Loss isn’t tragedy—it’s the key, the doorway, the only path to wisdom; those who embrace it understand love, desire, God’s loneliness, and life itself.
‘Tell me why you are here?’ I caressed the back of her delicate ivory hand. It was smooth and cold but with a subtle warmth pulsating just under the fragile skin.
‘Tell me why you are here? Tell me why you are with me at this very moment?’
‘I really do not know.’ A tiny smile danced around the corners of her lips. She peered into my eyes, looking for an answer or perhaps solace. And then she suddenly broke the magic and looked away.
Vienna was the usual evening chaos. Desires were following desires in an endless pursuit. The lights of some old Gothic palace, reflected in and danced along the soft waves of the Danube. The river was the cauldron of silence and the moist evening breeze heightened our senses.
Across the cobbled yard, stood a couple of street musicians. The tall and graceful woman was playing a sad symphony on her old violin, while her companion, an old man, was plucking bits of joy from the keys of his weather-beaten accordion. I listened to them closely and recognized loss and love – singing their eternal duet.
She looked back at me.
‘Why don’t you tell me; why you are here?’ A challenge flashed briefly in her smiling eyes. ‘Why are you here in Vienna?’
For a single and brief moment, she became what she was a half-decade ago – a beautiful golden dragon that breathed the fire of unspoken desires. An unpredictable dragon and an independent dragon – free to roam the wide blue skies.
‘Why am I here?’ I asked myself looking down at the lines mapping the palms of my hands. Then I raised my head and looked back at her with an answering smile.
‘Perhaps I am lost or perhaps I am here for the love that remains.’
When I first met her, I was not as young as I once used to be, but I was as restless as the branches of a tall pine tree. She was the strong wind, blowing through my branches after a very long time. Slim and charming with soft brown hair, cascading all around her lovely face; and a taut sensuous body. Her strange and unnameable seduction weaved its magic wand and I fell under her spell.
I remembered looking at her for the first time. She reminded me of the dark mysterious forests, smelling heavily of the tropical rains. She reminded me of the moist green moss, climbing and curving along the tree trunks. And she reminded me of the rain-drenched soil, emitting wisps of a fragrant mist. Whenever I try to remember what I felt on first seeing her, someone always whispers a one-word answer in my ears – desire.
But it was not an utterly sensuous desire. More than sensuality, my desire spoke of unconditional love.
She looked like a goddess. From behind her dark unsmiling eyes, peeked a bright light of brilliance. Sometimes, when I looked at her face closely, under my worshipping gaze, her chiseled features gradually melted into a soft and malleable kindness. She was a goddess who demanded to be loved while hiding behind tradition and humility. I fell in love with her because the possibility of losing her in the whirling sands of time frightened me.
‘I think I am in love.’ I excitedly spilled out my secret to the old banyan tree. Both of us were the only two souls in the courtyard of the Tomb of the Lonely Saint. The saint was long dead but his spirit, as I felt, was residing within the tree.
‘And when did you realize this?’ The tree asked in a deep, old, and rusty voice – its texture as rough as his bark.
‘The realization came slowly – almost like the hesitant monsoon rain. But now that it is here, I feel as if struck by a thunderbolt I said, sitting down with my back to the trunk.
‘I can feel the lightening tingling along my spine and nerves.’
‘Beware son!’ The old tree whispered back.
‘Love is a banshee disguised as a butterfly. It may be kind to some – mostly fools. But to those who recognize and understand her and submit to her power willingly, she is always cruel beyond words.’
‘She is not a banshee. She is a golden butterfly and her wings reflect all the colors of this world.’ I protested.
The tree felt silent and thought for a moment.
‘Perhaps it is yet not love. Perhaps it is desire – a desire that does not dissolve with the waning moon. But a desire that is capable of evolving into love one day.’
‘What if it always remains a desire?’ My heart trembled with the fear of loss.
‘Hmm….!’ The tree rustled its many branches and legions of tired pigeons flew out, scared of the sudden movement.
‘Remember son! Desire is one of the most powerful of all forces of nature. It is the force that makes the world go around in circles. Desire takes birth, deep within the warm recesses of our ever-hungry hearts. It climbs our souls like a vine climbs up a tree, entrapping and teasing the branches. It starts with an almost erotic touch and then embeds its tentacles deep below our skin And then it starts sucking. It hungrily sucks in our soul and our ego and our character and our self-control; and it leaves us empty and dry.’
The tree said it all deliberately and in his usual sing-song style. His wisdom was like an old wine – each sip to be savored and treasured.
‘How do I ensure that this doesn’t just remain a desire?’ The fear was growing stronger.
‘Whenever two souls come across each other, floating along the river of time; it is always for a higher purpose. And the purpose is always love.’ The tree said.
‘Don’t worry son!’ A few dry leaves floated down and caressed my shoulders kindly. ‘If it is meant to be, it will be.’
‘You have always had the habit of talking in riddles.’ She took a sip and closed her dark beautiful eyes for a moment.
‘Well, that is just me.’ I smiled at her. ‘Anyway, why are you here in Vienna?’
‘New York troubles my soul sometimes.’ She stared back into my eyes. ‘The chaos disturbs the quest for inner peace. And Vienna always attracted me with its old architecture and good music.’
We grew quiet for a moment. The musicians had stopped but the notes of their strange sad-happy symphony were still whispering beyond the edges of silence.
I looked at her face. I was wrong. She did not look as young as I had initially thought. There were lines on her face – very fine lines. I peered at them closely. Under my careful gaze, each line became a crack and the crack widened into a gorge and within that gorge, there flowed the river of time.
‘Why are you here?’ She suddenly broke the fragile silence hovering around and between us.
