Too little time and too much to do, too little air and too much to breathe—and now the pale sun dips low, autumn surrenders to frost, and a dying voice begs: don’t wait.
_______________________________________________
Life isn’t fair, my friend; life isn’t fair at all
Once there was…,
Too little time and too much to do;
and too little air and too much to breathe
Too little space and too much to woo;
and too little energy and too much to reap
Too limited a vision and too much to see;
and too small a mind and too much to learn
Too little wisdom and too much taken as free;
and too small a choice and too many boats to burn
_______________________________________________
Life isn’t fair, my friend; life isn’t fair at all
Once there was…,
All those I could have loved, but didn’t,
and all those I shouldn’t have, but did
All those I could have blessed, but didn’t,
and all those I shouldn’t have, but did
Knowledge I could have gained, but didn’t,
and knowledge I shouldn’t have accessed, but did
Things that I could have passed on, but didn’t,
and things that I shouldn’t have, but did
_______________________________________________
Life isn’t fair, my friend; life isn’t fair at all
Now…,
The pale sun is dipping low in the West,
and the wind has stopped ruffling my hair
The chaos is all tired and preparing to rest,
and the eternal silence is almost here
The autumn is surrendering fast to the frost,
and the ideas have stopped painting my imagination
The violins have hushed, and all will is lost,
and ambition has ceased to move my determination
_______________________________________________
Life isn’t fair, my friend; life isn’t fair at all
Please, I beg you…,
Go do what you want and go reap what you need,
be kind to all around you and get rid of your greed
Go see what you desire and go learn what you can,
understand all that you like, no need for any plan
‘Past was a dream, future is a fantasy, and present is all that ever matters.’
A lyrical philosophical tale spanning ancient Damascus to the desert mountains of Balkh, exploring humanity’s relationship with time through the teachings of a defrocked priest and the mystical wisdom of Maga, an enigmatic desert woman. The story weaves together the concept of the “sacred triangle” - where survival, love, and desire intersect within the singular reality of the present moment.
‘Jawdat, please listen to me, son.’ My old father requested me, while we sat on the dunes, watching the long worms of caravans, leaving and entering Damascus.
‘Jawdat, my darling son, everything in this universe speaks. The mountains, the deserts, the oceans, and the clouds - they all speak. But to understand them, you have to first learn their sacred language.’ My father said in his usual poetic manner.
He was a strange man - my father. He was a priest once, but not anymore. Once he started questioning the power of the gods, he was soon ousted from the ranks of the holy. The other priests thought him mad, and I shared their opinion. But strangely, his unceremonious ousting from the temple did bring us two closer. We started sitting together and eating together, and took long walks in the golden deserts surrounding the ancient city of Damascus.
It was only when I started listening to him with attention that I realized something. He was not mad. Instead, he was blessed with a miraculous ability to see the invisible and look past the obvious. He had seen the true light, and his wise words vibrated with the rationale of his beliefs.
‘What about the light father?’ I asked him.
‘What about it?’ He looked at me with confusion.
‘Does the light speak too?’ I asked thoughtfully.
‘Yes, it does, and so does the darkness.’ He nodded his head, and his eyes reflected the expanse of the clear blue sky.
‘The darkness?’ I was confused. ‘Darkness is nothing. Even pure darkness is the absolute absence of light.’
‘Not at all, Jawdat.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Where light is all energy, darkness carries neither matter nor energy. But still it exists. And its independence from energy ensures that darkness travels through time without any transformation. This intactness of darkness makes it wiser than the light.’
‘But what do they say? What do they tell us - the light and the darkness?’ I asked without completely understanding his line of reasoning.
‘The light tells us that life is a sacred triangle.’ He bent down and drew a triangle in the sand with his brass-tipped staff. ‘The first corner of this triangle is survival, the second corner is love, and the third corner is desire.’ He drew the ancient symbols for each of these elements - a smaller baseless triangle within a circle for survival, a crowned heart for love, and a snake for desire.
‘And where does this triangle reside? Does it remain suspended within the confines of the soul?’ I asked him as to me, the soul encompassed all.
‘No, my son!’ My father said, drawing a circle enclosing the sacred triangle and the three symbols within. ‘The scared triangle with all its three elements, exists within a real moment of time.’
‘All moments of time are real, Father.’ I laughed.
‘No, Jawdat!’ he looked at me sternly. ‘The past is obscured in the dust of time, and the future is just a vague possibility. Only the present is real. So it is in the present that the sacred triangle hangs and resides. And that is something that the darkness tells us.’
________________________________________________
I scooped up some sand in my palm and looked at it closely. The grains were all together, yet separate and individual. Some shone with a sparkling brilliance, while others were just grey and black speckles. I clenched my fist, and the sand slipped out. I tried to hold it in, but it all drained out.
I looked up and found the old woman watching me intently.
‘Tell me, O’ Maga, the wise one!’ I asked her, watching her silver hair blowing with the night wind.
‘What is the most significant of the past, the present, and the future?’
‘Hmm!’ She raised both her hands and tied her hair in a loose bun with her ringed fingers. The reds and greens of the rubies and emeralds flashed from within the silver threads. ‘What do you think, child? What do you believe is the most significant of these three?’
I looked up at her. She was silent, but there was a subtle smile dancing at the corners of her mouth.
The old woman was strange. Maga - that’s what she told me her name was. And I was beginning to believe that Maga was the embodiment of the sacred triangle for me.
I found her in the desert. Rather, it was she who found me. My caravan was attacked by the robbers two nights out of Balkh. I was deeply wounded and was left for dead by the other survivors. How many days and nights I spent in the cold mountains, I do not know. Each sunrise brought along a new intensity of misery and thirst, while each night burnt me with her cold, freezing fingers.
Then one evening, something cold and wet was pressed against my blackened and dry lips. Slowly, a few drops of water trickled onto my thorny tongue and down my parched throat. I slowly opened my eyes. My head was resting on her folded thigh, and her kind face was smiling down at me. She had drenched her black scarf in water and was moistening my lips.
Gradually, I came back to life. She had snatched me away from the clutches of death. At first, I thought she was just a vision - an illusion and product of my deranged mind. But the revival of my strength assured me of the reality of her existence.
