A powerful metaphorical poem that maps the spiritual journey from isolation and struggle toward enlightenment and self-understanding. Through vivid imagery of storms, hidden doors, and eternal knowledge, this inspirational verse explores the transformative path beyond life’s difficulties. The poem presents a progressive journey through four stages: confronting loneliness, facing life’s storms, seeking hidden wisdom, and ultimately finding pure understanding and self-realization.
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.’
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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‘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.
I had been living in Room 106 for as long as I could remember. The room had soft-padded, pale green walls and a white ceiling. There were neither windows nor ventilators - only a single door, which was always locked from the outside. A single fluorescent light, right in the middle of the ceiling, kept flashing at all times.
I hated that white light with a cold and seething vengeance. The brightness was merciless as it eroded the peaceful darkness behind my eyelids. And the light burnt with a noise - a humming noise like there was a swarm of angry bees, lurking and hiding behind the light; ready to appear and attack me when the light was switched off. I hated the light but wanted it to stay on forever. My fear of the bees greatly exceeded my hatred of the light.
What was that sad, lonely place? I had simply no idea how I happened to end there. Where in the world was this place located - which street in what city? I did not know. I had been living there for so long that I had forgotten so many important things like ‘when’, ‘what’, or ‘where’. I guess that’s what happens when we stay too long in one place. We become trees. We know ourselves and are aware of our own existence. But we do not know the exact location at which we stand. It is a terrible state of existence or perhaps blissful – terrible because we lack context, and blissful because not knowing everything is bliss.
Thrice a day, like Swiss clockwork, a small drawer within the door opened up silently and someone slid in a tray laden with food and medicines. I used to eat the food and take the red, green and white tablets without fail. Why did I do that? The answer is fear. I did it because I was so very afraid.
I was afraid because when I refused to eat or when I flushed the tablets down the toilet, strange, white-clad men barged into my cell and took me away. They dragged me to another small room and tied me to a narrow metallic bed. A strange contraption was put around my head. One man slightly nodded to someone beyond my field of view; and then the agony began.
Burning white sparks filled my eyeballs and seared my brain. I wanted to scream, but I could not. I wanted to move but I could not. I felt a thousand blades inflicting cuts all over my body, simultaneously.
The pain did not come in waves. It came and it stayed. It throbbed in and stung each one of the millions of my nerves and it felt as if I was being skinned alive. Muddy tears streamed down my cheeks, while my eyes remained wide open - trying to see the invisible demons of pain. Then suddenly the pain stopped its cruel and merciless onslaught. But the memory of the pain kept on echoing inside my head. I involuntarily relaxed my bladder and felt the warm wetness spreading beneath my buttocks and legs. There was no embarrassment or shame. There was only relief and fear - relief from that terrible pain and fear of the pain, making a decision to return unannounced.
I did not live alone in Room 106. I lived there with my best friend, Jojo. His existence brought me joy. In fact, Jojo has been with me as far as I can remember. He has been like my own shadow - following me wherever I go and being with me wherever I am.
If it were not for Jojo, I would have killed myself a long time ago. He refused to let me go, no matter how hard I tried.
‘Not yet, my friend….not yet!’ He cuddled me softly while snatching the razor blade away from my strong grip.
‘Why the hell not?’ I screamed. ‘I just want to leave.’
‘It is not yet time for you to leave.’ He patted my shoulder, ‘You have to learn and understand more.’
‘Learn and understand?’ I laughed. ‘You must be out of your fucking mind. How can I learn or understand anything within the confines of these padded walls? I cannot see the outside world. I cannot hear it.’
‘Yes, true….very true indeed.’ He nodded his head wisely, ‘But this will not be so for long. A day will come soon when you will learn your final lesson.’
‘The final lesson?’ I asked him sarcastically. ‘Learning this final lesson will be your last gift to the universal conscience. You cannot leave before this one final act.’ He said, while smiling kindly.
When Jojo stopped making sense, I often thought of believing what Doctor Morrison once told me.
‘Jojo is not real, Tom. You think he is real, but he is not. He is just a figment of your lonely imagination.’
