Читать книгу The Greatest Meeting - None - Страница 7

I see a burning fire of unconditional and pure eshgh [love] within this boy and when it erupts its flames will give warmth to the hearts of mankind for millenniums to come.

Attar about Rumi

I’m a twelve-year-old boy, Jalâleddin Mohammad, the second son of Shaykh Sultan Bahâeddin Mohammad Valad. I was born in a, you might say, narrowly fundamentalist religious family on September 30, 1207, in the city of Vakhsh, in the greater Khorâsân’s province of Persia. We lived in Vakhsh until 1209, but in 1213, for several reasons, we moved to the beautiful and richly cultured city of Samarghand. We didn’t live in Samarghand very long. I was only five-year-old when Samarghand was savagely seized by Sultan Khârazm Shah. I have vivid memories of that beautiful city. One in particular is the memory of a beautiful young girl in Samarghand, whose firm belief in God saved her from the clutches of the Sultan’s murderous soldiers. The image of her smiling face is etched in my mind. We now reside in the city of Balkh.

I’ve heard people around me, including my father and mother, say that I’m quick, intelligent – a curiosity-driven child. They believe I possess a rare spiritual power. I know I’m different from other children of my own age. I don’t try to be different though, for I am the way I am, I can’t help it. I might, to the eyes of others, appear peculiar, a loner, or a socially incompetent in developing relationships with other kids of my age. I don’t care.

Once, when I was six, a bunch of kids my age, who playfully were jumping from patio to patio of our neighborhood invited me to join them. I didn’t feel like playing that silly game. When they insisted, I challenged them by suggesting, “My brothers, jumping from patio to patio is for cats and dogs. If you feel up to the task, let us spring up to the heavens and meet the regions of God’s realm.” Upon hearing that, the kids dispersed, running away from me as if I had a plague or was possessed by a demon.

A few adult neighbors apparently heard my response and told my father. Later that night, as I was about to turn the lantern off and go to sleep in my bedroom, father came in, and as he was pulling the blanket over me he praised me for making that statement to my friends earlier that day. That meant so much to me.

I think the main reason we moved from the city of Vakhsh to Samarghand was because the Ghâzi [grand judge and ruler] of Vakhsh and a few jealous religious leaders, created insurmountable obstacles for my father. They publicly expressed their opposition to some of father’s fatwâs [religious rulings] and openly went on to invent ways to block my father’s rise to prominence in the community, which he well deserved. After spending a great deal of his life writing essays and lengthy narratives of his own experiences in spirituality, he felt he deserved better recognition and treatment than what was rendered. Every religious scholar and man holding high pulpit knows that father possesses a rare spiritual power.

Father kept talking about his desire to migrate to another city outside the areas controlled and ruled by Sultan Khârazm Shah. Also some of his followers, people he respects, routinely expressed their premonitions based on their dreams that father must migrate elsewhere if he wished to realize his aspirations.

Another reason for our move was the political instability and disturbances of the region, caused by the Sultan Khârazm Shah’s military adventures, particularly in the city of Samarghand, the precious shiny stone that sat on the golden ring of that region.

I sit on the floor in a large hall of father’s khâneghâh, close to his wooden pulpit a foot above the floor. The pulpit is covered with a small Persian carpet and a mat. We are in a spacious room of this khâneghâh in the city of Balkh. The place looks like a small but elaborate mosque, with high ceramics and tiles of deep blues, greens, red and yellow ceilings and numerous tall columns. It is decorated with colorful ceramic tiles that support the arches. This large khâneghâh is used as father’s learning center and, with its numerous attached rooms, and it also serves as the place of our residence.

My father, a sweet tolerant man, a renowned preacher and a religious leader, salt-and-pepper bearded, is in his late sixties. As an only son, he comes from a long line of people, all well-versed in religious laws. His father was Hussein Khatib, a preacher, who was the son of Ahmad al-Khatibi, also a preacher. My grandmother, Mama, who caused father a lot of grief by having the temper of a tigress with cubs, often addressed him with words of profanity in public. My mother is Momeneh Khâtoon, and in her mid-fifties. She is truly a beautiful and gracious woman, whose captivating presence is always noticed in all gatherings.

Father wears a large cream-colored turban and ruby-red robe over his shirt. There is a large old leather-bound holy book of Ghorân open on the floor in front of him. To reinforce and validate his opinions or fatwâs in spiritual and social matters, he quotes passages from the holy book by referring to it now and then.

A dozen young students ranging in ages from late teens to early twenties, all dressed in traditional Persian clothing, with their own Ghorâns open on their laps, sit around him. I know that they all needlessly fear my father, but I’m aware and I’m happy that they also respect him. My feeling toward him, as a man and as a father, is pure mohebbat, for I’ve witnessed his gentleness and acts of caring for others numerous times.