We were inseparable thereafter, though Maga did not need my company at all. She was old but still wild enough to carry a curved dagger, hidden within the folds of her black robe. She apparently needed neither food nor water. I had never seen her eating anything except that sometimes she chewed on some dried roots and mushrooms.
Maga was my scared triangle - in that there was no doubt. She was my survival when I needed to cling to life. She was my warmth when I was tortured by my loneliness. And one night she became my desire, when my senses were heavy with lust and my body was craving human touch. I expected myself to be disgusted in the morning. But when the sun rose, I found my heart filled with only love for her. So yes, she had become my sacred triangle.
_________________________________________
‘So what do you think, child? Maga asked, breaking my reverie.
‘Huh?’ I looked at her questioningly.
‘What is the most significant of these three, the past, the present, or the future?’
I thought hard before presenting an answer. ‘My past has made me what I am, and my future is pulling me into itself. But I am breathing in the present. So perhaps, the present is the most significant of all.’ I brushed off the dust on my hands and looked up at her.
‘Yes!’ She smiled with her kohl-lined eyes. I peered back into them, and the reflection of the bright moon peered back at me. ‘Past is only a dream and the future is a fantasy. Only the present is real - as real as it can be.’
‘But what if the present is also a dream?’ I asked.
‘That is possible too, of course.’ She smiled at me. ‘But you are living this dream…aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’ I confessed.
‘Past is important because it started with your birth, and the future is important because it will end with your death.’ She spread her hands, and the night wind blew her long robe in a trail of grey shadows. ‘But what is enclosed in between these two absolute realities is a series of moments. Each of these moments becomes the future, the present, and then the past, in turn. But it is only when the moment exists in the present that it matters the most. Because it encompasses the entirety of your existence.’ She finished her brief lecture and smiled at me.
‘Maga?’ I asked her, ‘Do the dead regret not living in the moment?’
‘That is something only the dead can tell you, child.’
I sat down on the cold sand, and she rested her head on my shoulder. I smelt the sandalwood smell of her silver hair and closed my eyes peacefully. The night was melting fast around us, and the moon was diving below the horizon. Soon, it became just a yellow shadow in the West.
_________________________________________________
‘Jawdat!’ Maga whispered in my ear, and I opened my eyes.
The night had enveloped us completely, and the desert was all silent. The wind had died down, and the lonely stars were sparkling silently - witnessing our present.
I looked at her, and she directed my gaze towards a few stars lining the horizon. Some of them gradually detached from the others and slowly crept nearer until they became a short trail of moving lanterns. The dead night air sighed again and brought the murmuring of the wavering wails to our ears.
Shadows were hiding behind the lanterns. Slowly, the shadows started assuming human forms. It looked like a funeral procession, creeping along the soft sand with deliberate steps. By then, the wail had become a rich mixture of grief and tears, the heralds of some unspoken tragedy.
I saw the wooden box, solemn in its quiet grace, riding the shoulders of wailing mourners. Though it jerked and rolled with each step, its occupant was very much dead and lifeless.
‘Jawdat!’ Maga again whispered my name and then muttered some words under her breath.
I felt my body dissolving into the darkness. I became the night wind and caressed the wet cheeks of the tired mourners. I tasted the bitterness of tragedy and then stole into the dark coffin. I became the darkness itself and crawled underneath the dead eyelids. And the dead spoke to me:
‘Touch my lips, which have kissed a hundred beauties,
caress my eyes, that have dreamt a million dreams
Feel my heart, that preferred passion over duties,
and run in my veins, that once pulsated with extremes
But no more, my friend, no more, no more,
I breathe no more, I am dead for sure
I am a lonesome traveller, walking a dark path,
my fate is unsure, my end is all vague
There is no light in my eyes, neither joy nor wrath,
my heart silently suffers - loneliness is the deadliest plague
I was a man once, but now I am just a bundle of flesh,
the flesh that is beginning to rot and stink
I wish I could start my whole life afresh,
I wish I had more time to ponder and to think
Look at my wife, beating her chest in grief,
but her tears are drying up really very fast
Tomorrow she will live again, for this tragedy was brief,
I was her joy in the present, but now I am her past
Listen to the shuffling steps that belong to my weary sons,
they are burdened with sorrow, but their hearts are filled with hope
Tomorrow they will rise again, for death only stuns,
for their future is bright, as they will slowly climb the rope
Listen, my friend, and listen carefully,
my time has come, and yours will come soon
Listen, my friend, and listen attentively,
I am now dead, and you too will die soon
Life is a dew drop, vanishing once kissed by the sun,
dust on a moth’s wings, only ash once kissed by a flame
So live your life, live it to the full; have all the joy, have all the fun,
for in the end, there’ll be nothing left but regrets and shame’
__________________________________________
‘Did you hear the dead man’s words?’ Maga asked me.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And what have you understood?’ ‘That past was a dream, future is a fantasy, and present is all that ever matters.’
A sweeping historical fantasy following Ashastû, a young Zoroastrian from ancient Nishapur, on his transformative journey from Persia to the mystical mountains of Bamiyan. This philosophical tale weaves together forbidden love, spiritual quest, and profound questions about God, religion, and the nature of existence. Set against the backdrop of medieval Central Asia, the story explores themes of religious tolerance, cultural diversity, and the eternal search for truth through encounters with shamans, mystics, and the enigmatic Woman in the Porcelain Mask. A rich narrative combining Persian mythology, Buddhist philosophy, and universal human experiences of love, loss, and enlightenment.
_______________________________________________
Once, I was Ashastû, son of Darsha and resident of the ancient city of Nishapur. I was a follower of Mazdayasna and the worshipper of Ahura Mazda. Once I was a bird, imprisoned by a gilded cage.
Like a butterfly, which was once a caterpillar, I was all that but no more. I have become the bearer of the most ancient of all legacies - the legacy of forgotten wisdom. This is the story of my transformation and my transition, from a caterpillar to a butterfly; and from the dark path of ignorance to the bright path of wisdom.
_______________________________________________
My family had been serving the grand temple of Nishapur since the time of the great Zarathustra. My father was among the most respected leaders of the Council of Mobeds. He was also the Chief Priest of the Temple of Fire and the Custodian of the Towers of Silence.
