Layla and Majnun (12 page)
Authors: Nizami
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ayla’s letter began with an invocation:
‘I begin this letter in the name of a King who gives life to the soul and succour to the heart. His knowledge encompasses all things and His wisdom is absolute: He sees and hears all things — even the prayers of those creatures that cannot speak. It is He who divides the world into light and darkness; it is He who gives every creature an allotted time on earth, from the birds in the air to the fish in the depths of the ocean. He has spangled the heavens with stars and filled the earth with people of different races and colours. He has given each man and woman a soul, and He has lit each soul with the torch of reason, so that all of His bondsmen may attain salvation.’
Then, she addressed Majnun:
‘This is a parchment of sorrow, sent by one grief-stricken soul to another. It comes from me, a prisoner, and is meant for you, you who have broken through your chains and attained freedom. How long ago was it, my love, that I sealed my bond with you? How many soulless days, how many tear-filled nights have passed since then?
‘How are you, dear heart, and how do you pass your days? Where have the seven planets, the heavenly guides, taken you? I know that you still stand guard over the treasure of our friendship, and I feel in my heart that love derives its majesty only from you. I know that your blood reddens the earth at sunrise and at sunset, yet you live deep in the heart of the mountains like a gem trapped in stone. In the murky darkness you are the very well-spring of Khizr, the source of the water of life itself. You are the moth who encircles the flame of eternity; you have stirred up the oceans of worldly existence, yet you turn your back on its storms and hide in the tomb of your own loneliness, with only a few wild beasts for company. All tongues wag against you, sending arrows of reproach towards your heart, but what does that matter to you? You have set your sights on eternity; even now, your caravan is on the road to the Hereafter.
‘I know how much you have sacrificed; I know that it was you who burned down your own cornfield, set fire to your own harvest. You dedicated your heart to me and put your soul at my disposal, and thus became the target for gossip and slander. But that is of little consequence; neither of us cares what others think or say. Whatever they throw at us, we will face together: at least I can depend on your loyalty, and you on mine. But if only I knew what you are thinking, what you are feeling! If only I could see how you look and what you are doing! With all my love and all my heart I am with you, but what about you? With whom do you spend your time? True, I am separated from you in body, but in spirit we are as one.
‘Yes, it is true: I have a husband. I have a husband, but not a lover; he has never shared my bed. Believe me, the situation has worn me down until I no longer have strength enough to fuel my thoughts, but I promise you that no one has touched my treasure: that has remained sealed like the bud of an enchanted flower that will never be opened. And so he waits, this husband of mine, behind a door whose key is hidden from view and forbidden to him.
‘And yes, he is a man of great fame and nobility, but what do these things mean to me? Compared with you, dear heart, he is nothing. When seen from afar even wild garlic looks like a lily; if you smell it, however, the truth soon
becomes clear. Wild garlic is not even worth gathering!
‘O my love! How I wish we could be together, but we cannot. Fate has decreed that we remain apart, and so remain apart we must. Am I to blame for the workings of Fate? My heart weeps at the very thought of it.
‘My darling! Send me a lock of your hair — it would mean the world to me. Send me one of the thorns that lie in your path, and I will nurture it until it blossoms into a rose-garden before my eyes! For wherever you tread, the desert breaks into bloom: you are my Khizr, my messenger from God, my water of eternal life! I am the moon and you are my sun, giving me light from afar; forgive me that my orbit, being different to yours, keeps me away from you always.
‘I heard of your father’s death and it grieved me beyond belief; it was as though my own dear father had died. In deference to his memory I dressed in a mourning robe of dark blue, like a desert violet, and for many days the tears did not leave my eyes. Do you understand me, dear heart?
‘I have done everything to share your grief, everything but this: I did not come to you myself, for that was impossible. But what does it matter? As I said, we are apart in body but in spirit we are one: my soul is with yours at all times. I know how much you suffer and how
your tender heart consumes itself with grief, yet there is only one way out of this misery for both of us: patience and forbearance.
‘Yes, my love: patience, forbearance and hope. What is life? It is but a tale and a cry, a swift sojourn in life’s caravanserai that is over almost as soon as it has begun: those who arrive barely have time to unpack their bags before they must depart! They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, and that is true. But a wise man does not let others look through that window, my love! Do you want the enemy to laugh at our tears, to mock us in our misery? Never! A wise man must hide his grief lest others feast on it, like grubs on a leaf.