Lately, I’ve seen many signs of unhappiness on father’s face; he tires easily, loses his tolerance and explodes with temper. Today is not an exception. He looks tired. After a long pause and staring at a page of the holy book, he looks up at all of us and announces abruptly, “It is enough for today. God be with you all.”

I watch the students as they quietly leave the khâneghâh. I remain with father and look at him with concern, wondering what is bothering him. I’d like very much to know exactly what’s troubling him, this wise man who I respect and love so much. But I don’t have the heart to trouble him with my questions.

As father stares at the open pages of the holy book of Ghorân and I’m gazing at his face, a man in his late twenties, with a wind-worn face, hurriedly rushes into the hall and approaches father.

“My master, a man has come from the northeastern frontier. He brings bad news,” the man speaks excitedly.

I see a sheet of sadness come over father’s beautiful face. He tells the man, “Go on, tell me. What the bad news is?”

“The Mongols are on the move across the borders, master.”

“It was inevitable,” father whispers as if he is talking to himself. He then speaks loudly, “I don’t know how long it will take them to reach us. When they do, the corruption within the Sultan of Khârazm Shah’s court will leave us helplessly defenseless. I don’t see how they can be stopped. We will be left to the Mongols’ mercy, a virtue that God didn’t give those beasts. I have this feeling that the Mongols will bring with them a catastrophic destructive force and that no life will be spared.”

Now I understand the reason for the changes in father’s disposition and mood.

“The traveler says it will take about two or a maximum of three months before they reach us here in Balkh,” the man says worriedly.

“God have mercy upon all of us here and the rest of the world,” father offers us only those hopeless words.

I’ve never seen father so worried before. His words trouble me. I wonder what will become of us, my family.

Lately, father has spoken about his urgent need to go to Makeh, circle the black stone of the Kabeh before it is too late, meaning the early arrival of his death. Someone, a well-known man of wisdom, a long ago told Father, that he wouldn’t live longer than ten more years. Although he has lived beyond that foolish prediction, I’m certain that the echo of those words still remains in father’s mind and constantly reminds him of his mortality.

I’ve also overheard him many times confiding to his close disciples about the danger he feels in his heart about prominent men expressing desires for young boys openly. Also, the fact that this corruption is widespread among some of the leaders of the society bothered him even more. He would often, with indignation, criticize men who kept boys at home as if they were their wives. My heart always overflows with mohebbat for him when he expresses his concern for my well being like that.

Also, father would become angry whenever he heard Fakhroddin Râzi, a famous powerful preacher – a theologian who believes in Athenian philosophy – speak in public and challenge father’s fatwâs. Since Fakhroddin Râzi was the teacher of Sultan Khârazm Shah when the Sultan was young, he has remained the Sultan’s close confident and enjoys his protection. Once I heard a rumor that Sultan Khârazm Shah himself has spoken against father.

Putting all these reasons together, I’m convinced that, soon or later, we will be moving again. To what city we might migrate? I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to anyone about my feeling, nor have I ever brought the subject up to my father.

The night following the bad news, father discusses the matter of migrating with the rest of the family. I confess that I have had some sort of intuition about it. In fact, I’d been expecting it to happen and was secretly delighted when father first announced it. But when I look at my mother and the other members of my family and see how badly this news affects them, a sense of sadness comes over me.

The very next day, in the large room of the convent, father sits on the wooden pulpit looking very somber. The entire area are filled with thousands of his disciples, followers and students, people of all ages, men and women, who sit in rows, facing him, and attentively listen to his speech.

“Our Sultan, Khârazm Shah, is angry with me,” father starts. “I’m not interested in being where I’m not wanted. This is my last sermon from this place. I have wanted to visit Makeh for a long time. I’ll soon be leaving with my family. In my absence, Shaykh Ahmad Rafir will manage the affairs of this convent.”

I look around and see the anxious and mostly sad faces of the crowd but, to my own surprise, at such an unhappy time, a strange feeling of joy and pride overwhelms me. I’m ashamed for allowing myself to feel this way but I can’t help equating the depth of the sadness on the people’s faces to father’s worthiness.

The next several days our house loses its usual visible order and goes through the chaotic activities of preparation for the long journey. The entire family packs, and the others who have come to help us all perform their jobs quietly. No one speaks a word unless it is absolutely necessary, and all faces are devoid of smiles.

On a pleasant early morning in March, 1216, our cârevân [caravan] of ten camels, five horses and seven mules, carrying men, women, children and supplies, slowly leaves the city of Balkh and moves westward. Our itinerary includes the city of Marv, Harât, Nayshâbour, Shahr-e Ray, Esfahân, to Baghdâd, then on to Makeh. I’m certain that we will be welcomed by many religious scholars in those cities, for my father is well-known and respected throughout Persia and beyond.