My father was kind and affectionate and wanted me to take his place one day, once it was his time to return to the lap of Ahura Mazda. But I was a free spirit - an eagle living under the shades of the great grey mountains. An eagle, who was waiting for his chance to ride the mighty shoulders of the wind, and make his nest atop the summits of snowy peaks.
_______________________________________________
Nishapur was not an ordinary city. This Persian city was the capital of the Khorasan Province, and attracted intellectuals and artisans from as far as Jerusalem in the Middle East and Taxila in the Indus Valley. The city was filled with gold and riches, thanks to the never-ending turquoise mines.
It was a tough and resilient city. It survived the raids of rebels fighting the Sasanids and the Samanids. It survived the onslaught of the Tahirid and the Seljuq forces, and it also survived the devastation imposed by the Mongols. In fact, the city’s survival against the Mongols was nothing short of a miracle.
The devils from the Khanate in Mongolia slaughtered the entire population of the city within days. A few citizens, including my family, saved their lives by hiding in caves, masked by the slopes of the Binalud Mountains. But something deep within the city’s carcass kept breathing, and after the fall of Khwarezmia at the hands of the Mongols, Nishapur kept on progressing under the Shiites. Along with the great cities of Balkh, Merv, and Herat, it evolved into an intellectual, commercial, and cultural gem.
Nishapur was a colourful city with a life of its own. But, with all its charms and knowledge and with all its riches and women, the city was unable to keep me chained to the feet of my father. I was waiting for my chance to fly away, and my father knew this.
‘Ashastû! My son! You are going to get lost in the world out there.’ He used to say, gracefully attired in his flowing white robes.
‘Yes, father!’ I used to bow my head with a tiny and rebellious smile dancing around the corners of my lips.
‘Stay here with me, and one day the spirits of our ancestors will bring peace to you.’ He used to say.
‘But the spirits live beyond the frontiers of space and time.’ I used to tease him, feeling confident in the warmth of his paternal affection, ‘Won’t they be able to bring peace to me wherever I am in this whole wide world?’
‘Do not exploit the love of an old man, Ashastû.’ His moist eyes used to plead, ‘I love you, my son, and would like you to stay here with me till the day I breathe my last.’
‘If you truly love me, father….’ I used to beg in return, ‘…..you would let me go wherever I want to go.’
Then one day, a large caravan from Kashghar crawled like a great serpent through the grand city entrance. To the city of Nishapur and its countless dwellers, the caravan was nothing out of the ordinary. But for me, the caravan was the wind, the eagle within me was seeking. Once it left Nishapur, a few days later, I was riding one of its camels, concealed by a grey and brown, old, tattered robe.
_______________________________________________
Once I left Nishhapur, I never looked back. It was my dream to see the world stretching beyond the horizon. I saw that world with my eyes and felt it with my heart. With each new journey came a new adventure.
I carried along a copy of the Avesta, the collection of the Zoroastrians’ sacred texts. The ancient book, the obscure prophecies hidden within its disintegrating pages, and my understanding of the verses were all I had to earn my livelihood. I was willing to trade my religion for my survival.
The caravan followed the southern shores of the Caspian Sea and entered Azerbaijan. I smelt the fresh and crisp air kissed by snow and peered into the grey eyes of the wild mountain women. I found the majesty of the icy peaks reflected in those eyes. The freedom of my soul fell in love with the freedom in those grey eyes. But I had to move on, and I moved on, leaving behind a piece of my heart buried in the white snow.
The caravan moved through Armenia and then Georgia and reached the great city of Smyrna in Turkey. The captivating architecture and minarets with their high spires lost within the white billowing clouds stimulated my curiosity. The music of the lyre and the smells of spices intoxicated my soul and incited my sensuality. I wanted to study the graceful curves of each marble dome and feel the rough texture of each sun-dried brick. But I had to move on, and I moved on, leaving a piece of my soul tied to the pigeons of Smyrna.
The caravan moved through Babylon and Mesopotamia and then back into Persia. It crawled along the Persian Gulf and re-entered Khorasan. The caravan did not stop either at Kandahar or Ghazni except for a day or two, and kept moving until it reached the feet of the great Buddhas of Bamiyan.
_______________________________________________
Bamiyan awed me. The two grand Buddhas, managing to look humble even in their silent grandeur, captivated my imagination. They were carved into the side of a great mountain, looking down on the wandering Hazara tribes. I used to sit on a rock facing the statues and think of Buddha, the Prince who abandoned the rich comforts of his palace in search of peace and wisdom.
I loved Bamiyan so much that when the caravan left, I stayed behind. But it was not my interest or curiosity in the Buddhas that made me stay in Bamiyan. Rather, it was my dark fate, which perched upon a lonely ledge of the naked mountains, and stalked its ignorant prey. Then one day it dived down from the ledge. It hid her dark ugliness behind the sweet and lovely face of Zahran and introduced me to the yet alien feeling of love.
_______________________________________________
One summer morning in Bamiyan, I was sitting at my usual spot, lost in a reverie. The day was bright and peaceful with a few soft clouds floating on the clear blue sky.
‘Who are you and why do you sit here every day?’ The gleaming steel of a delicate but firm voice suddenly sliced the silence.
I slowly turned my neck and looked at my nemesis. She was riding the most beautiful horse I had ever seen. It was tall and had gleaming, black satin skin stretched over wonderfully formed muscles. Its long mane was knotted into braids, each tied with a small silver bell at the end, and the leather saddle and straps looked as soft as velvet and were dyed a dark hue of purple.
For a moment, my gaze remained fixed on the delicately carved silver spurs attached to the black leather saddles. Then it climbed up slowly. My eyes traced the firm contours of muscled and well-toned shins and thighs. The rider had an excellent taste in clothes, and her dark velvet and silk apparel spoke of her high status.
I finally looked at her face after delaying the pleasure as long as possible. A pair of emerald eyes was staring back at me with curiosity. Two bushy eyebrows stretched like scimitars over those lovely eyes. Nothing else was visible as a purple silk scarf covered her face.
‘I am Ashastû of Nishapur.’ I answered while getting up, ‘And who might be you, my lady?’
‘I am Zahran.’ She gave a short answer and kept staring at me.
‘Zahran who? Queen of the Dark Night or Guardian of the Golden Sunlight?’ I asked with a smile.
