The passions do not keep their promises
For breaking faith they should be doomed to die.
The passions and their purpose both are base
And do their best themselves to justify.
In this society the passions fit
As aptly as the corpse fits in the grave.
The passions may be shrewd and full of wit
But to the temporal world they are as slaves.
Since in no afterlife do they have a part,
Leave them for dead. But God, who can’t despise,
Can make his inspiration touch their heart –
From lifeless dust a being will arise.
This augury became the reason that Mirza Hoseinali decided definitely to spend all his effort in overcoming his natural instincts and devoting himself to asceticism. At first, the more profoundly he studied Sufi books, the more emphasis he put on this struggle. In the Treatise of the True Light it was written:
Oh master! Discipline yourself for some time
and occupy your passions in this endeavour,
until your false ideas leave and in their
place comes the truth.
In the Conzelor Romus of Mir Hoseini he read:
Destroy the passions, and their power break,
As you would destroy a vile snake.
In the book of Marsad ol’Bad it was written:
Know that when the initiate starts the struggle on the path of asceticism and the purification of the heart, the way to the kingdom of heaven appears to him; and at every stage secrets will unfold themselves to him befitting his state.
And in the poetry of Naser Khosro he read:
There stands a dragon over your treasure,
Slay it, and find sorrow turns to pleasure.
To appease it, as the coward tries,
Forfeits claim to that endless prize.
All of these threatening verses full of fear and hope, the writing of which had worn out countless pens, left little doubt in Mirza Hoseinali that the first step towards the goal was the killing of the devilish and animal passions, passions which prevented mankind from reaching the truth. Mirza Hoseinali wanted to purify his passion both through thought and reason and through rigour and struggle. Approximately a week of this passed, but then he began to be discouraged. The reason for this loss of hope was doubt and suspicion, especially after becoming involved with such poems as these by Ha¯fiz:
Seek not the mystery of the universe,
Rather tell tales of musicians and wine.
For solving the riddle of our existence
Requires a wisdom which no one can find.
Enjoy each pleasant note that comes along,
For no one knows the ending of life’s song.
Although Mirza Hoseinali knew that words such as “wine”, “cupbearer”, “tavern”, “wine seller”, and so on are mystical terminologies, still, in spite of this explanation, some of Khayyam’s quatrains were very difficult for him and left him confused. For example:
No one has seen Heaven and Hell, oh heart.
From there none has returned, news to impart.
Our hopes and fears are idle, for we have
Nothing except the names from which to start.
Or this quatrain:
Khayyam, if you are drunk with wine, rejoice,
Happy with the beloved of your choice.
Because the end of life is nothingness,
Be glad that end has not yet stilled your voice.
These masters invited one to pleasure, whereas he had forbidden himself all pleasures. This thought produced a bitter regret in him for his past life – that life in which he had given up so much and which he had made so difficult for himself. Even now his days were painfully spent seeking imaginary ideas! For twelve years he had been giving himself sorrow and affliction. Of pleasure, of the happiness of youth, he had no share, and now, too, he was empty-handed. This doubt and hesitation had turned all his thoughts into frightening shadows which followed him everywhere. Especially at night, when he turned and twisted in the cold bed. Alone, no matter how much he wanted to think about spiritual worlds, as soon as he fell asleep and his thoughts grew dim, a hundred demons would tempt him. How many times did he leap awake in fright and pour cold water on his head and face? The next day he would eat less, and at night he would sleep on straw, because Sheikh Abelfazl was always reciting this poem for him:
The passions are like furies, hard to restrain,
The more they get, the louder they complain.
Mirza Hoseinali knew that if he slipped, all his efforts would be wasted. Because of this, he intensified the torturing and mortification of his body. But the more he disciplined himself, the more the demon of lust tortured him, until he decided to go to his only friend and teacher, Sheikh Abelfazl, relate his problems, and get complete instructions from him.
It was near dusk when this thought occurred to him. He changed his clothes, buttoned his frock, and with measured steps set out for the home of the teacher. When he arrived he saw a man standing angrily in front of the house. He was shouting and tearing his hair and saying aloud, “Tell the Sheikh tomorrow I’ll take him to court, he’ll have to answer me there. He took my daughter to be a maid and ruined her and took all her money. Either he has to marry her, or I’ll tear him apart. I’ve been dishonoured…”
Mirza Hoseinali couldn’t bear it any more. He went forwards and said softly, “My good man, you’ve made a mistake. This is the house of Sheikh Abelfazl.”
“That’s the same villain I’m talking to, that same godless sheikh. I know he’s home, but he’s hiding. If he had nerve enough to come out I’d tear him limb from limb. For sure I’ll see him tomorrow.”
