Читать книгу The Greatest Meeting - None - Страница 8

I question his (religious leader) intelligence, his wisdom.

He sees God in heaven; I see God in the eyes of men,

And I feel Him in the hearts of men.

I worship what I can see.

Shams-e Tabrizi

I arrive in the ancient city of Shahr-e Ray that lies undisturbed on the gentle southern slope of Mount Alburz. With its fourteen-thousand-foot- high snow-capped majestic peak of Tochal, it stands tall on the north side of the city. The looming mountain range appears as if it is there to protect the city against the mysterious mists of the Caspian Sea. The late afternoon sun is on its way to set in the western horizon. It has skillfully painted the patchy clouds with spectacular colors of cherry-red, sunflower-yellow, a dark brownish and purplish maroon; a magnificent and sublimely eye-soothing canvas.

The steady breeze that had stubbornly remained at my back since I started this morning has subsided now. The still air is pleasantly warm, but dry and light, perfumed with the sweet smell of an ocean of wild flowers in full bloom mixed with a strong smell of sage.

Basking in the luxury of no particular urgency, I’ve followed the trail on the lower slopes of the mountain range that extends steadily to my left. The mountain range, with numerous jagged snow-capped peaks, keeps me company, off and on, all the way from Tabriz to Meyâneh, to Zanjân, to Gazvin, to where I’m descending on a gentle slope towards the city of Shahr-e Ray. I’ve never been concerned or worried about being attacked and robbed by gangs of road thieves, for I’m certain that all my worldly possessions would appear worthless to any ordinary man.

I’ve enjoyed sleeping on the prairie under the stars at night, gazing at God’s face in the blue rays of His Uranus. I’ve slept under the trees, have seen God’s arms in the beautifully twisted contours of the tree branches, and have smelled the fragrance of His cool and refreshing breath in the night breeze. I’ve heard His tender and gentle voice echoing down from the mountaintops. And when I stayed with others, I’ve appreciated the hospitality extended to me in inns and cârevânsarâs by other travelers, residents of Sufi lodges, or worshipers in mosques. If I had any doubt before about the goodness people hold in their hearts, this journey, so far, has solidified my belief that ordinary man cares for his fellow man. Also, so far, I haven’t yet come across one single reason to regret my decision to embark on this journey, even though I’ve gotten myself into some arguments with a few devout worshipers over their religious practices. Each time, when I’d mention that they perform their religious rituals either because of their fear of God or from habits injected into them by their parents when they were only children, they would, of course, always reject my assertion angrily. They insisted that they performed these religious rituals for the love of God.

Even before my arrival, I was certain that I wouldn’t stay in the city of Shahr-e Ray for long. I had come to this decision at a much earlier age, that to accumulate knowledge, assimilate and absorb wisdom, one must constantly wander the world. It’s my firm belief that if a man remains in the same place his mind and soul stagnates, as water does in a puddle when it ceases to flow.

I check in to a cârevânsarâ [caravan inn] just as I enter the city’s northern gate, before the guards close it for the night. I check my mule into the cârevânsarâ’s stable to be taken care of. I introduce myself to those curious merchants in the cârevânsarâ as a prominent merchant from a faraway land. I wash, change my dusty clothes and wear another long black felt cloak over clean baggy trousers, a simple recently washed white turban and a pair of light sandals. I go out to the bâzâr [bazaar] and have a simple meal to rejuvenate my tired body.

To rest for a while, I sit quietly on a step at the entrance to a great marvel of a building, a mosque, built with light pink marble stones and colorfully painted ceramic tiles. The beauty of the building’s design and workmanship is quite extraordinary, a genuine expression of man’s true eshgh for his God. Questions cross my mind. What if the same men would love their fellow man as much as they love their God? Then would they express their love by building such an extraordinary artistic monument just for their fellow man? I wonder.