‘Zahran, the daughter and only child of Katib Ahang - the Chief of all Hazara tribes.’ She answered haughtily and then turned her horse and galloped away.
_______________________________________________
I kept on standing there for ages, my senses numbed by fragrance diffusing the clear mountain air all around me. It was the fragrance of the night-scented jasmine, and it seeped deep into my heart.
Zahran became my destiny in those few fleeting moments. I forgot that I was a traveller. I forgot that I was away from my home and in a foreign land of strange customs and traditions. All instincts of safety and survival abandoned me and were replaced by the vision of two emerald eyes, peering at me from behind a silk scarf.
Of course, I had heard of her father, Katib Ahang - the cruel and despotic tribal chief of all Hazaras. Whoever spoke of him spoke with fear-inspired deference. I knew where he lived. It was a navy blue pavilion, the colour of the night sky, on which a silver flag waved at the mercy of the crisp mountain air.
From that day onwards, I sat in the same spot every day and at all hours, waiting for Zahran to return. I forgot all about the grand Buddhas, and I stopped reveling in the sad majesty of the lofty mountains. Zahran became the centre of my universe. Her memory became the fire around which my mind circled like a moth. I breathed in her name and breathed it out. I was a man struck by the thunderbolt of love. I was a doomed man.
Days changed into nights and nights transformed back into days. The sun and the moon followed each other from horizon to horizon. Then one day, while I was sitting at the usual spot, something cold and wet fell on my head. I looked up. Snow had started falling. Winter had come to Bamiyan, and with it came a freezing wind, chilling my bones. But still, Zahran didn’t come, and I kept on waiting for her.
_______________________________________________
It was an extremely cold morning when destiny chose to show some pity on my agony. There was a harsh wind blowing from the North. But I was oblivious to all. I was sitting cross-legged, facing the Buddhas with my eyes closed and vision filled with the beauty of emerald eyes. Suddenly, I heard the sound of hooves thudding upon the soft carpet of snow.
When I heard the tinkling of silver bells along with the sound of hooves, my heart leapt with joy. But I didn’t get up. Ashastû of Nishapur was in love, but he was also patient.
‘Who are you and why do you sit here every day?’ Her voice still sounded the same - gleaming steel slicing a thick blanket of silence.
‘I am Zahran’s slave and I wait here every day for her.’
My heart had stopped beating in the anticipation of a response. But there was only silence. Finally, I decided to turn around. There on her tall horse, sat my beloved - clad in an ebony-coloured gown. Her emerald eyes were staring at me and through me, their green depths betraying nothing of what was going on in her mind.
‘I find you interesting - Ashastû of Nishapur.’ Zahran decided to speak.
‘Then I am the luckiest man on earth.’ I approached the horse, placed my hand lightly on the reins, and bowed my head. ‘Let death come and I will willingly embrace it for I have found all that I ever desired and all that I ever will desire.’
‘One never finds all the desires. Don’t be absurd.’ Her eyes smiled at me.
‘One does if he learns contentment.’ I smiled back at her.
‘So, are you content, Ashastû?’
‘Yes, I am……now.’ I answered while holding her gaze.
She got down from the horse, and we sat together on the boulder.
‘What do you desire most in the world?’ She asked, after a few moments of fragrant silence.
‘Interestingly, I always thought I desired freedom the most. But….’ I deliberately left my sentence frozen in the cold mountain air like a hanging icicle.
‘But?’ She softly coaxed me to go on.
‘But that was before I met you, Zahran.’ I picked up some courage and delicately touched her hand, ‘Now I desire you the most.’
She laughed at my answer, and her laughter was the sound of silver bells riding the early morning air. But she did not withdraw her hand from my touch.
‘Ah! Desire….the most temporary and fragile of all human feelings.’ She subtly pressed my hand back.
‘One moment, the desire overpowers us and intoxicates us with its heady perfume; and the next, it dissolves into nothingness, making way for the next desire. But if fulfilled, it transforms into the stink of regret.’ She said thoughtfully.
‘My desire for you is nothing like that. It is here to stay in my heart - forever.’ I submitted.
‘Forever?’ She laughed again. ‘Forever is a word that suits only our creator. We humans can just live in the moments and can only dream of forever.’
We sat together for some time, and then, seeing a few horses leave her father’s camp, she hurriedly left. But that was not our last meeting. Instead, it was the first of many such meetings. Each time we met, I expressed my love, and each time she brushed aside my submissions with laughter. But as steadily falling drops of water pit a slab of granite, my words of love, slowly and gradually, melted Zahran’s heart.
Seasons changed - winter gave way to spring and summer, and autumn heralded the advent of another reign of harsh coldness. But our young hearts, warmed by love and passion, were oblivious to the cold winds raging outside.
Then one day, Zahran did not come. I waited and kept on waiting. First for a day, then for a few days, and then for weeks. When a whole month had passed and she didn’t come, I knew something was amiss. Without reflecting on the consequences, I decided to go check one evening.
_______________________________________________
The pavilion of Katib Ahang was not very far from where I lived. I approached it stealthily. It was dark in the valley but brighter than daylight around the pavilion. A thousand torches burned brightly, illuminating the lower expanse of the grand canvas structure.
The place was thickly manned by a battalion of menacing-looking sentries - some on foot, while the others rode tall horses. My heartbeat was throbbing in my ears, and I could smell the stink of my own raw fear. But still, the memory of a fragrance - Zahran’s fragrance, kept me steadfast.
‘Who goes there?’
‘Who moves like a thief amidst the shadows?’
‘Halt! Or you will be slain like a filthy pig.’
Suddenly, frantic and threatening cries halted my feet. My foolish presence had been detected.
In a few moments, I had been apprehended by the sentries, and my hands and feet were bound tightly. They threw me into a dark dungeon. A few nights passed, and no one interrogated me. The guards were silent as trees, and my desperate queries were met only by cold eyes.
Then one morning, the dungeon gates were thrown open. I was bound again and dragged to the Chief’s pavilion.
_______________________________________________
The pavilion indeed looked grander from the inside. The canvas ceiling was covered by a maroon velvet cloth, embroidered with gold, while the high steel and bamboo pillars were decked with golden fixtures. The floor was strewn with Afghan and Persian carpets, so luxuriously soft that I found my toes digging for hold at each step.