When Mirza Hoseinali realized that the case was serious, he moved off and went away slowly, but these words were enough to awaken him. Could it be true? Hadn’t he made a mistake? Sheikh Abelfazl, who had been recommending to him before anything else to kill the passions, hadn’t he himself been able to succeed in this endeavour? Had he slipped, or had he been fooling Mirza? It was very important that he should know this. If it were true, then had all the Sufis been like this, saying things which they didn’t believe themselves? Or was this typical only of his teacher, and had he found a phoney among the prophets? If this were the case, could he go and tell all his spiritual tortures and his misfortunes and then have the Sheikh recite several Arabic sentences, give him harder instructions, and laugh at him in his heart? No, he had to clear things up this very night. For a while he paced crazily about the empty streets. Then he found himself in a crowd. Without thinking of anything in particular, he walked slowly among the same people he had considered inferior and materialistic. Inside himself he felt their materialistic, ordinary life, and he desired to walk among them for a long while, but he turned once more towards Sheikh Abelfazl’s house, as if he had made a sudden decision. This time no one else was there. He knocked on the door and told his name to the woman who answered it. It was a little while before she opened the door for him. When he entered the room he saw Sheikh Abelfazl, with his squinting eyes, pockmarked face, and beard dyed the colour of plum jam, sitting on a carpet. He was telling his beads and several volumes of books were open beside him. As he saw Mirza he sprang to his feet, said “Ya Allah” and cleared his throat. In front of him was an open handkerchief on which was some stale bread and an onion. The sheikh looked at Mirza and said, “Come in. Partake of a humble supper with a poor man for the evening.”
“We thank you very much… Excuse me if I’m causing trouble. I was just passing by. I only came––”
“Not at all, nonsense. My house is yours.”
Mirza Hoseinali wanted to say something, but suddenly there arose the sound of shouts and uproar, and a cat leapt into the room with a cooked partridge in its mouth and a yelling woman
on its tail. While Mirza Hoseinali watched, Sheikh Abelfazl suddenly threw his cloak at it, and wearing only a shirt and underpants, reached out and grabbed a club from the corner of the room and ran after the cat like a madman. Mirza Hoseinali forgot what he wanted to say and stood transfixed. After a quarter of an hour, panting and with a burning face, Sheikh Abelfazl entered the room and said, “You know, according to religious law, if a cat causes more than seven hundred dinars worth of damage it is a holy duty to kill it.”
Mirza Hoseinali had no longer any doubt that this was a very ordinary man and that what the old man had charged was completely true. He got up and said, “Excuse me for bothering you… With your permission I’ll leave.”
Sheikh Abelfazl accompanied him to the door. When Mirza reached the alley he breathed a sigh of relief. Now it was proved for him. He recognized what kind of a man the Sheikh was and understood that this show and intrigue and trickery had been for his sake. He would eat a partridge, then, in order to fool people, he would set the table with dry bread and mouldy cheese or a withered onion to make himself seem pious. He instructed Mirza to eat nothing but an almond a day, while he himself got the maid pregnant and recited with relish this poem of Attar’s:
Don’t shed blood, like the wild beast, oh son,
That unbefitting food try hard to shun.
Be happy with a morsel or a grain,
Through fasting keep your passions bound in chains.
In fasting strive for excellence, and find
You’ll achieve distinction from your kind.
Don’t merely keep food from the passions hidden,
But refuse all thoughts on things forbidden.
It was dark. Once more Mirza Hoseinali entered the crowd of people. Like a lost child he walked aimlessly in the dusty, crowded streets. In the light of the streetlamps he looked at faces. All of them were dull and sad. His head felt empty, and there was a pressure in his heart which had grown unbearable. These people whom he had considered base, bound to their stomachs and lusts, gathering money, he now knew to be wiser and better than he, and he wished to be one of them. But he said to himself, “Who knows?” Maybe there was someone among them even worse off than he. Could he judge from appearances? Wouldn’t a beggar on the street become happier with just one coin than the richest person? While all the money in the world couldn’t do anything to alleviate Mirza Hoseinali’s pain. This time all the frightening nightmares which usually came to him were stronger and quicker in their attack. It occurred to him that his life had passed uselessly. Frenzied, confused memories of thirty years passed before him. He felt himself to be the most unfortunate and useless of creatures. Periods of his life appeared to him from behind dark clouds. Some episodes would shine out suddenly, then they would disappear. All of it was monotonous, tiring, and heart-rending. Sometimes a brief, vain happiness appeared like lightning flashing from a cloud. Everything seemed mean and useless to him: what a worthless struggle! What an absurd chase! He muttered to himself and bit his lips. His youth had been wasted in seclusion and darkness, without pleasure, without happiness, without love, weary of himself and others. How many people sometimes feel themselves more lost, more homeless than a bird which cries in the darkness of the night? He could no longer believe anything. This meeting of his with Sheikh Abelfazl had cost him dearly, because it had turned all his thoughts inside out. He was tired and thirsty, and a devil or a dragon had awakened in him which continually wounded and poisoned him. Now a car passed him, and in its lights his angry face, trembling lips and open, expressionless eyes were frighteningly illuminated. He was gazing into space, with a half open mouth, as if he were laughing at something out of reach. He felt a pressure at the base of his skull which extended to his forehead and temples and caused wrinkles to appear between his eyebrows.