I watch the people in motion in the crowded and noisy square, and mind my own conflicting thoughts. I’ve been wandering around, searching for men with spiritual mysteries, philosophers, and wise men, who are made of flesh and not marble, who don’t place themselves on pedestals as freshteh [saint] and demand that people look at them. I’m hopeful I’ll find a few if not many in this vast Islamic land that at times seems like an unsalvageable sunken ship.

The square is crowded by all sorts of people dressed in a tapestry of clothes and colors. No one pays any attention to me, and that is just fine with me. As I contemplate where I want to go next, and whose lecture I want to attend, I see an old man in religious clothing in the square, heading toward the mosque. Wearing a broad smile, he looks very happy, perhaps because he’s about to perform his religious rituals, the five-times-a-day of namâz, prayer. He will bend over several times, placing his forehead on a piece of clay on the ground, the dried mud that is claimed to be from the soils of graves of relatives of Prophet Mohammad. Like a parrot, he will whisper words, the meaning of which he doesn’t know, thinking he’s talking to God. The poor fellow doesn’t know that the last thing his God needs is the prayer of a wretched soul like him. I feel this urge to go around and shout at people like him, telling them the truth – people who have in reality lost their way and habitually worship a God whose essence has been misinterpreted everywhere. But I’m not about to tell him that, for people don’t like to hear the truth.

He becomes aware of me and intensely locks his eyes on mine. He undoubtedly thinks that he knows me from somewhere or he is mistaking me for someone else. I see him approaching. Intuitively, I feel uncomfortable in his presence but I wait to see what he is after as I whisper under my breath, “Here we go again. Someone has found something new in his religion; he is now a true believer. The next thing he has to do is to convert another lost wretched soul, and that would be poor me.”

“What are you doing here, my good man?” the man asks without any introduction as if he has known me for a long time.

“Nothing except watching the people,” I respond, hoping he will go away.

“The Grand Vazir and many other important men are inside this mosque.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes!”

“Good for them!” I reply firmly, thinking that would convey my disinterest in meeting the people inside the mosque.

“Come into the house of God and listen to the words of God, spoken by men of God. Men of wisdom are gathered inside discussing important matters,” he extends an invitation that doesn’t cost him a Derham. My patience gives way, and I earnestly would like to ask him not to trouble me with any more of his foolish comments. I look him in the eyes and tell him, “Go away! Leave me be with myself, for I’m tired of men of God. Their hearts are empty of the eshgh of God and man.”

“The people in there are different.”

“They’re cut from the same fabric that you and I are, aren’t they?”

“What’s wrong with you and me?”

“You don’t want to know. ... Look, to physically live a comfortable life here on earth, they deceive the people ... the children of the same God they speak of and pretend to love.” I lower my voice and whisper to the inquisitive man, “Let me tell you a secret. Most of these religious leaders, be it Christians, Jews, Hindu, or Muslims, use their beliefs to serve themselves – they are impostors – charlatans”.

“That’s not true!” he objects strongly.

“Then, you seem to be the great buyer of their merchandise, the key to paradise’s gate.” By saying those blunt and cold words, I hope he’ll go away and leave me be with my own thoughts.

“Are you denying the holiness of our Shaykh – the keeper of this mosque?”

“I question his intelligence, his wisdom. He sees God in heaven; I see God in the eyes of men, and I feel Him in the hearts of men. I worship what I can see,” I insist.

“You seem to be a wise man. Come on in and be amongst us, next to God’s men. There will be no harm if they drink a drop or two from the sea of your wisdom,” he persists.

He waits for my reaction, but I’ve nothing to say. He goes on cajoling me, “Come inside. Let’s talk about time in the past, present and eternity. Let’s listen to the discussions of things that are happening in this world and the things that might happen in the next.”

I can’t get rid of him, so I follow him into an enormous praying section of the mosque that looks like a monument, with a high ceiling and hundreds of white marble columns supporting the arches. There is a circle of thirty religious leaders, men from middle-aged to very old, some with masks of sophistication on their faces pretending to appear intelligent. Some are clad in the finest silk clothes that only people in high positions can afford to wear. All sit on a large Persian carpet busy chattering about something. I wonder if any of them have ever worked one day in their lives.