Towards the farther end of the pavilion and in front of a black silk curtain, sat the Chief.
Katib Ahang looked young for his age. His hair was still black and scattered on his wide shoulders. Beneath a wide forehead, two dark eyes glared at me, but not with malice. Instead, there gleamed a strange curiosity. If I was not wrong, there was even a hint of a smile on his thin lips. But that was all deception. He was rumoured to be wise yet cruel and fair to the point of strict rigidity.
Katib flicked his fingers, and I was pushed forward. I could hear subdued snickering all around me. A stranger was definitely not welcome amongst that strange company. I was surprised to see women sitting amongst the men, not as subjects or objects, but as equals. I was aware that Hazara women formed part of the council of elders, but I didn’t know that they participated in the court proceedings so openly.
‘Who are you and why are you here in Bamiyan?’ Katib Ahang inquired softly.
‘O mighty and noble chief of all Hazara tribes, I am Ashastû of Nishapur.’ I submitted in the humblest tone I could muster.
‘Go on!’ Katib’s command rang with impatience.
‘I came to Bamiyan by chance. I stayed in Bamiyan by choice. And I remained in Bamiyan by a stroke of fate.’ I answered with a bent head.
‘Nothing happens by chance, for every occurrence has a reason. Choice is rational, but fate is only what we make out of our circumstances.’ The Chief chewed on each word of his.
For a few moments, nobody spoke. Even the whispers and snickering had died down. All was silent in the court of Katib Ahang. His steely gaze scrutinised me from head to toe as his fingers scratched his short, pointed beard.
‘What do you do for a living, Ashastû of Nishapur?’
‘I am a follower of Zarathustra and a believer in Ahura Mazda.’ I raised my head, stared back into his eyes, and answered with confidence, ‘I am a religious scholar and a seeker of eternal truth. I am a traveller and a lover of freedom.’
‘Hmm!’ He scratched his beard again, ‘What were you doing near my pavilion? There is neither any eternal truth nor freedom to be found here.’
I couldn’t find any words to answer that question, so I stood in silence.
‘No answer, eh?’ Katib’s voice mocked me, ‘Perhaps you are not a religious scholar and a seeker of truth, but only a common thief.’
‘I am no thief, O’ mighty Chief.’ I protested, ‘But I am afraid of telling the truth.’
‘Truth is the only force that will set you free, Ashastû of Nishapur. Speak the truth and I will respect your words, but only if I find them free of the poison of deception. However, if I find even a single hint of cleverness and lies, I will have you quartered by four strong horses.’
_______________________________________________
For a while, we both kept staring at each other. I thought of many possible lies. Perhaps I could tell him that I had lost my way. That was believable and logical. Or I could tell him that I wanted to witness the grandeur of his pavilion so that I could go back and tell my countrymen of his magnificence and might. That could have flattered him, surely. But then reason abandoned me, and I decided to tell the truth.
‘I came here to search for Zahran, your daughter.’ My answer was the spark to the fuse of a cannon.
Cacophony broke out, and there was even the sound of a few swords and scimitars being unsheathed. But I refused to look around and kept on staring at the Chief. The colour of his face changed to red for a moment. He almost got up from his throne and started to speak, but then controlled himself and sat back.
‘Silence!’ Katib finally snarled, and the chaos around us died down abruptly. ‘And why were you searching for my daughter?’
‘Because I love her and was worried about her absence. I feared that some sickness or malady had overcome her. But as I had no means of inquiring about her well-being, I decided to come check myself.’ I was growing fearless by the moment. Now that my truth was out in the open, I wasn’t afraid of death anymore.
‘Are you mad or do you foster a death wish?’ Katib inquired while impatiently rubbing his hands, ‘Don’t you fear for your life, young man?’
‘He is neither crazy nor desires to die.’ Zahran’s beautiful voice rang out from behind the black curtain, ‘He speaks the truth, Father. He loves me and I love him.’
Katib was startled by Zahran’s voice. He looked back at the black curtain and then at me, and then back at the curtain again. He looked unbelievingly at his council of advisers and ministers, all of whom looked equally startled and shocked. It was a strange day in the court of Katib Ahang. He gave me a final look of disbelief and then held his hairy head in his hands and shut his eyes.
‘Do you belong to an illustrious family - perhaps an ancient line of great kings?’ The Chief raised his head and asked me. He looked old. Truth has that impact. It ages people.
‘No, I do not belong to a line of kings, O’ mighty Chief of Hazaras.’ I clasped my hands and explained with respect, ‘But my family is noble and I can trace my lineage back to the times of the great Zarathustra. My father is the Chief Priest of the Temple of Fire and the Custodian of the Towers of Silence in Nishapur. He is the Chief of the Council of Mobeds and is respected by the followers of all religions alike.’
‘He is an infidel.’
‘He is the worshipper of fire.’
‘He dares to dishonour the Hazaras and our noble Chief.’
‘He should be killed.’
Chaos broke out in the court again.
‘Enough!’ Katib raised his hand and silenced his courtiers.
‘It is true that we are the people of one true faith. But it doesn’t mean that we do not honour truth and the decisions of our women. Hazaras are noble not because of their lineage or race. We are noble because we honour truth and we honour our women. And one doesn’t honour women by taking away their right of choice; one honours women by respecting their decisions.’
I breathed a sigh of relief and gave myself a pat for sticking to my instincts.
‘But!’ Katib spoke again, ‘Zahran is no ordinary woman. She is the Princess of all Hazaras. For the honour of all Hazaras, she has a right to exercise her choice only if her choice proves his merit.’
‘I am ready for any test.’ I humbly bowed my head, ‘I am even ready to give my life to prove my love for Zahran.’
‘I agree too. You can test him, father, for I have an absolute confidence in my choice.’ Zahran spoke from behind the curtain.
‘You are a seeker of truth, you say?’ Katib looked at me sternly.
‘That I am, O’ mighty Chief.’ I was at my humblest.
‘Then give me an answer to these three questions, and Zahran will be free to marry you: What is God? What is religion? And what are prayers?’
I listened to the three questions and processed them with unease. I looked up and saw that Katib was smiling.
