‘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.
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‘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.
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‘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’
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‘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.’
Deep beneath ancient Bakkah lies a secret chamber with a forgotten goddess - and the woman who guards her secret taught a heartbroken scholar why patriarchy buried the divine feminine and why wisdom requires embracing loss.
An epic narrative set in ancient Becca about Venusian, a scholar whose broken heart drives him up a mountain to seek a legendary hermit, only to discover Inanna, a warrior priestess of the forgotten goddess Ishtaar.
A wise man once said that all great quests for knowledge start with a broken heart.
The traveler was tired. He could feel and listen to each little creak in his middle-aged joints. All the creaks sang in unison, the chorus of weariness and exhaustion.
He looked around. The red sun was setting behind the pale mountains, painting the sky in shades of gold, crimson, and purple. The stars had started glimmering faintly just above the eastern horizon.
The mountain under his feet was ancient, like all other mountains - its stones witness to billions of years of sadness. He could feel it gently vibrating as if it was trying to tell him stories of the days past.
‘If only I could talk to the mountains,’ he chuckled to himself.
He checked his leather mushkeezah and greedily sucked upon the few leftover drops. The sudden chill in the air seeped into his bones, almost freezing his sweaty brow.
‘I should not have stopped,’ he thought.
He looked up. The summit was almost within reach.
‘I can reach it,’ he decided determinedly. ‘But what if I do not find the old hermit in his cave? What if he is already dead? What if he was never there in the first place?’
Then, shaking away the onslaught of negative thoughts, the traveler readjusted the load of his meager belongings on his shoulder. He strengthened his grip on the gnarled wooden staff and restarted climbing.
He was Venusian, a resident of the ancient city of Becca. As he climbed higher, he could see the city down below and thousands of twinkling lamp-lights. The city was located in a narrow valley, in the middle of the Paran Desert.
He was not of Arabian descent. His father was Procopius of Caesarea, a leading late-antique scholar from the ancient region of the Levant, and a prominent Roman historian for the Roman Emperor Justinian.
It was love that had brought him to that cold and barren mountain range, which was located just North of Becca. More appropriately, it was a broken heart that drove his tired steps. But it was not the hope of regaining lost love. Instead, it was a quest for knowledge.
Venusian did not weep when she betrayed his love. He did not beg her to stay. He just let her fade away in the distance, anxiously awaiting the first jab of cold pain.
He was not a sadist. He was just a man who knew pain brought along so many gifts within its dark fold - the gift of understanding, the gift of knowledge, and the gift of awareness. Maybe that is why the old gods made him fall in love with her.
By the time he reached the top, darkness had already set in. Venusian breathed in deeply the pure mountain air. The cold air felt warm against the coldness of his heart.
The stars glittered across the length and breadth of the ever-stretching galaxy, sparkling like spilled jewels. Towards the west, the sky was still a deep hue of purple, the farewell gift of the long departed sun. He looked around but could see nothing except dark boulders and a few dry bushes. No hermit or caves were visible.
Suddenly, he saw a dull orange glow behind a nearby boulder. He eagerly stepped ahead, but then the earth vanished beneath his tired feet. Venusian could hear himself scream and then heard the dull bang of his head hitting a small rock. The night became absolutely dark within seconds.
It seemed only moments had passed when he reopened his eyes and found himself warm and comfortable. He found himself lying on a rough bed of thistles, while a crackling fire was burning nearby.
Venusian looked up and could see a low ceiling of rough-hewn rock. Dark shadows were dancing on the ceiling, playing hide and seek with the red glow of fire.
He tried to look around, and the sudden movement brought back pain. He groaned loudly and delicately felt his head. There was an apricot-sized lump, extremely sore to touch.
‘It’s nothing but just a bruise. You are quite alright.’ A deep and almost female voice resonated around the cave.
Startled, he looked up. A woman was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the fire, and her broad back was covered with a saffron-colored robe.
There were gold patterns on the robe. He looked at the patterns closely and identified an eight-pointed star, enclosed within a circle alongside a crescent moon, and a rayed solar disk. There were also strange words written on the robe with the same gold paint, in apparently the Babylonian or the Sumerian script. Venusian tried to sit up to examine the words and symbols, but groaned with pain again.
‘Do not move. Keep on resting. There is no reason to get up. You are safe.’ The robed back spoke again, and Venusian ceased all efforts to get up. Within minutes, he was asleep again.
He woke up to a brilliant afternoon. The sun was shining brightly, and even from inside the cave, he could catch sight of delicate, white clouds. He looked around, but there was no sign of anyone else in the cave.
He thankfully sipped from a bowl of fresh, sweet water, placed near his makeshift bed, and then got up with the assistance of his staff.