‘Please tell me, my good Doctor, what is your definition of ‘real’?’ I asked him, while enjoying watching the sunlight, filtering through the mosaic glass panes.
‘Reality is a mutually agreed-upon observation. Jojo could be real if we both could see and observe him. But I cannot see him despite your insistence that he is sitting right beside you.’ The doctor had his back to the window and the sunlight was making a hallo around his bald shiny head.
‘Perhaps it is just a matter of difference in perspectives.’ I reflected while exchanging a secret smile with Jojo. We both enjoyed those discussions very much.
‘Difference in perspectives?’ The Doctor removed his rimless spectacles and started polishing the lens with his white handkerchief - a favourite pastime of his. ‘What do you mean by the difference in perspectives?’
‘What if you didn’t know this was a pencil?’ I said while picking up a lead pencil from the small rectangular vase. I rolled it within the grasp of my fingers and then pointed it at the Doctor - the sharp graphite tip directed right at the middle of his bewildered eyes. ‘What do you see exactly from your perspective?’
‘I see something meaningless - a small black dot surrounded by a pale wood-colored octagon.’ The Doctor said, but I could see faint shadows of fear lurking deep within the Doctor’s blue eyes.
‘Exactly!’ I chuckled. ‘You see something meaningless, but I know I am holding a pencil in my hand.’ ‘Jojo is not a pencil, Tom.’ The doctor said while standing up. ‘I am afraid you have to stay with us a bit longer than I expected.
But Doctor Morrison was wrong. Jojo was real - as real as my own self. That no one else was able to see him was perhaps because of a difference in perspectives.
I first met Jojo the day the old turtle in our backyard died. I was sitting on the grass, cradling the dead turtle’s head on my lap. I was caressing his cold, mottled shell and was crying big, fat tears of loss.
‘What is wrong? Why are you crying?’ I felt the comfort of his shadow before hearing his words.
I looked up. The sun was in my eyes and I couldn’t see his face clearly. So I squinted under the palm of my right hand. Slowly and gradually, his face began making sense. A warm smile under two dark and shiny eyes. The eyes were under the umbrella of thick bushy eyebrows and unkempt hair. He was a little older than me, but dressed and looked exactly like me.
‘I am crying because the turtle doesn’t talk to me anymore.’ I explained from behind a grey mist of tears. ‘He doesn’t move, and he doesn’t laugh. There is something wrong with him, and I can’t seem to put it right, no matter how hard I try.’
‘The turtle will never walk and talk again. He will neither laugh nor smile.’ The boy said in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘But why……?’ I felt a fresh torrent of tears ready to burst forth. ‘What is wrong with him?’
‘Nothing is wrong with him. He is just dead.’ He announced.
‘What is ‘dead’?’ I asked. It was a new word in my vocabulary.
‘Dead is when a living being meets death. And death is when a living being completes one journey of life.’ He explained while sitting down on the grass beside me.
‘One journey of life?’ I was surprised. ‘Are there more than one journey?’
‘Oh yes!’ He smiled at me. ‘There are countless journeys of life - one coming after another. We live to die one day and we die to live another day.’
‘I hate death.’ I said after a while. ‘I hate it because it makes me sad.’
‘Death is not a time to be sad or cry.’ He laughed a small laugh. ‘Instead, it is to be rejoiced and celebrated.’
‘And why should I do that?’ I felt offended. ‘Death has taken away my best friend.’
‘Life doesn’t end with death. It flows on along the river of time. It flows from one being to another - to be lived and experienced and to be felt and sensed anew.’ He explained kindly.
‘And where has the turtle’s life flowed to?’ I asked with hope overcoming my sadness.
‘Perhaps it has flowed into me. Perhaps I was once the turtle.’ He placed his hand over mine, and I sensed warmth.
‘I called him Jojo.’ I pointed at the dead turtle. ‘I like this name.’ He smiled. ‘You can call me Jojo, too. I will be honored.’
‘It’s good that you no longer want to kill yourself.’ Doctor Morrison smiled at me.
‘Yes!’ I nodded my head. ‘Jojo has convinced me that my purpose has still not been fulfilled.’
‘And what is your purpose?’ The doctor asked, inscribing notes in his yellow notepad.