‘But all these….’ I protested, ‘All these are absolute questions, and only absolute truths can answer these questions. Nobody can find absolute truths.’
‘Even absolute questions can be answered satisfactorily, provided the answers are founded on reason and logic.’ The Chief dismissed my objection with a wave of his hand.
I nodded my head in agreement, and that was that. The deal was struck.
_______________________________________________
The next morning, Zahran, along with a few riders from her father’s guard, bade me farewell at the borders of Bamiyan. I looked at her face, and instead of tears, there was confidence lighting up her eyes. She knew and she believed in my capabilities. I had to prove myself worthy of her belief and confidence. With a heavy heart, I waved at her one final time and started climbing the mountain path.
_______________________________________________
I had no particular destination in mind as I didn’t know where the answers could be found. But trusting a voice deep inside my heart, I decided to travel towards the North.
My path was strewn with innumerable difficulties.
I crossed the lands of the wily Turks. They looked at my tattered clothes and mistook me for a Sufi. Nobody asked about my identity or religion. I passed through them unharmed.
I came across the cruel and bloodthirsty Uzbeks. Their marauding bands caught me and then released me, unable to determine my nationality. I passed through them unharmed.
I passed through the tribes of the Kazakhs. One look at me, and the robbers knew I did not carry any valuables or money. They even took pity on me and fed me and provided me shelter for a few days. I passed through them unharmed.
It was like some force of nature was guiding my path and protecting me against all odds and all harm. The swords, while plunging on my neck, froze mid-air, and daggers seeking my blood, were withdrawn at the last moment. When I was thirsty, I found sweet mountain springs; and when I was hungry, I found either game or kind villagers.
_______________________________________________
One day, while I was getting tired of following the endless curves of a gorge, I reached the feet of a mighty mountain range. The stones and rocks were all shades of black and white, and grey. About a few hundred feet up on the slope, there was a building made of blackened and aged wood and stone. It was two stories high, and smoke rose out of its chimneys. I had reached a caravan sarai.
After many negotiations and pleas on my part, the owner of the sarai agreed to let me spend a few nights there, in return for my agreement to entertain the guests each night.
It was a strange place. I could see a hundred or so travellers, each having a different nationality and a unique set of features. This by itself was not strange. Caravan sarais are supposed to be melting pots of many cultures and nationalities. But what I found strange was that none of those guests was a tradesman or merchant.
There was a thin naked sadhu from Benares in India; his naked body glistening with the fat of dead animals and sometimes smeared with ash. I was fascinated by the markings on his forehead and his knotted hair, and yoga asanas.
There was a young woman with flaming red hair; her green eyes betraying her Nasrani ancestors. The owner of the sarai called her a witch, an accusation which she neither denied nor acknowledged. I was entranced by the fluid way in which her body gyrated, while she danced to the strange beat of some invisible music.
There was a Tibetan Buddhist monk; his head as bald as an eggshell and his face filled with lines deep with age and experience. I marvelled at the sea of calmness reflected in his expressionless eyes and his slow, deliberate way of doing each routine task, as if it were some mystic ritual.
And then there was a shaman from some unknown lands; his long hair adorned by the most marvellous-looking feathers of exotic birds. I was captivated by his deep guttural incantations and his throat singing, which resonated with something deep inside me.
_______________________________________________
One night, I was sitting beside the fire burning in the middle of the sarai’s courtyard. Huddled in my tattered blanket and unable to sleep, I felt someone staring at me. I looked around, but everyone was either busy or asleep. No one was interested in me. But the feeling of being stared at persisted strongly.
I closed my eyes, and the wise words of my faraway father echoed in my ears, ‘When there is a sensory perception but you cannot find its origin, close your eyes and regulate your breathing. Breathe in and breathe out. Cancel out the noise of the world around you. Slowly and gradually, the origin will reveal itself to you.’
I regulated my breathing - ten breaths in and ten out - each of equal duration. When the world fell silent around me, I opened my eyes. I again searched the shadows and was successful in finally sensing a movement. I focused on it, and slowly, the shadows transformed into a definable physical shape. The Shaman stepped out of the darkness and approached me.
He wasn’t walking. Instead, he was dancing. He was taking slow, deliberate steps - two forward, one back, two forward, one sideways, and then again two steps forward. Nobody around us was playing any instrument, but I thought I could hear the weeping of the lyre and the beating of the unseen drums. I looked at him, totally entranced.
The Shaman came closer and started dancing around me. He completed one circle around me and then another in the opposite direction. But all that time, his half-closed eyes remained fixed on me. Then suddenly he stopped and raised his right hand in the air. My eyes followed the direction his index finger was pointing in. There, in a window on the top floor of the sarai, stood a woman with the palest and most featureless face I had ever seen. Her long hair fanned her shoulders. She was looking at me intently. Then she raised a hand and beckoned me to join her.
I had never seen that woman at the sarai before. She was probably a new guest. I wanted to ask the Shaman about her, but he had vanished - dissolving like smoke in the night air. I looked around and searched the shadows. He was nowhere to be found.
Scratching my head in confusion, I got up, adjusted the blanket around my shoulders, and entered the building. The owner was sitting behind a stone counter, busy doing some calculations in the weak lamp light. Sensing my presence, he looked up and stared at me questioningly.
‘I have been summoned.’ I offered a vague explanation.
‘Summoned? By whom?’ He sounded almost bored.
‘By a woman.’ I answered.
‘There is no woman in the sarai. The witch was the only woman, and she left this morning for the Lake of Grey Shadows.’ He chuckled softly.
‘I saw an old woman standing in a window.’ I insisted.
‘Well! We see what we want to see and not what is actually there. Go on then. Go see what your imaginary woman wants.’ He waved his hand at me disinterestedly and bent his head to his figures again.
I grabbed a burning torch from a wall and started climbing the dark stairs. The top floor was all dark and quiet. All the doors were closed shut and looked the same. However, one was different from the others. While all others were made of dark wood, this particular door was made of some strange metal which glowed in the dark. Rather, while the door itself provided a dark background, certain carvings on it pulsated with a strange glow.
I looked at the carvings closely. They looked vaguely familiar. I moved back a little, and then suddenly I understood. Those were not random carvings. Instead, from a certain angle and when viewed in totality, they formed a symbol. It was the figure of a bearded and crowned man with spread wings.
