen a horse gazing at the full moon? To tell the truth, I have pondered so much on horses that I could have written a book about them. Have you ever wondered why the horse is the loneliest creature? I shall present a couple of theories. The horse is primarily a wild animal. Man began to tame it for personal use about four thousand years before the birth of Christ. I believe that horses are so afflicted by their memories of life in the wild that they find it impossible to avoid loneliness. At the same time they love the company of humans too. As a result they have to bear a life of so much conflict that extreme loneliness is the only outcome. I have considered this from another perspective too. The Greek god Poseidon is the god of oceans, earthquakes and horses. He crosses the seas on the back of his white steed Hippocampus. Are horses afflicted by the loneliness of the sea? Were the seeds of solitary earthquakes also planted in them? As you know, Poseidon’s father was Chronos and his mother, Bea. Chronos used to eat his children as soon as they were born. It wasn’t surprising that the god of time would consume his children. But when Poseidon was born his mother Bea put him away in the sheep pen. Could Poseidon not have known about his offspring-eating father? Of course he did. How deep it ran, the loneliness of one whose father had consumed all his other children. I think Poseidon’s loneliness was passed on to his mount, the horse. The reason for loneliness cannot be identified scientifically. Does a person himself know when he has become lonely and why? If we cannot even tell when men become lonely, it is obviously impossible to know where the loneliness of horses springs from. For we do not have even a smattering of the language of horses. I see innumerable horses, white and black and brown, floating away through an infinite emptiness, I hear their cries piercing the horizons, there they are, galloping, they appear like marooned pedestrians in space.