‘My purpose is to understand and learn the final lesson.’ I explained with a smile.
‘It is a good enough reason.’ The doctor said without looking up from his yellow notepad. ‘Is there any other reason?’
‘Yes! I am also afraid.’ I shuddered at the lingering memory of pain.
‘Afraid of what?’ He asked.
‘Pain!’ I replied.
The doctor looked up but didn’t say anything.
‘I am not afraid of the pain alone.’ I elaborated. ‘Pain comes and passes through me like wind passes through the leaves. It is chaos when the cold wind of pain blows, but when you stop focusing on the chaos, the chaos of pain becomes the order of peace.’
‘That’s indeed an interesting approach.’ The Doctor looked up at me thoughtfully.
‘I am only afraid of the pain that comes along, holding the hand of fear. Fear is what stops chaos from turning into order.’ I emphasized. The doctor didn’t respond to my comment, so I looked outside the window of his office. The bright sun reminded me of a summer afternoon from somewhere far away in my past.
‘You are crying again?’ Jojo asked me kindly.
That particular summer afternoon, I was Tarzan of the Apes and was trying to climb the mango tree in our backyard. The climb was going quite well, actually. It would have been perfect had I not tried to stand on a branch and yelled like Tarzan. It was in the middle of that jubilant yell that the branch snapped, and I fell onto hard ground, some six feet below.
‘Yes!’ I said, holding my bleeding knee. ‘Can’t you see I am bleeding?’
‘Yes, you are bleeding.’ He peered closely at my wound. ‘Does it hurt much?’
‘No! It does not.’ I retorted. ‘It feels like a fairy has kissed me.’
‘Haha!’ Jojo threw back his hairy head and laughed.
‘Don’t laugh, please.’ I requested him while snorting away my angry tears.
‘Okay! I won’t.’ He grew serious. ‘But why don’t you tell me how it all happened?’
‘I was trying to be Tarzan………………’ I started and told him all about my burning desire to climb the tree, the intoxicating thrill when I was standing on the branch and yelling, and finally, my hurtful fall.
‘Hmm! Did you like being Tarzan?’ He asked with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
‘Oh yes!’ I nodded in excitement. ‘I loved it.’
Then we both looked at each other and laughed our heads off at the hilarity of the circumstances.
‘Does it hurt now?’ He asked after a while.
‘Huh?’ I checked the wound. It had stopped bleeding. ‘Not as much, I guess.’
‘Do you know why your pain has faded away?’ Jojo asked.
‘No, I do not know.’ I was bewildered. ‘You tell me.’ ‘It doesn’t hurt anymore because you stopped focusing on the pain.’ He held my hand and looked deep into my eyes. ‘Once you ignore the pain and once you refuse to become the playground of pain, it moves away.’
‘I think there is no longer any need to keep you locked up.’ Doctor Morrison smiled at me. ‘We have a wonderful room available and will be shifting you there today.’
‘And will we be………?’ I hesitatingly asked. ‘Will we be able to walk in the garden?’
‘Oh of course yes, Tom. You will be able to walk as much and for as long as you want to.’ The Doctor acted as if he didn’t notice my using the word ‘we’.
The new room was perfect. There was even a large window providing a lovey view of the lush green, hospital grounds outside. It was heavily barred of course, but it didn’t matter. Me and Jojo, we both loved it.
Life was settling into a routine once again. But this time the door wasn’t locked from the outside and there was no cold silence. Instead, the nurses’ duty station was just down the hall and I could often hear them playing music.
Ah sweet music! It reminded me of the times gone by and all that was once beautiful. It reminded me of the people that I once loved and those whom I had lost.
Then one day I met Barbara. She was a very old and sweet woman who lived next door and kept on smiling constantly. But when her demons came visiting, she transformed into a wretch, afraid of even her own image in the mirror.
Her frail body writhed in agony while the nursing staff forcefully held her down and injected her with strong sedatives. The visit of the demons took its toll and she stayed on bed for the next few days.
‘What is wrong with her?’ I once asked Timi, the kindest and most communicative of all the nurses. ‘Schizophrenia!’ She whispered back. ‘Just like yours but far more intense and darker.’
One rainy night I was jolted out of my medicine-induced sleep.