The cave was a strange place. Its rock walls were decorated with crude paintings and carvings made by people from before the dawn of civilization. There were scenes of hunting and dancing and also of birth and death, all surrounded by innumerable handprints. There were also a few rosettes drawn in gold.
There were only a few material possessions inside the cave - a rolled up bed in a corner with a few pillows and blankets, a few clay pots and earthenware, and a small collection of dry wood. But everything was arranged in an orderly fashion, and the cave looked neat and clean.
Firmly holding onto his staff, Venusian delicately put pressure on his legs. They were sore but strong. After a few moments, he grew confident and was successful in walking out of the cave.
The cave was located under a bluff, and that is why he was unable to detect it. It had a small stone platform in front. There was a large flat stone boulder on the farther end of the platform, and beyond that boulder, there was absolutely nothing - just a sheer drop of hundreds of feet.
The sun was washing the complete valley down below with a golden splendor. But Venusian had no time to look at the valley and the glittering city of Becca, visible in the far distance. Instead, his eyes were fixed on another spectacle.
A woman was sitting on the boulder and facing the valley. A grown Barbary lion cradled his massive head in her delicate lap. She was dressed in all leather, though it was unfair to call it a dress. It was more like a female battle attire in two pieces, both insufficient to cover her attractive form. Her auburn hair was blowing in the crisp mountain wind.
On hearing him approach, the lion suddenly sprang up to attention. It growled and faced him as though protecting his mistress. Venusian observed that it was a full-grown lion, which was at least four and a half hands in height, with a nose to tail length of approximately eight hands. The lion had a majestic brown-black mane, which almost touched the ground between his proudly stretched forelegs.
‘Sit down, Gala.’ The woman commanded the lion softly, without turning her head. ‘He is a friend.’
Hearing her gentle yet firm command, Gala the lion turned back and sat down on the boulder again, with his head in her lap.
After a few moments, the woman got up gracefully and faced Venusian.
He was awed by her beauty and elegance. She was tall - taller than him and was muscular. There was not an inch of fat anywhere on her finely-toned, bronze body. She had a high forehead and deep, green eyes flecked with gold. Her eyebrows arched like scimitars above her eyes, and an aquiline nose. The nose descended onto full red lips and a round chin.
Her scant leather garments were without any adornment, but there was a gold rosette-shaped pendant hanging around her lovely neck. She held a twisted knot of reeds lightly in her right hand, while the left was placed casually along the lovely curve of her hip.
‘You look perfectly alright, Venusian.’ She smiled at him.
‘How do you know my name?’ He was surprised as there was absolutely nothing in his belongings that could betray his identity.
‘Between the mighty blue sky and the patient expanse of mother earth, there is very little, which I do not know.’ She said while making a wide gesture with her well-formed arms.
Venusian shook his head. It all seemed a dream.
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ He asked.
‘I am Inanna of Nippur, and I choose to live here.’ She said, gesturing at the cave.
‘But….but who are you?’ He was perplexed.
‘I am a humble priestess of Ishtaar.’ She answered with a smile.
‘And Gala….?’ Venusian pointed towards the lion, who was lazily studying the birds circling high up in the sky.
‘One day, I was roaming the forests of Akkadia when a serpent attacked me.’ Inanna said with closed eyes, recalling something important from her past. ‘Gala came to my help. He attacked and killed the serpent. Since that day, he has been my staunch companion.’
‘And who is Ishtaar? Is she a goddess?’ Venusian asked. ‘It is strange that I have never heard her name.’
Instead of answering him, Inanna turned and climbed the boulder.
‘Come, join me.’ She motioned to Venusian.
He hesitatingly climbed up the boulder and stood on it alongside Inanna. They were both facing the valley, but Venusian’s efforts were more focused on avoiding stepping on the tail of the resting lion.
‘Don’t worry.’ Inanna said with a smile. ‘He knows how to take care of himself.’
Becca could be seen down below in the valley. It was a beautiful city, which was located on the lower slopes of a mountain, and lacked any defensive walls. The mud and brick houses appeared to be neatly stacked over each other. The streets looked like threads marking the boundaries of small localities and neighborhoods.
Somewhat located on the outskirts of the city, was Bakkah - a place of worship, thousands of years old. It was not a grand structure - just a small square room, built with dark stones, in the middle of a circular courtyard. Very few were allowed to go inside that room. For most of the populace and the visiting pilgrims, the small building was holy and hence, out of bounds. But Venusian had been inside that room many times.
‘What is inside Bakkah?’ Inanna asked him.
‘It is the abode of nine gods. There is Hubal, who presides over Wadd, Suwa’, Yaghuth, Ya’uq, and Nasr. Then there are also Al-Lat, Al-Uzza, and Manat.’ Venusian dutifully counted the names of the nine deities, six male and three female.
Nobody knew the origin of the deities. Some said they were brought from Egypt and India, while others considered them local.