The man who invited me leads me to sit a short distance away from the others. I soon realize that their talk revolves around the works of great men of the past, which is a favorite topic of men who possess no substance, men with no identities or characters of their own.

A man with a long white beard to his chest who has the floor to himself, proclaims, “Omar Khayyâm was the wisest man in all the fields of knowledge known to man.”

Another man announces, “I have read in the book of Four Articles by Arouzi that in 1109, Arouzi, the renowned historian, who was Omar Khayyâm’s student, visited his teacher Omar in a gathering of wise men in the city of Nayshabour when Omar was in his seventies. Arouzi had heard Omar saying, ‘When I die my grave will be covered with flowers every spring.’ Knowing Omar, Arouzi didn’t consider the statement an exaggeration. In the spring of 1123 Arouzi reached the city of Nayshabour. Omar had passed away several years earlier. Out of respect for his guru, Arouzi had decided to visit Omar’s grave in the city’s cemetery. He had difficulty locating the grave but when he turned to his left, near a wall, he saw a grave covered with blossoms from the branches of a pear tree in a nearby orchard. He remembered Omar’s statement as tears roll down his face.”

“Bless his soul, for he’s certainly in heaven now,” another old man says.

“Bless the founder of the Saljogh dynasty for gathering all those men of science and art in their courts,” the third man praises the Sultan.

“Omar could read a book one time in its entirety in the city of Esfahân, memorize it all, and write the same book, word for word, several months later in the city of Balkh, two-thousand miles away,” another white-bearded man praises the dead Khayyâm, whose corpse, I’m certain, would be turning in his grave if he could hear these hollow expressions of admiration for him, being spoken by men who have nothing to offer to their world themselves.

Handling the crisscross of multiple feelings of boredom, restlessness, and anger caused by listening to the hollow chattering of these men who all speak at the same time is very hard for me. I hear their voices merge together and resonate like a flock of vultures fighting over a carcass. It creates stressful sounds that are troubling to my ears and begin to depress me. I can no longer sit and control the rage that is brewing in me. I rise and shout at them, “For how long will you all sit on saddles with no horses, thinking you are riding hard on the same ground that the great men rode? For how long will you all lean against other people’s canes to keep yourself upright? The words you speak here are the perspectives of others, the men of their time, who saw their worlds from their own positions. You are all men of now. What are your secret words of wisdom, what?”

I finish my accusatory questions. Expressing what is in my mind with a voice that I’m sure carries a heavy load of insult I leave the man who invited me in to endure the bewildered stares of the others. Boldly, I gaze at the audience. Except for the Vazir [Sultan’s grand adviser and chief administrator] they all lower their heads in silence. I see no reason for me to remain there anymore for I sense harm is about to come my way. Sure enough, I’m right in my judgment, for as I rush for the door as fast as my legs can carry me, from the corner of my eye I see that the Vazir is up. He has a dagger in his hand that he swings in the air while angrily shouting, “Go after that man and bring the miserable soul to me!”

Two men dash toward me. I bless the people who have crowded the square so that I can disappear among them without a trace, once I’m hurriedly out of the mosque.

I run through several streets and alleys, to make sure no one is pursuing me. I find my way to the safety of the cârevânsarâ, where I have a room, and turn in for the night.

I’m aware that Shahr-e Ray is a city of culture, with learning centers equal to Baghdâd if not better. The next day, I go to a learning center, sit in its lecture hall and hear several men arguing various interpretations of some hadithes [legendary stories], and fatwâs that are erroneously attributed to the Prophet Mohammad or His close relatives. It seems to me that the weight these people give to those hadithes is so heavy on their shoulders that they get stuck in their arguments, as a jackass with a heavy load on his back does in a deep puddle of mud.

They go on presenting hollow arguments, fighting, scratching the surface of each other’s intellects – all nonsense. I studied many hadithes when I was younger. To me, it doesn’t matter one way or the other whether those words mean this or that, for most of these hadithes are baseless and fabricated by some greedy mullah or some wealth-gathering religious leader. I soon become angry and leave. I think if I go into another mosque, I may hear some words of wisdom. I stroll down the street, find a mosque and enter.