‘Wake up Tom!’ Jojo grabbed my shoulders and shook me. ‘Wake up for God’s sake!’
‘What….?’ I sat up bewildered and disoriented. ‘What is wrong?’
‘There is something wrong with Barbara.’ He motioned towards the next room. I tried to focus and could hear loud sobs.
‘Let’s go help her.’ Jojo was being very assertive.
I dragged my body out of the comfort of my bed and started looking for my slippers.
We found Barbara sitting on her bed – sobbing, while her body shook like an autumn leaf.
‘What is wrong?’ I patted her shoulder kindly. ‘Should I call the nurse?’
She didn’t answer for a while and kept on looking at me. Then she looked around the room like she was expecting someone else to appear out of thin air. She looked afraid – so very afraid. Then she stood up and went to the mirror.
‘It is inside me.’ She announced in a small voice. And then she screamed, ‘It is inside me and eating me up.’
‘Who is inside you?’ I went up to her and stood behind her, holding her frail shoulders for comfort.
‘The demon………the demons……all of them……the legion is inside me and is burning me up.’ She sobbed hysterically.
‘It’s alright.’ I turned her around and hugged her tight. ‘I am here for you.’
‘It is so very painful, Tom.’ She whimpered into the comfort of my shoulder. ‘It hurts so bad.’
‘Don’t focus on the pain Barbara.’ I rocked her gently.
‘I can’t Tom…..I can’t.’ I felt her frustrated tears soaking up my cotton shirt.
‘Tell me…..’ I was desperately thinking of saying something to distract her from pain. ‘Tell me, why do the demons visit you? Why do they hurt you?’
‘Because I have sinned.’ Her body grew tense for a moment. ‘Oh I have so grievously sinned.’
‘We are all sinners Barbara.’ I gently patted her bony back. ‘We are all terrible and pathetic sinners. But no one here is judging you for your sins and no one has the right to.’
‘The demons judge me.’ She whispered back. ‘They judge me and mock me and torment me.’
‘Do not listen to them. The demons are not………’ I so wanted to tell her that her demons were not real. But then I looked at Jojo. He was calmly sitting on the bed and looking at me with understanding and affection.
‘The demons are not what?’ Barbara detached herself from my embrace and looked at me with suspicion flashing in her cloudy blue eyes.
‘The demons are not worth listening to Barbara. Ignore them and they will go away.’
She didn’t answer me for a while and kept on searching for something else in my eyes.
‘You are a good man Tom. You are a very kind man.’ She had probably found what she was looking for. ‘Let me confess my sin to you and then maybe the demons will leave.’
I just nodded my head and softly pulled her back into my arms.
‘It was a winter evening in 1923.’ Barbara started whispering and I concentrated. ‘I was a teenaged girl and a single mother. And my daughter was so beautiful. She was just like a porcelain doll with flawless complexion, all golden curls and deep blue eyes. But I could never appreciate her beauty or the charm of her loving smile, which appeared on her face each time she looked at me.’
‘Ahan!’ I prodded her on.
‘You know why? Do you know why I couldn’t appreciate all that?’ Her voice grew into a harsh whisper.
‘No! I do not know but you can tell me why.’ I caressed her silver hair. ‘You can tell me everything.’
‘I could not see her beauty because I was addicted to morphine. I don’t remember how the habit started. Probably some client injected me and I didn’t object. Once the warmth flowed through my veins and oblivion came thereafter, I was hooked forever. I didn’t like doing it Tom…..I swear I didn’t like it. But I found relief in it. It took me away from all the pain and all the suffering. The world is a tough place Tom, and I so wanted to escape it in any way that I could.’
‘Yes the world is a tough place and life is difficult.’ I said kindly, our bodies rocking gently to the sad music of regret. ‘Please go on.’
‘That night…..’ Barbara’s voice welled up with tears again. ‘That night she was crying. My daughter was crying because she was hungry. There was no milk in my breasts. You know Tom, men don’t like their hookers with dripping breasts. My milk had all dried up and it had been snowing for the last three days. There were no clients to be found. I even tried begging but failed. There was hardly anyone in the streets. But my daughter didn’t know that. She kept on crying and finally I had to leave her alone and go out to search for food. I didn’t want to go Tom. I didn’t want to leave her alone. But I had to.’