I don’t understand the notion that sometimes unexpectedly flashes through my mind: that this long and probably treacherous journey is meant to be. I feel my father is seeking his destiny. And I am also in search of my destiny, which is perhaps very different from his. I may meet many interesting people and, perhaps, one who will be my ultimate friend with whom I may remain for life. Who is this person? I don’t know. Perhaps, he’s somewhere out there searching too. Or maybe he is a small seed, a thought, in the belly of a shell in the vast sea, waiting to be a pearl. Maybe he is a beautiful butterfly in the wind of events, carrying a seed to pollinate a flower of eshgh [love] in my heart.

I ride on my camel next to father and my brother in front of our cârevân. The ups and downs, this rocking motion, this monotonous constant movement of the camel make me lethargic. To keep awake and break the hardship and boredom of the journey, particularly when we travel on barren flat land, I read books, question father, or talk to my brother.

The excitement of this journey, the anticipation that I’m going to see all those big exotic cities of culture, learning centers, with big libraries, is hard for me to hide from the others whenever we stop for a rest.

The journey was planned so precisely by father’s disciples, who are accompanying us to the holy city of Makeh, that we never have to camp in the wilderness. We always reach some village or town in our itinerary, stay a night, or a few days, and always leave at dawn.

In Marv and Harât, we stay for a few days in the houses of father’s friends to clean and energize our tired bodies.

When I first see the vista of the city of Nayshâbour, a city with over one and half million inhabitants, its beauty takes my breath away. Oh those blue minarets, those golden domes are even bluer and yellower than they were in my dreams!

I knew we would be welcomed by one of the great, if not the greatest, Sufis of our time, the most renowned mystic poet, Faridalddin Attâr. Indeed, a short distance away from our moving cârevân, in front of the entrance to a house, two old bearded men with turbans and robes are waiting. Father points out Shaykh Attâr to me as we dismount and I follow my father walking toward the waiting men.

As we get within hearing distance, I hear Shaykh Attâr saying to his friend, “Here comes a sea of wisdom followed by an ocean to be.” I wonder what the great Sufi means by those words.

Father is welcomed into the opened arms of Shaykh Attâr. They kiss each other’s cheeks and hold one another in a hug and exchange pleasantries. Father is introduced to Shaykh’s friend, and I am introduced to the wise men. Shaykh Attâr comes up to me. He gazes at me with a special look, a mixture of affection and admiration. He squats down to make his height equal to mine and kisses both my cheeks.

He invites father and I, and the rest of our company to his spacious house. I follow my father and his friends into a room and sit on the carpet-covered floor. We sit across from the Shaykh Attâr and his friend, and I’m amazed at the tranquility reflected on his face.

We wash and conduct our prayers standing behind father, which is a respect Shaykh Attâr extends to him by praying behind him. We then enjoy an elaborate feast of tasty food around a large sofreh.

Afterward, the adults begin a serious conversation of matters of importance. Shaykh Attâr presents a leather-bound book to father and explains, “This is Esrâr Nâmeh [Letters of Secrets], thirty-six-thousand verses, words of wisdom, about the entanglement of the soul in a world of material temptation and greed. In the future, it may help you and your sons to push aside the curtain to see the face of the unseen. It’ll bring warmth to your hearts. I know it’ll be safe and protected in your hands.”

Father humbly accepts the gift and speaks, “Dear friend, this is a bad time. There are troubles in the wind. The Mongols are on the move. Come with me to Makeh, and perhaps to Baghdâd or to Damascus. We will hold public sessions. We will speak the truth and inform the people about the dangers awaiting them.”

“You’re right. The entire world is in crisis. The empire has sunk into a cesspool of corruption. The hearts of our rulers are darkened. Their visions are impaired, and we are all sitting at the top of a volcano, waiting to be annihilated in its flowing lava. Yes, I feel we will pay dearly for the mistakes of Sultan Khârazm Shah, and the selfishness and corruption in Caliph of Islam’s court in Baghdâd.” He sighs and continues, “What words of wisdom can I articulate? There are locks on the hearts, mouths, and ears of men. And this calmness we see now, it’s the calm before the storm. I must remain here, for my roots are too deep; uprooting would be too painful for me and my family.”

As we rise to turn in for the night, Shaykh Attâr looks at me with tenderness and admiration. He gently touches my face and whispers, “Let it be known here and now that I see a burning fire of unconditional and pure eshgh within this boy and when it erupts its flames will give warmth to the hearts of mankind for millenniums to come.”

Overwhelmed by those words, I approach the Shaykh, reach for his right hand and place a kiss on it. Shaykh Attâr releases his hand from my hold, holds my face in his palms and gazes into my eyes with his that are brimmed with joy.

We move on toward the city of Shahr-e Ray a few days later, thousands of kilometers in front of the Mongol storm that is destroying everything in its path in Central Asia, heading towards Balkh, Samarghand, Marv, Harât and Bokhârâ.