The symbol was not alien to me. It represented Faravahar, a significant symbol of my religion, which represented many different things like sins, virtues, loyalty, and faith. But above all, it represented truth.
I took a deep breath and knocked softly on the door. The moment my knuckles touched the door, the glowing lines of the symbol rearranged themselves into figures. They were all awful figures. Souls were writhing in agony and tortured spirits begging for mercy. For a moment, I was startled, but then I understood.
It was a door to truth, but truth is the most torturous of all revelations. It comes with a heavy price - the price that has to be paid in coins of anguish and misery. I asked myself if I was really ready to pay that price. Something inside me was convinced that whatever I sought was to be found beyond that door.
I thought of the sweet face of Zahran and her magical emerald eyes. I took another deep breath and knocked again. The glowing lines extinguished abruptly like a flame snuffed between two fingers, and the door went dark. I knocked for the third time.
_______________________________________________
‘Enter!’ A quavering voice commanded from inside the room, and the door opened by itself.
From the threshold, all looked dark inside. But the moment I closed the creaking door behind me, the room lit up.
It was a small room, not unlike others in the sarai, but far more decorated and rich. The walls were covered by dark, heavy folds of bluish black velvet and adorned with ornate drawings and writings in gleaming silver. There were tapestries and also a wolf’s skin, complete with the snarling jaw and sparkling beady eyes, lying in the middle of the floor. There was a bright, warm fire lit in the hearth, and someone was sitting facing the fire.
It was a small hooded figure - most probably the old woman standing in the window. She was wearing a deep purple-colored silk gown, but the rich colour was fading fast. Even within the folds of fading silk, intricately woven and embroidered dragons and other mythical beasts were visible.
‘Come sit beside me.’ The woman patted the small wooden stool at her side without looking at me.
‘Who are you?’ I sat down and asked. I tried to look at her face, but it was hidden by the hood of the silk gown.
Her sing-song voice rose like a lament:
‘I am the weeping wind in the willows, which sighs and passes over the plains;
I am the song of the grasshoppers, which comes after the rains
I am the bright sun of joyous life, which seems to shine eternally;
I am the pale moon of death, which seems to glow eternally
I am what was, and I am what is, and what will be, and what you may ask;
I am the riddle and I am the answer, I am the woman in the porcelain mask’
With the last words, she looked at me, and I was startled. There was no face. Under the crown of magnificent silver hair, there was an expressionless and delicate white mask of porcelain, covering all her features. She was old - of that I was sure. But how old? I had no means to assess her age.
‘I haven’t understood even a single word out of what you have said.’ I humbly confessed my failure.
‘You will understand.’ Her voice told me she was smiling underneath that mask. ‘You will understand all at the right time. Not before that and not after that - but only at the right moment.’
‘But who are you?’ I asked respectfully.
‘I was once a princess of the Song Dynasty. When the Mongols attacked China, I was a prized catch. Kublai Khan took one look at me and surrendered his heart forever. I became his most beloved wife. With time, I learnt to overcome my hatred for the Mongols - the killers of my noble family.’
She fell silent and started prodding the dying flames. The sparks hiding beneath the ash resurfaced with a fury, and the room was warm again.
‘Alas! Life is a series of sorrows separated by a few small joys. One day, when I was travelling with a caravan to join my husband on one of his hunting expeditions, I was kidnapped by the Hashisheen.’
‘Hashisheen?’ I asked. The term was strange to me.
‘Yes, Hashisheen - the crazy followers of the Old Man under the Mountain. They were a fearsome lot. The Old Man, Hassan bin Sabah, and his successors had created a force of chaos. Theirs was the power of death, and the instrument of death was a band of young men - all blinded by visions of heaven and hell.’ She answered without looking at me and then suddenly shivered as though the memory of some dark place was still haunting her senses.
‘Visions of heaven and hell?’ I was surprised, ‘How did the Old Man manage that?’
‘Hashish is a strange drug. It dulls the senses and makes you see visions in the smoke. Besides, heaven and hell were real. I was one of the houris of that heaven. One look at our naked bodies, and the boys were ready to kill just to have another look.’
Suddenly, a wailing chant from the courtyard disturbed our conversation.
‘Mookam karoti vaachaalam
Pangum langhayatey girim
Yatkripaa tamaham vandey
Paramaananda Maadhavam’
It was the Shaman. The old woman stood up and went to the window. She stood there watching the shaman for a while, and then raised her right hand and said sternly, ‘Be quiet and be gone, you fool. Your job is done. Go find a dark corner and rest in peace.’
Hearing these words, the Shaman stopped chanting, and silence ruled the night air once again. She turned back and walked back to her place by the fire.
‘Enough about me.’ She said, staring at me, ‘Now ask the questions you are seeking the answers to.’
‘Questions?’ I was startled. ‘But how do you………?’
‘Don’t be a fool.’ She raised her hand and silenced my query, ‘Ask the questions before the night turns into day.’
_______________________________________________
First Question: What is God?
‘The first question………’ I asked while scratching my chin, ‘What is God?’
‘Are you familiar with the writings of the ancient Greeks?’ She asked.
‘Yes, somewhat.’ I couldn’t grasp the tangent our conversation was following.
‘Archimedes was a famous Greek philosopher and scientist. Once, when asked to launch a naval fleet, he asked the King of Syracuse to pull at a string lightly. When the King pulled that string, a great system of cleverly designed pulleys and levers moved, and the whole fleet was launched in one go.
What can you not do - O’ great and wise Archimedes? The King asked in awe.
Everything can be done. Archimedes smiled. Give me a place to stand and I shall move the world.’
The old woman fell silent, and I looked at her expectantly.
‘Well….so?’ I asked impatiently.
‘So, Ashastû of Nishapur!’ She was smiling again. ‘God is the concept, which we have to understand to understand the world. God is the constant in all equations. This constant has to be incorporated in order to understand the relationship between the variables. God is not biologically significant. He is philosophically relevant and rather a compulsion.’
‘So the belief in God is a must to understand the world?’ I asked.
‘Yes, God is the path you walk on - the only path to truth.’ She nodded.
_______________________________________________
Second Question: What is Religion?
‘The second question….?’ I looked at her hesitatingly and waited for her permission.