‘I understand.’ I could feel my voice choking up too. ‘I completely understand the reasons.’
‘I went out and I found a client almost immediately.’ Barbara continued. ‘It was a miracle. I finally had something in my pocket to buy the milk for my daughter. I started walking towards my apartment building and then I came across my morphine dealer. He was a cruel man – the devil himself in flesh and blood. He sensed I had some dough on me. And then he made me an offer. I have to go home, I said. My hungry daughter is waiting for milk, I begged him. But he kept smiling. Yes go on, he said. But before you go, get some warmth in your blood. Come on….he lured me and I couldn’t ……..I simply couldn’t resist.’ Her voice broke up and she started crying again.
‘It’s okay………’ I held her close, feeling each beat of her guilty heart. ‘Go on, tell me all.’
Hearing these words, Jojo gave me an approving glance.
‘It was morning when I woke up. I was in my dealer’s bed – naked. After a few moments of recollection I suddenly thought of my daughter. I tried to find my clothes but couldn’t. I hurriedly wrapped my naked body in a blanket and ran towards home. I was crying and slipping in the freezing sludge. My knees were badly scratched and were bleeding but I kept on running. I kept on running and I kept on slipping. I thought I could hear her crying. But when I reached home she was………….’ She completely broke down and kneeled on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
‘She was already dead……wasn’t she?’ I asked coldly.
‘Yes!’ She was sobbing, each sob shaking her entire body as if trying to break it into small pieces.
I felt a sudden wave of coldness overcoming my entire being. I felt revulsion and hatred towards that miserable woman. But then I looked at Jojo. He was looking at me and smiling a kind but sad smile.
‘What?’ I asked Jojo confusedly.
‘Remember what all you have learnt so far.’ He raised his hand. ‘Try to feel your own pains. Recall your own sins and your own guilt and regret. Remember every experience that you have had and only then decide if you want to be another demon and judge this poor woman. Or if you want to be a fellow human being and understand her.’
I didn’t answer Jojo. Instead, I turned around and looked at my image in the mirror. I saw an old man whose heart was filled with regrets. I looked at my face closely. There were shadows of guilt everywhere. I could see faces reflected in those shadows – faces of all those whom I had hurt and betrayed. There were so many of them and they all contorted in agony. I looked at those contorted faces and saw my own shame being reflected back.
‘What do I do?’ I looked back at Jojo. ‘What is to be understood here?’
‘There is only a single lesson which needs to be understood.’ He said. ‘There has always been a single lesson and there will always be a single lesson. And this lesson encompasses the purpose of our lives.’
‘And what is that lesson?’ I asked.
‘Kindness….Tom!’ He got up and smiled at me. ‘The only lesson this universe and our lives teach us is kindness. Do not judge but understand and be kind.’
‘And don’t forget that the old turtle was there in your life and I am here because you wanted someone to understand you and treat you with kindness. You never wanted to be harshly judged. Now please show her the same courtesy.’
‘Is this the final lesson?’ I asked him.
‘Yes!’ He nodded. ‘I do think this is the final lesson.’
I smiled back at Jojo and then looked at Barbara. She was still kneeling on the floor, her body shaking with sobs.
‘Come on child!’ I went to her and gently pulled her up. ‘You have confessed all. Let the demons go. Their job is done.’
‘But I am so very tired Tom.’ She hugged me tightly. ‘The demons are already leaving but I also want to go now.’ ‘I understand.’ I whispered in her ear and felt her body relaxing. ‘I will help you move on.’
I am back in room 106. It is still soft-padded, has pale green walls and a white ceiling. There are neither windows nor ventilators – only a single door, which is always locked from the outside. A single fluorescent light, right in the middle of the ceiling, keeps on blinking at all times.
They accused me of killing Barbara. I haven’t denied their accusations. Jojo has also left my side, but I don’t care. Rather, I am happy because I have learnt the final lesson. And I am willing to teach you all the lessons if only you can spare some time.
It was an epic afternoon in early August. The rain was pouring down by buckets, and I was riding a train.