I’m in a large prayer hall that is filled with followers of an old mullah. I’ve heard about his great reputation, that he’s a distinguished religious man, knowledgeable in all Islamic laws, who has his own circle of devout followers. In fact, that’s why I’m here, to benefit from the well of his knowledge.

He is groomed to perfection; he wears a long white beard, a silky black chiffon robe, with its edges embroidered in gold, over a white silk shirt. His head is capped with a black turban, perhaps to show his bloodline reaches to the Prophet Mohammad. His fat cheeks and his double bulging chin make him an unattractive man. He has the look of a fat donkey that has been eating well, and most probably from other people’s plates. A question flashes through my mind, From whose backbreaking hard work does this man maintain such a healthy body?” I reply the answer to myself, From those uninformed, misinformed, or simpleminded people who try to purchase their way to paradise from this mullah, not knowing that this man is as lost in his way to paradise as they are.

The mullah sits on a low wooden bench behind a pulpit that is covered with fine rugs and decorated with colorful ornaments. With his chest filled with air, he exhibits an obvious outward behavior of arrogance, perhaps to give more weight to his words as he delivers a sermon to his followers. His act disgusts me. Looking at his followers, who all appear to have pairs of eyes but yet are blind, makes me detest spiritual servitude. Deep down, I feel I shouldn’t be here. I murmur to myself, “Stay, man. You might learn something from even this unlearned jackass – the self-designated gatekeeper of paradise.”

Separate from the crowd, in a corner, I sit and lean against the wall and quietly listen to the mullah’s words. I’m twenty-six-year old, have long prematurely grey hair that hasn’t seen a comb for a long time. I don’t shave either, and with the grey hair and long beard, I look much older than my age. I’m pale and skinny as before, for I still have more important things on my mind than wasting my life searching for food to eat. I haven’t wasted my time acquiring fancy clothes either. I still wear a simple black robe, a white cotton shirt, baggy trousers, and a pair of sandals. And whenever I can no longer stand the smell of my clothes, if the weather permits, I go to the wilderness, wash them, dry them and wear them again. In severe weather, I go to a dervish lodge and clean them there.

I hear the mullah proclaiming loudly with an evangelical fervor in his hoarse voice, “I can prove the existence of Almighty God and authenticate His prophets from Abraham to His last one, the Prophet Mohammad, blessed be His soul.”

I can no longer remain silent and listen to this gibberish. What he is saying sounds so stupid that if I remain silent I feel I would be betraying my own humanity. I’ve never understood those who can remain silent in the face of corruption and violation of the truth. I respond to him as loudly as I can, “Hey, you, mullah! God doesn’t need anyone tearing his throat to prove His existence. He is proven! Why don’t you try to prove and improve yourself, to elevate yourself to His equal? Aren’t you made in God’s image?”

All the faces turn toward me, perhaps to see the audacious man who has the nerve to speak those insulting words of objection to their beloved preacher.

“Who are you?” the mullah asks.

“A man ... a two-legged man like you ... God’s creature, that He, most probably, made a mistake in creating, and that goes for you, too.”

“What valuable words do you have to say besides the gibberish I just heard from you?” the fool asks me audaciously.

“I say, who are those prophets? Why should we busy ourselves and waste our precious time with their lives and thoughts? We can all be prophets.”

The mullah raises his voice and shouts at me, “That’s blasphemy!”

“Everywhere I go, when I say these very words of truth, they tell me, ‘Repent, man. Your words are blasphemy.’ And I say, ‘Try to be a prophet and messiah to others, and let others be it to you.’”

I see anger in the burning eyes of the mullah’s followers fixed on me, and I wonder what they would like to do to me, to a man who said those insulting and controversial words to their beloved mullah. Two strong young men close to me rise, draw their daggers from their belts and walk toward me. I’m certain they’re about to inflict some pain on me to prove their devotion to their mullah. But I feel no fear.