‘Yes, the nine deities.’ Inanna smiled. ‘And what lies below Bakkah?’
‘Below Bakkah? There is nothing below it.’ Venusian was surprised. He had seen each nook and cranny of the abode of gods, but had never heard of any other place below the sacred chamber.
‘Deep down, below the chamber of Bakkah, there is another secret chamber - far more sacred and far more significant.’ Inanna said.
‘And what lies inside that chamber?’ Venusian was very curious.
‘Ishtaar lives in that chamber.’ She placed her hand lightly on Venusian’s shoulder, and he could feel a strange heat flowing from her to him.
‘Ishtaar?’ He asked, puzzled by the name.
‘Ishtaar is the most ancient of all the gods and goddesses.’ Inanna explained. ‘She is the mother who gave birth to everything. She gave birth to life, and she gave birth to death. She created knowledge, and she created wisdom for those who desired it. She created light, and she created darkness for those who chose to follow it.’
‘But why is she hidden in that chamber? Why is she not up there alongside Hubal and the other deities?’ Venusian asked, still puzzled and confused.
‘Because she is a female and not a male.’ Inanna said and looked deep into his curious eyes. ‘In the beginning, it was the woman and not the man who ruled. Women led their tribes and sat on the tribal councils. Women rode the stallions and participated in the wars. And man respected woman. He respected her for her patience, and strength, and for her wisdom, and intellect. He respected her for her power to give birth and her power to create life out of nothing. But slowly and gradually, man’s heart was corrupted and his intentions went foul.’
‘Corrupted how?’ Venusian asked.
‘He looked at the apparent frailness of women, and identified somebody who could be objectified.’ Inanna replied. ‘He looked at the immense value of women, and found an instrument to satisfy his greed and lust.’
‘What happened then?’ He asked with a growing interest.
‘When women lost their power and status, so did Ishtaar.’ Inanna answered while smiling at his impatience. ‘Ishtaar reminded men of the former glory of the women. She threatened the security of the men. So men relegated her to the deep secret chamber - hidden from the world for times to come.’
‘But why did they not destroy Ishtaar once and for all?’ Venusian asked her.
‘Because men were afraid of her power, and also because men knew she was the true holder of power.’ Inanna answered the query of his inquisitive guest.
‘Come now.’ She said and grabbed hold of his hand. ‘Enough talk of Ishtaar and the greed of men. It is time to eat. You must be hungry.’
Venusian spent many days and many nights with Inanna in her cave. Whenever they were hungry, Gala the lion hunted in the mountains and brought them fresh game. Fresh water came from a well-hidden spring in the mountain.
He learnt so much from her.
She told him of the dark skies, filled with mysterious, moving stars, and also of the treasures hidden deep beneath the earth.
She told him about the days that were, and the days that were yet to come, along with an onslaught of blood and gore.
And she made him understand desire, and the accompanying darkness, and also lust, and its dark folds of insatiable greed.
With each passing day, Venusian’s knowledge expanded, but he remained thirsty for more.
Then, one day, Inanna informed Venusian that it was the ‘Night of the Great Loss.’
‘What is the Night of the Great Loss?’ He asked her.
‘It is the celebration of the great loss, when Ishtaar lost Shukaletuda.’ Inanna replied while rubbing her bronze body with olive oil.
‘Who was Shukaletuda?’ Venusian asked as he had never heard the name before.
‘Shukaletuda was Ishtaar’s lover.’ Inanna said and looked at him. ‘He was proud and handsome and ruled the heavens with Ishtaar, by her side. They were like two souls within one body - true soulmates who together were capable of conquering the universe.’
‘Soulmates?’ Venusian asked with a smile.
‘Yes.’ Inanna smiled back at him. ‘They compensated and complemented each other’s weaknesses and strengths. Where Shukaletuda was too trusting, Ishtaar was skeptical and experienced. Where Ishtaar was too energetic and excited, Shukaletuda was patient and observant. Where Shukaletuda was too careless and forgiving, Ishtaar was careful and meticulous. And where Ishtaar was too emotionally sensitive, Shukaletuda was comforting and loving.’
‘If their love and bond were so strong, how did they lose each other? Venusian asked Inanna.
‘They started walking the path to loss when Ishtaar became insecure, and her insecurities corrupted her love with Shukaletuda.’ She replied sadly. ‘She started searching for security, but couldn’t find it within her heart. Then one night, to find the solution to her problem, she bowed down to the Lord of the Underworld of Gilgamesh.’
‘What is the Underworld of Gilgamesh?’ He asked while sensing the darkness that came with the name.
‘It is the world of dust and ashes, ruled by evil and darkness.’ Inanna answered with a shudder. ‘When Ishtaar bowed down, the Universal Consciousness got angry with her and decreed that she be limited to the confines of the earth, while Shukaletuda was bound to the heavens. That night is called the Night of the Great Loss.’