‘Do not consider the seeds that are scattered: think only of what will grow from them. Today your way may be blocked by thorns and stones, but tomorrow you will harvest figs and dates in abundance! Where there is a closed bud today, tomorrow there will be a rose. Do not forget this!
‘And do not be sad! Do not let your heart weep such copious tears of blood, and do not think that you are alone and friendless in this world. Am I not your friend? Does the fact that I am here for you not help you? It is wrong, dear heart, to complain that you are alone. Remember the One who created you; remember that God is the Friend of all those without friends.
‘You grieve for your father and your tears fall like spring rain, but remember this: the father may have gone, but the son remains! The rock may have split and crumbled, but the precious gem that it once enclosed has rolled free!’
Majnun read the letter over and over again, his eyes widening with each reading. For a long time he was beside himself, trembling like a bud ready to burst into blossom. All he could say was: ‘O God, dear God!’
He folded the letter and sat down. Only then did the tears begin to fall in hot streams down his cheeks. He wept uncontrollably while the messenger looked on. Then, Majnun seized the messenger’s hand and began to cover it with kisses of gratitude. Finally, he prostrated himself in front of the old man and kissed his feet. When he had regained his composure he decided that he must answer Layla’s letter immediately. But how? The poet whose pearls of wisdom were common currency throughout the land had never before committed his verses to paper. ‘What am I to do?’ he cried, ‘I have neither parchment nor pen.’
The old messenger smiled, then took out a leather case from his bag, opened it and produced everything Majnun needed to answer his beloved’s missive: pen, parchment, ink and seal. ‘Here,’ he said with a knowing smile, ‘be my guest!’
Majnun thanked the old man and sat cross-legged in the dust with the parchment on his knees. Then with tender strokes of the pen he began to write. The words
came easily and he hardly had to think what to write next. How long these words had remained hidden in his heart, nurtured by love and pain and the grief of separation! Now he fathomed the depths of his own soul like a diver, plucking out pearl after pearl that he strung together in a necklace of letters and words, of dots and curves, of flourishes and arabesques. Piece by piece, he put together a picture of his grief.
When he had finished, he handed the letter to the old man who, aware of Majnun’s impatience, mounted his horse without further ado and galloped away like the wind. Presently, he arrived at Layla’s tent and handed Majnun’s letter to her. Her heart beating like the wings of a trapped moth, she read through a mist of tears the tender words her lover had written.
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ajnun’s letter also began with an invocation:
‘O Lord! Your knowledge encompasses all things: You know what is manifest and what is hidden, for You have created both the rock and precious gem that lies trapped within it. Yours is the dominion of the heavens with their constellations. You merge night into day, and day into night. The secrets and mysteries that lie hidden in the human heart are known to You, for nothing escapes Your vision. You cause the sap to rise in the blissful days of spring; You cause the blood to rush through our veins until the day we die. And You are the One who hears the prayer of those in need when they turn to You.’
Then he addressed Layla, saying:
‘I am writing this letter as one who has renounced all ties with the world, as one whose fate now lies in your hands, as one whose blood is yours to sell as cheaply as you wish.
‘You say that I am the keeper of the treasure; true, I am close to it, yet at the same time I have never been so far! The key with which I am to open that treasure has not yet been made; the iron from which it will be forged still lies sleeping in the rock.
‘I am the very dust that you trample underfoot, while you are the water of life — but for whom? I lie prostrate beneath your feet while your arms embrace — who? I would even suffer harm from you, while you are caressing — who? I am your slave and your load is on my shoulders, but what about you? Whose ring hangs from your ear? You are my ka’ba, to you
I turn in prayer, but what am I to you?
‘You are the cure for all that is wrong with me, yet at the same time you are my sickness! You are the wine in my goblet that does not belong to me; you are the crown that was made for me, but which adorns some other brow. Yes, you are my treasure, but you are in the hands of a stranger, for him to enjoy: I am but the poor beggar who is bitten by the serpent who guards you.
‘You are paradise itself, of this I am certain.
Yet nowhere do I find the key to open the gate! You are mine, yet you are not mine: you are heaven itself, but so distant that you might as well be hell with all its tortures! The tree of my being grows in the forest of your soul and belongs to you: fell that tree and a part of your own being will fall and die. I am the earth beneath your feet: if you tread lovingly, I will be the sweet spring soil that brings forth endless flowers for your enjoyment; if you stamp on me, I will be the swirling dust cloud that envelops and suffocates you.