The afternoon was epic because I was young and was sitting on the front grill of a locomotive, my legs dangling a few feet above the gleaming steel tracks. The cold raindrops pelted my face, but their chill was compensated by the warm glow of the locomotive’s engine heat, slowly spreading across my back. You have to be a lover of both trains and rains to judge the height of my ecstasy. It was a dream that I had never dreamt, but which had come true.
The world through which the train was hurtling was magical. A thick sheet of falling rain drenched God’s earth and everything on it. There was harsh poverty surrounding me, but it was all obscured by the steamy curtain of rain. The engine driver periodically blew the pressure horn, and the long hoots vibrated within my bones and provided a perfect tempo to my excitement.
I looked up and the sky was a great, grey pavilion, where the dark shadows of mythical gods fought each other with spears made of lightning. I imagined the gods looking down from their dark, billowing thrones and watching me, riding a giant steel snake.
I looked around and saw the tall and graceful trees, wildly dancing in the wind. Their long branches were laden with glistening, olive-green leaves, which clapped madly to the crescendo of an invisible beat. I imagined being a dervish and felt the rainy wind spinning me around. I looked straight up, and each drop of rain felt like an indecipherable caress of forces unseen on my cheeks.
I saw naked children playing in the dirty, brown puddles of rainwater, waving madly at me with barely hidden envy. When I waved back, their faces lit up with shiny and surprised smiles. I imagined being one of them and felt the pure pleasure of my worries being washed away by rain. Even the overly-clad village women smiled at me, secure in the most temporary nature of our chance encounter. I peeked inside their delicate hearts and found them brimming with love and also a bit of fickleness.
The train passed by small and lonely platforms. The old station masters possessively held onto their green and red flags, and peeked at me from under their sodden umbrellas with an open-mouthed disbelief.
‘Keep on looking, my friends.’ I laughed at their helplessness and disbelief. ‘Today, I am unstoppable.’
Each new sight and each new smell excited me - the smell of smoke from the wet and smoldering cooking fires, the stink of the open and overflowing drains, the seduction of the dark, wet soil, and the songs sung by the shady, green trees. I was a king, and the land all around me was my humble and most beloved kingdom - although, only for a very short period of time. I was a fascinated traveler wandering headlong at more than seventy kilometers per hour, into a land of wonder, which revealed new secrets with each jolt of the turning steel wheels.
The train gradually slowed down and finally crawled to a stop at a small railway station. It was a train crossing, and the wait for the express train coming from the opposite side was expected to be quite long.
It had grown almost dark when I jumped down onto the crumbling concrete platform. The rain had stopped, and the tired engine was throbbing, but the romance was still vibrating in the moist breeze.
I looked around and found that I was not alone. A small family was sitting on a wooden bench, under an old fig tree. It comprised a husband, wife, and their three young children. The couple was quiet, enjoying their solitude, but the children were playing. Their carefree laughter and cries created a strange contrast to the somber silence of their parents.
Suddenly, a small procession appeared on the platform. It was a wedding party from a local village. Probably, they were all traveling back to the groom’s place, as was obvious from the presence of the shy bride, clad in all reds.
I watched them with interest as the villagers hastily occupied the few remaining benches. They were all tired of the day’s festivities and were irritated by their sodden clothes. The bride sat sandwiched between the groom’s relatives, looking uncomfortable in her heavy attire. The women, though as tired as the men, were teasing the girl. Her discomfort was obvious from the way she was constantly fidgeting with her clothes.
‘Poor girl!’ I thought to myself, ‘She cannot even ask her companions for a visit to the toilet.’
But then my attention was grabbed by a waving, yellow light, floating towards me. The light gradually transformed into an old lantern, swinging from the gnarled hands of an old man. He was dressed in tattered and soiled clothes, and when he approached me, I was nauseated by the smell of his unwashed body.
His eyes were hidden behind thick, grey, and bushy eyebrows. But when the light from the lantern touched his eyes, I could see that they were filled with an ancient weariness.
‘Who are you?’ he eyed me with suspicion.
‘I am a traveler!’ I blurted out.