“Stop! Don’t harm that man!” I hear the commanding voice of the mullah. The men freeze only a few feet away from me.

“Who are you and where do you come from?” the mullah asks me softly.

“I’m Shams. I come from the city of Tabriz. I’m called Shams-e Tabrizi.”

“Shams-e Tabrizi, what you just said, that people can become prophets is blasphemy. Let me hear you repent or you will burn in hell throughout eternity,” the mullah resorts to the usual threat that for centuries has worked for them and their business, planting seeds of fear in people’s hearts.

“For how long are you going to promote God and His prophets on this earth as if they are commodities?” I pause and look around and see the anxious faces of the people. I continue my words as if I’m speaking to them, “Some are the writers of the revelation. Some are the source and the voice of the revelation. Why not try to be all of that, the source, the writer, and yourselves? You are Moses, Jesus, and Mohammad; you are the endless world, an ocean without shore, and the infinite sky. You are the jewel, a priceless ruby. Open your eyes, grow wings, take flight and soar in the limitless sky of your dreams, and make earth your paradise.”

I turn and look at the mullah. I’m not overly surprised to see him visibly shaking with rage, growling like a dog with rabies. I suppose my words threaten his business. He screams, “Throw him out. The infidel is crazy!!”

The two men approach me. One grabs my wrist firmly, twists my arm, pushes it behind my back, and holds me still. The other man punches my face and stomach several times, grabs the edge of my kherqeh, cloak, twists it, and holds me up as if he is trying to lift me from the floor. They carry me outside the mosque’s gate and mercilessly throw me out, down onto the stony steps. I tumble down the steps and land on the ground hard. I feel a severe pain in my head and ribs. As I’m on the ground on my side and unable to move, I feel a stream of warm blood running from my temple into my eye, impairing my vision.

I don’t know how long I remain on the ground in that unfavorable position before I feel a wet cloth gently touching my temple, washing away the blood. I move my head and see with my other eye an old man in torn rags sitting next to me, caring for my wound. I stare in his face. I’m amazed when I see a circle of bright light – a halo around his head. Within that halo, he has a soft and compassionate look in his misty eyes.

“Only in forgiving shall we be forgiven, and only then can your wounded heart be healed, son,” I hear his whisper in my ears. I reach for his hand, hold it in my palm, bring it to my lips and kiss it. Without exchanging any more words, I meet a man whom I feel is closer to me than my own blood brother. Although I have trained my wounded heart and restless soul to be a bird that doesn’t peck at just any seed, but the gentle heart of this old homeless beggar beckons me. I feel his heart can be the nest for my wandering soul, and his face, an immaculate altar for my prayers. Looking at this man’s immaculately clean and holy face, my physical pain temporarily vanishes.

I drag my bruised body back to my room in the cârevânsarâ and lie down on my straw mat, put my head on three stacked books and hope waves of sleep will soon take me to the tranquil shores of eternity. But instead, waves of thought rush into my mind. I think about those who claim they are searching for the divine truth, but they sell their dreams for a key to the door of a mosque and a place on a wooden pulpit. I remember a dream I once had. I was told by a wise man in that dream, “God will make you a companion to a saint.” When I asked the wise man, “Where is this saint?” there was no reply; but the next night, I was told by the same wise man, “He will be in Ghonieh.” Several months later, I had another dream and I heard someone say, “The time is not yet ripe.” So, I’m waiting for the right time to meet my saint. And when I meet him, I will throw myself at his feet and shed joyful tears for our union.

I must block these thoughts entering my mind, relax so that I can fall asleep, wake up early, and get on my way to the city of Esfahân that is known to be half of the Jahân, the world. I hope the boulevards of Esfahân are covered with flowers, and its mosques’ domes and minarets are as blue as I have heard from other travelers. I hope the street cleaners of Esfahân still converse in poetry when I arrive. I hope its inhabitants will welcome this stranger as if I’m one of their own.

The next day, when I open my eyes, I can’t stand to be away from Esfahân a minute longer.