‘Did I not give myself up to you willingly? Am I not known the world over as your slave? And rightly so, for I carry a slave’s burden. So act as a slave’s mistress should act and do what is right! I have nothing with which to defend myself: my weapons, my shield — I have surrendered them all. I have become your prisoner without a fight, but if you refuse me I shall be put to the sword.
‘Have mercy on me, and thus on yourself. Do not cut off your own nose to spite your face; do not fight your own army; do not harm your own soul! Be gentle and kind and give solace to my aching heart. Only by accepting me can you set me free.
‘Does a Lord desert his servant? How can a servant obey a Lord he never sees? Let me remain in your service, as your slave; do not barter me or sell me! But it would seem that you
have done so already. Did you not carve my name on to a block of ice to melt away in the sun? Did you not lead me into the fire to be burned? Did you not do these things to me? Yes, it was you. You were the one who changed my day into night, making my life a misery while all the time lamenting over it. Is that fair? You steal my heart, you entice away my soul, and to what end? In return you give me only words that sting, while I am reduced to ashes by the fire of love.
‘And what of you? What of you, dear heart, who bought me? Do I see the signs of love when I look in your face? Show me where they are! I see none. Is that why you severed all ties with me, so that you might seal your bond with another? Could it be that you seduced me with your words when all the time you were planning to give him what love desires? I hear your sighs, but are they sincere? Tell me, for if they are not sincere, your rule over me is nothing but the rule of a tyrant!
‘Why are you so heartless? After all, do you not share my grief? I only have eyes for you and, as I look for the signs that will foreshadow my fate, I think only of you. My heart craves peace, but where is it to be found? Peace is his who is allowed to gaze upon you, not his whose days pass in misery like mine. He who possesses a jewel like you possesses peace and much more; he who possesses you possesses the world.
‘But I do not possess you. Men dig for treasure, only to find that the earth will not surrender it: has that not been the case since time immemorial? Look at the garden! While the nightingale warbles its odes to the fig-tree, the raven makes off with its figs! The gardener nourishes the pomegranate tree with his heart’s blood, only to see its fruits carried off to be given to some sick fool! Such are the ways of Fate.
‘When, dear heart, will you be freed from this ogre of a husband? You are the moon in all its splendour; when, O moon, will you escape from the jaws of the dragon? When will the bee depart and leave its honey to me? When will the mirror lose its dust and shine clean again? When will the serpent die and allow me to open the casket of gems? When, when, when?
‘But do not think I nurture any hatred towards your husband. Although he is the one who is near you, although he is the moth that flutters constantly around the flame of your being, I bear no grudges: may he enjoy your light, may he be happy with his flame! Yet I cannot deny that I wish …
‘O what can I say? You are my everything: my good, my bad, my sickness and my cure.
‘Forgive me, my sweet! Forgive me if I have cast aspersions on your goodness, your integrity. Forgive me for suspecting you. I know that no one has yet stormed your citadel; I know
the shell that guards the pearl is still intact; I know that no one has turned the key and opened the door to your treasure. I know all this and yet …
‘For the love of God, you know what passion does to a soul like mine! Jealousy breeds evil thoughts and suspicions. You know how much I long to be near you, how I envy even the tiniest mosquito that alights on your tender skin. Yet to the mind of a lover possessed, even that mosquito is transformed into a vulture; then the fever overwhelms me and I cannot rest until the image of that vulture is banished from my mind. But how? Ibn Salam, your husband, is a noble man, of that much I am certain. But how does knowing that help me? Of what consequence is his nobility to me? To my mind, he is little better than a common thief who delights in that which he has stolen. There he is, worrying about a rose that is not his to pick, losing sleep over a pearl that is not his to treasure!
‘Dearest heart, in loving you my life ebbs away, my lips wither and my eyes are blinded by tears. You cannot imagine how much of a madman, a “majnun”, I have become. For you, not only have I lost the world — I have lost myself.
‘But the path of true love can be taken only by those who are ready to forget themselves. For love, the faithful must pay with the blood of
their hearts, the tranquillity of their souls; otherwise their love is worth nothing. Thus you are leading me by showing the true faith of your love, even if that faith should remain concealed from me for ever.
‘So let my love be the guardian of my secrets. Let the misery that love brings caress my soul! What does it matter that my sickness has no cure? As long as you are well, my suffering is immaterial.’