‘A traveler?’ He examined me from head to toe. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just observing life and enjoying the weather, I guess.’ I was growing a bit uncomfortable and confused, unaccustomed to such strange inquiries.
He sensed my discomfort and laughed at it. It was a deep, cracking laughter, which ended in a phlegm-filled cough.
‘So, what have you observed so far?’ he questioned me sarcastically after clearing his throat.
‘Colors, romance and mystery’. Undeterred by his sarcasm, I maintained my optimism, ‘Colors of the green fields and muddy earth, romance behind the smiles of beautiful women, and mystery in the emotions I can appreciate, but still cannot understand.’
‘Did you also hear something?’ The old man asked me, but this time, his tone lacked any barbs of sarcasm.
‘Yes!’ I eagerly nodded, ‘I heard the deep rumbling of the angry thunder clouds, I heard the laughter of the playing children, and I also heard the wind singing a thousand songs.’
The old man sat down, gesturing at me to do the same. I first looked suspiciously at the wet platform and the muddy water still running through its numerous cracks, but then chose to sit down, feeling like a damn fool for doing so.
‘So, how have you found this world so far?’ He gently plucked an ant floating on a tiny pool of muddy rainwater. Then cupping it carefully in his dirty palms, he gently blew on it and released it safely on dry ground.
‘The world is beautiful and filled with a thousand colors and a million songs.’ I thought for a moment and replied.
‘Hmm! What else?’ He asked while waving kindly at the thankful ant scurrying along.
‘It is a world filled with happiness and joy and smiles and laughter.’ I replied while gesturing at both the playing children and the wedding procession.
The old man kept looking down, his fingers absent-mindedly combing his dirty beard.
‘You do not agree with me, old man?’ I asked him as I was getting uncomfortable with his prolonged silence.
‘Do you see this lantern?’ he apparently did not hear my question. ‘Once it was shiny and new and its light shone with brightness and its round, glass cover, magnified the light manifold’.
I silently scrutinized the old lantern and waited for him to continue.
‘But now it has gone dirty.’ His dirty fingers gently caressed the grimy surface of the lantern’s glass, ‘The badly scratched glass has lost its transparency, and the light does not shine brightly anymore.’
‘Yes, it is old. You should buy a new one.’ I was getting bored with his abstract commentary.
‘Oh! But it is not old.’ He looked up at me, ‘Rather, it has been kissed deeply by time. Time kisses everything, and just like a leech that feeds on blood, time feeds on light, brightness, and happiness.’
‘I believe it is only a matter of perspective.’ I insisted.
‘Perspectives are individual in nature. You develop perspectives once you see through the colored goggles of time. The colors deprive you of your ability to see the true nature of time. Perspective is time’s weapon and its tool, which it uses to disguise its true self.’ His last few words were lost again in a deep rumbling cough.
Spitting a dark, green glob of phlegm aside, the old man waved a hand at the red-clad bride.
‘Do you see the bride?’ He did not wait for my answer and said, ‘From your perspective, she is life, but from the perspective of her groom, she is lust and a commodity, and from her own perspective, she is hope and desire. One day, time will pass, and all these perspectives will vanish into thin air. Then you will see what she really is - a pawn, an object, and a slave.’
Sensing my growing discomfort, the old man softened his tone, ‘Life is not happiness and romance, my son. It is sad and tragic. Time makes it so. Happiness is temporary, and sadness is eternal. Happiness is ignorance, and sadness is maturity and understanding.’
‘Then I hate time.’ I blurted out.
‘No, do not hate time for it also brings along empathy and acceptance.’ The old man consoled me, ‘And these two gifts make you a human being. One day you will shed off the colored goggles of perspective and will see life in its true manifestation.’
The sudden blaring of the engine horn brought me back to reality. I got up and saw the guard waving the green light. I looked around. The romance had gone, and so did the old man. I cursed my dark imagination and climbed back onto the train. There was no old man with an old lantern. It was all in my imagination.
But I was wrong. The old man was real. I saw him again several decades after that train journey. He lives with me now. Rather, it would be appropriate to say that he lives inside of me now. I hear him laugh all the time at the cruelty of time and the fickleness of life. And I see his deeply lined face each time I look in the mirror.
Shehryar khawar 