‘Yes, please.’ She patted my knee with her bony hand, reassuringly.
‘What is religion?’ I asked.
Hearing my question, the woman fell silent again. She again got up and walked to the window. Lightning was illuminating the distant peaks, and the faraway thunder was a muffled roar. Then she turned towards me and spread her arms wide. She looked like a priestess of the heathens - her silver hair spread across the silk-clad shoulders, and the white porcelain mask was illuminated by the light of the flames.
‘Listen, Ashastû of Nishapur, all religions are the same. I was brought up a Buddhist and was then taught Taoism. I lived amongst the Mongols and learnt of their great religion of Shamanism, and I also witnessed the conversion of Kublai Khan to Islam. Then, when I was abducted by the Hashisheens, I learnt of many other religious doctrines and styles. There were Christians and Jews and even Hindus amongst us.’
‘But…’ I protested, ‘Zoroastrianism is the one true religion.’
The woman laughed, and her brittle laughter shattered the stillness of the peaceful mountain night.
‘Tell me Ashastû…..’ Seeing my obvious discomfort, she took pity on me, ‘Are you familiar with the story of the Angra Mainyu from your religion?’
‘Yes!’ I excitedly answered, ‘The architect of destruction, the King of all demons and noxious creatures, and the opposite of Ahura Mazda.’
‘And is your Angra Mainyu any different from the Christian concept of the devil or the Islamic concept of Shaitan? Or is your Ahura Mazda any different from the Christian God, the Islamic Allah, and the Jewish Elohim?’
I was listening intently.
‘All religions are the same. They talk about similar concepts: judgment after death, free will, and heaven and hell. Man needs to believe in a higher power and a higher system of judgment for his own psychological security. Man wants to commit sins with a belief in forgiveness, and wants to ward off the consequences of his actions.’
The woman fell silent, leaving me trying to somehow reassemble my badly tattered beliefs.
_______________________________________________
Third Question: What are Prayers?
‘I am ready to answer the third question.’ The woman had very little patience for my uncomfortable silence.
‘The third question is what are prayers?’ I asked.
‘Do you pray and are your prayers answered?’ The woman asked me.
‘Yes!’ I excitedly nodded my head, ‘Whenever I pray with a focus and I really desire something or someone, God answers my prayers.’
‘That is indeed admirable.’ She smiled at me and asked, ‘But does God answer your prayers when you yourself do not move or act?’
‘No!’ I thoughtfully replied, ‘I always have to make an effort.’
‘So who answers your prayers? Is it God or is it your efforts?’ She asked with a smile.
‘From the perspective of faith, I would like to believe that it is God who answers my prayers. But from the perspective of reason and logic, I believe it is my efforts that make my prayers come true.’ I answered thoughtfully.
‘I am not negating your belief in God.’ The woman again patted my knee kindly, ‘What I am trying to make you see is that your own efforts are responsible for the fulfillment of your prayers.’
‘But what about God’s role then?’ I persisted.
‘Perhaps He blesses your prayers. Perhaps He gives you a push in the right direction. Or perhaps He simply doesn’t care, or perhaps He doesn’t want to interfere with the carefully-balanced system that He has created. We do not know for sure’.
_______________________________________________
A wolf howled at the moon somewhere in the valleys. I looked outside the window. The Eastern sky was turning pale. Morning was approaching fast.
_______________________________________________
The Final Question: What is Love?
‘Quick!’ The woman raised her hand, ‘Ask the final question and be gone.’
‘The final question?’ I was surprised, ‘There is no final question. I only had three questions and all three have been answered.’
‘Those weren’t your questions, Ashastû.’ She gently reminded me, ‘Those were the questions of your lover’s father. Search your own heart. You still have a question left.’
I bent my head down and closed my eyes. I looked inwards and thought of my life. I thought of my old father and my many journeys. And I thought of the sweet face of Zahran. I knew what I wanted to ask.
‘What is love?’ I raised my head, opened up my eyes slowly, and asked.
‘Yes!’ She sighed with satisfaction, ‘What is love?’
‘Love is not desire, and love is not the destiny. Instead, love is a path to knowledge.’
‘Then, knowledge is the destiny?’ I asked.
‘No. There is no destiny. Knowledge comes with walking on the path. It comes with each step. Love is only an instrument we use to reach understanding. Once understanding comes, love’s task is done.’
_______________________________________________
I bent my head again in contemplation. The woman was strange, but she was right. I tried to think of Zahran, but her sweet face was fast dissolving into a sphere of light. I opened my eyes to thank the strange woman, but there was nobody there. The room was empty. Only her porcelain mask was there, placed carefully on the stool on which she was sitting.
_______________________________________________
The court of Katib Ahang was in order. He sat on his throne - the very picture of a worried father. Zahran was not well. She was sure some misfortune had befallen her lover. Katib did everything to divert her attention. He arranged dark magicians from the East and exotic dancers from the West. But nothing worked.
‘Your majesty!’ Katib looked up. An old servant was standing in front of the throne, holding a small piece of parchment in his hand.
‘Yes?’ He asked.
‘A raven brought this message today. It has answers to all the questions that you asked that Zoroastrian scholar.’
Katib eagerly grabbed the parchment and read it from top to bottom.
‘Bravo! The scholar has answered all the questions correctly and has even provided the answer to a fourth question that I never asked.’ He proclaimed loudly.
‘What is the fourth question, Father?’ Zahran suddenly tore open the black silk curtain and stepped outside. Her face wore a mask of anguish.
‘The fourth question is…….’ Katib read the parchment. ‘What is love?’
‘And what is the answer, Father?’ She asked anxiously, while rubbing together her beautiful hands.
‘Love is not desire, and love is not the destiny. Instead, love is a path of and to knowledge. Knowledge comes with walking on the path. It comes with each step. Love is only an instrument we use to reach understanding. Once understanding comes, love’s task is done.’ Katib read each word deliberately.
‘Ah! My Ashastû is no more.’ Zahran exclaimed and fell on the rug, clutching her delicate heart.
— Hundreds of miles away from Bamiyan and the court of Katib Ahang, I opened up my eyes. It was true that I was no more. It was true that Ashastû was no more, as he had become the Man in the Porcelain Mask.
Shehryar khawar 