‘Universal consciousness? What is that?’ Inanna’s words were adding scores to Venusian’s knowledge.
‘Universal Consciousness is the one true God. It has always been the one true God, and it will always be the one true God.’ She explained with a smile, while brushing her dark tresses.
Thus came the Night of the Great Loss. There was a bright, full moon in the dark, blue-black sky, and all was silent. It was beautiful, but a strange heaviness could be felt in the night air. Venusian had all his senses on alert. His senses were telling him that something significant was about to happen.
Inanna sensed his anxiety and smiled kindly. She prepared an aromatic potion of herbs and made him drink it. The potion had a heady fragrance and a thick taste. It calmed Venusian’s nerves and relaxed his body.
Inanna was robed in saffron again and was fiddling with a metal contraption. It was an eight-pronged frame with a small receptacle at the end of each prong. She carefully placed the fat of some animal in each receptacle and laced it with yellow phosphorus.
Suddenly, Venusian could hear strange music. It was emanating from nowhere in particular. There were heavy drum beats, and also some wooden stringed instruments - weeping in unison. The symphony was strange and reminded him of his lost love.
Inanna started gyrating to the music and then abruptly removed her robe and threw it aside. Her bronze and oiled body gleamed like polished marble in the pale moonlight. She picked up the metal frame and started dancing again. Her movements became faster with each passing moment. As the phosphorous came into contact with air, it first gave off a few random sparks, and then, one by one, each small receptacle burst into flame.
Venusian sat entranced. He intently watched Inanna, dancing and romancing the fire. She twisted and turned in flowing movements, and the mountain danced with her. The burning receptacles drew circles of light in the darkness. Slowly and gradually, Inanna became the nucleus while the receptacles rotated around her in their respective burning orbits.
Inanna kept singing, and Venusian kept listening to her words, floating with the mysterious music. Then, intoxicated, he got up and joined Inanna. They both danced until fatigue overcame their exhausted bodies, and they fell on the platform in each other’s arms.
When Venusian got up the next morning, Inanna had long gone with all her meager belongings.
He cried her name and roamed the mountain slopes, but there was no trace of her. He searched each nook and each crevice behind each rock, but she couldn’t be found. And finally, one day, losing all hope of ever finding Inanna again, Venusian returned to Becca.
‘Tell me, O wise and sacred one, is there a secret chamber deep beneath the Bakkah?’ Venusian asked the Chief Priest of Bakkah.
‘Why do you ask, my son? What is it that you seek?’ The Priest was surprised. It had been ages since he had been asked about the existence of the secret chamber.
‘I have had the strangest of dreams.’ Venusian had no intention of telling the Priest about Inanna. ‘I dreamt that I descended into a deep chamber beneath the Bakkah, and found a goddess there.’
‘And what will you give me if I take you to that chamber?’ The Priest asked with greed sparkling in his old eyes like a blue sapphire.
‘Anything you want, O wise one.’ Venusian humbly bowed and replied.
A secret deal was struck between the two, and one night the Priest led Venusian to Bakkah. He opened up the old brass lock with a heavily engraved and complicated key and took him inside.
When an oil lamp was lighted by the Priest, Venusian could see all the nine deities, standing silently in their respective nooks within the wall. The Priest reached behind the effigy of Hubal. He operated some secret mechanism, and a secret trap door opened up right in the middle of the floor. Stairs could be seen, descending into unending darkness.
Venusian descended the stairs, led by the Priest, who was holding the oil lamp high in his hand. Venusian tried to count the stairs but lost track after one thousand, and still they kept on descending into the bowels of the earth. Finally, they reached an ancient door.
It was a strange door - half gold and half silver, and intricately engraved. The golden half depicted a terrible place full of demons and misery, while the silver one was rich with scenes of peace and tranquility.
The Priest operated a few levers, muttered some unintelligible words under his breath, and the door silently swung open. He entered and lighted a few lamps, and then called the younger man inside. Venusian took a deep breath and entered the chamber.
The chamber was a large room, almost fifty hands in width and a hundred in length. There was a marble-covered walkway in the center, which led from the door to the farthest end of the room, while on both sides of the walkway, there was a pond of black water. Strangely, the water in the pond was not stagnant, and a faint aroma of herbs and spices rose from its surface.
At the very end of the walkway, there was a raised platform, and on that platform, on a stone throne, there sat a life-sized effigy of a woman. Venusian walked up to the effigy and smiled at the familiar features. It was a life-like stone statue of Inanna. He kissed the statue’s cold lips and then sat down, lost in meditation for the next few hours.
On the way back to the surface, the Priest was startled to hear Venusian singing. He tried to focus on his words:
Shehryar khawar 