‘I curate a small museum of antiquities along the Bräunerstraße. And in the evening I come here. I listen to the music and I write.’
‘Do you find it strange?’ She hesitated – her delicate mouth quivering like a bow stretched in full. ‘Do you find it strange – us meeting here in Vienna?’
‘I haven’t been able to understand something.’ I tried to change the subject.
‘And what is that, my son?’ The tree asked kindly.
‘Why doesn’t she ever smile?’
‘And why do you want her to smile?’ He chucked softly.
‘I want to see her face breaking into a smile;, and I want to see the light of happiness shining through. I want to see the smiling lines appear around the corners of her mouth and eyes, and I want those lines to become an intricate treasure map. And then I want to trace those lines with my lips and find the treasure.’
‘It is definitely desire.’ The tree commented. ‘But don’t worry, she will smile one day.’
‘And when will that be?’ I was growing skeptical
‘Remember son! An oyster lies deep within the ocean and awaits the arrival of a single grain of sand. And once that grain enters the oyster, it takes years and years to coat that grain with nacre. With patience and with time, that grain of sand becomes a lustrous pearl. The oyster remains patient. It keeps that pearl secure within its shell – hiding it from greedy eyes. But one day, when and if the true seeker of the pearl arrives, the oyster opens up willingly and offers the pearl.’
‘So she is the oyster and one day she may offer love with a smile if I remain true.’ I had understood what the tree wanted to tell me.
‘I would like an answer to my question.’ Her voice broke my reverie.
‘Huh! What question is that?’ I looked at her while thinking fondly of my old friend – the old banyan tree.
‘I asked you if you find it strange – us meeting here in Vienna out of the blue?’
‘Nothing is out of the blue.’ I smiled at her. ‘Whenever two souls come across each other, floating along the river of time; it is always for a higher purpose.’
We didn’t speak any more words. We just sat there beside the Danube – two silent shadows lost in their own thoughts. Then her hand moved and covered mine. It was warm and soft. I looked up at her and witnessed a slow and subtle transformation. Her eyes crinkled a little and the lines around the corners of her lips formed a smile. It was the loveliest of all the smiles in the whole world.
We reached across the table and my lips found hers. I delicately and carefully traced the lines and finally found the treasure.
‘Jawdat! Please listen to me, son.’ My old father used to request me, while we sat on the sand dunes, watching the long lines of caravans leaving and entering Damascus.
‘Jawdat my darling son! Everything in the universe speaks. The mountains, the deserts, the oceans, and the clouds – they all speak. But in order to understand them, you have to first learn their sacred language.’
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 ousting from the temple did bring us two closer. We started sitting together and eating together and taking long walks in the golden desert 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 beyond the horizon. 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?’
‘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.
‘One 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. 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 its elements of survival, love, and desire, 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 possibility. Only the present is real. So it is in the present that the scared 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 these three: the past, the present or the future?’
‘Hmm!’ She raised both her hands and tied her hair in a loose bun with her ringed fingers. The red 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.
She was strange – the old woman. 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 wetting 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. 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 sometimes I saw her chewing on some dried roots and mushrooms.
Maga was my scared triangle – in that there was no doubt. She was my survival when I needed to cling to life. She was my warmth when I was tortured by my loneliness. And one night she became my desire when my senses were heavy with lust and my body was craving human touch. I expected myself to be disgusted in the morning. But when the sun rose, I found my heart filled with only love for her. So yes, she had become my sacred triangle.
‘So what do you think child? Maga asked breaking my reverie.
‘Huh?’ I looked at her questioningly.
‘What is the most significant of these three: the past, the present or the future?’
I thought hard before presenting an answer.
‘My past has made me what I am and my future is pulling me into itself. But I am breathing in the present. So perhaps, the present is the most significant of all.’ I brushed off the dust on my hands and looked up at her.
‘Yes!’ She smiled with her kohl-lined eyes. I peered into them and the reflection of the bright moon peered back at me.
The 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.’
‘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, present, and then past. But it is only when the moment exists in the present that it matters the most. Because it encompasses the entirety of your existence.’
‘Maga?’ I asked her. ‘Do the dead regret not living in the moment?’
‘That is something only the dead can tell you, child!’
‘Hmm!’ I sat down on the cold sand and she rested her head on my shoulder.
I smelt the sandalwood smell of her silver hair and closed my eyes peacefully. The night was melting fast around us and the moon was diving below the horizon. Soon it became just a yellow shadow in the West.
‘Jawdat!’ Maga whispered in my ear and I opened my eyes.
The dark 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.
There were shadows hiding behind the lanterns. Slowly, the shadows started assuming a human form. 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 beneath the dead eyelids. And the dead spoke to me:
‘Touch my lips, which have kissed a hundred beauties;
and caress my eyes, which have dreamt a million dreams
Feel my heart, that preferred passion over duties;
and trace my veins, which once pulsated with extremes
But no more, my friend; no more.
Now I am a lonesome traveler, 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 the deadliest plague
I was a man once, but now 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 think
Look at my wife, beating her chest in grief;
but her tears are drying up really 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 momentarily stuns;
for their future is bright as they will slowly climb the rope
Listen my friend…….and listen very carefully;
my time has come and yours will come soon
Listen my friend…….and listen very carefully;
I am now dead and you too will die soon
Life is the dew drops, evaporating fast once kissed by the sun;
dust on the wings of a moth, turning to ash once kissed by the flame
So live your life, live it to the full; have all the joy, have all the fun;
for, in the end, you will be forever alone with your own regrets and shame’
‘Did you hear the dead man’s words?’ Maga asked me.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And what have you understood?’
‘That past was a dream, the future is a fantasy and the present is all that ever matters.’
Shehryar khawar 