Mirza Hoseinali had felt pain beyond human endurance. He was acquainted with hopeless hours, with distress and misfortune, and he knew a kind of philosophical pain which doesn’t exist for the mass of people. But now he felt himself immeasurably lost and alone. Life for him had become nothing but a mockery and a lie. He recited to himself, “What do I have to show for life? Nothing!”
This line from a poem drove him mad. Pale moonlight shone from behind the clouds, but he passed in the shadows. This moon, which previously had been so enchanting and mysterious for him and with whom he had communed during long hours outside the city gate, now seemed a cold, heartless and meaningless brightness. It angered him. He remembered the warm days, the long hours of study. He remembered his youth. While other boys his age were busy with pleasure, he would spend the summer days dripping with sweat, studying Arabic grammar with other students. Then they would go to take part in discussions with their theology teacher, Sheikh Mohammad Taqi. Squatting in full gathered trousers, a bowl of ice water in front of him, he fanned himself, and if they made a mistake in one vowel sign of an Arabic word, he shouted and the veins of his neck stood out, as if the world were ending.
Now the streets were empty and the shops were closed. When he entered Allah-o-Duleh Street the sound of music aroused him. Over a blue door in the glow of an electric light he read the name “Maxim”. Without hesitating he pushed back the curtain in the doorway, entered, and sat down at a table.
Since Mirza Hoseinali wasn’t used to bars, having never set foot inside such places, he looked around in amazement. Cigarette smoke mingled with the smell of fried meat and cabbage. A short man with a heavy moustache and rolled-up sleeves stood behind the bar working out sums on an abacus. A row of bottles was arranged next to him. A bit further away, a fat woman was playing the piano, while a thin man beside her played the violin. Drunken customers with strange faces, some from Russia and the Caucasus, sat at the tables. Meanwhile, a rather pretty woman with a foreign accent came up to his table and said with a smile, “Won’t you buy me a glass of wine, darling?”
“Certainly.”
Without hesitation the woman called a waiter and ordered an alcoholic drink he had never heard of. The waiter placed a bottle of wine and two glasses in front of them. The woman poured the wine and offered it to him. Mirza Hoseinali reluctantly drank the first glass. His body grew warm, his thoughts mixed up. The woman plied him with glass after glass of alcohol. A mournful wailing came from the violin. Mirza Hoseinali felt free and peculiarly happy inside. He remembered all the praise and glorification of wine he had read in Sufi poetry. In the pitiless brightness of the light he saw crow’s feet around the eyes of the woman seated next to him. After all his self-restraint, now his lot had become a yellow, sour-tasting wine and a heavily made-up, used, rough-haired woman. But he liked it that way. He felt he wanted to lower himself so that he could better destroy and ruin the being he had become through so much pain. He wanted to plunge from the purest, brightest thoughts into the darkest pleasure. He wanted to become a laughing stock, have people jeer at him. He wanted to find a route of escape for himself through madness. In this hour he knew himself capable of every kind of insanity. He murmured to himself:
During this time of poverty
Have pleasure, feast, and revelry
The philosopher’s stone of existence
Can turn a beggar to a Croesus.
Opposite him, the Russian woman laughed. Everything Mirza Hoseinali had read in Sufi poetry in praise of wine appeared before his eyes. He felt it all; he could read all the mysteries and secrets in the face of the woman who was sitting opposite him. At this time he was happy, because he had attained what he had wished for. Through the delicate mist of the wine he saw what he could never have imagined, what Sheikh Abelfazl couldn’t even dream, what other people couldn’t even conceive. Another world, full of secrets, became apparent to him. He understood that those who had forbidden this world had taken all their words and comparisons and allusions from it.
When Mirza Hoseinali got up to pay the bill he couldn’t stand on his feet. He took out his wallet, gave it to the woma
n, and with his arm around her they went out of Maxim’s. In the droshky, Mirza Hoseinali laid his head on the woman’s breast. He breathed the smell of her powder. The world was whirling before his eyes. The lights were dancing. The woman sang a mournful song in her Russian accent.
The droshky stopped at Mirza Hoseinali’s house. He entered the house with the woman, but he didn’t go to the bed of straw where he usually slept. He took her to the white mattress which was spread in his library.
Two days passed, and Mirza Hoseinali didn’t go to his work at school. On the third day was written in the newspaper: “Mister Mirza Hoseinali, a young, hardworking teacher, has committed suicide for unknown reasons.”
Buried Alive
(from Buried Alive)
I’m short of breath, tears pour from my eyes, my mouth tastes sour. I’m dizzy, my heartbeat is laboured, I’m exhausted, beaten, my body is loosened up. I have fallen without volition on the bed. My arms are punctured from injections. My bed smells of sweat and fever. I look at the clock on the small table beside the bed. It’s Sunday, ten o’clock. I look at the ceiling of the room, from the middle of which hangs a light bulb. I look around the room. The wallpaper has a pink and red flower design. At intervals two blackbirds sit opposite each other on a branch. One of them has opened his beak as if he is talking to the other. This picture infuriates me, I don’t know why, but whichever direction I turn, it’s before my eyes. The table is covered with bottles, wicks, and boxes of medicine. The smell of burnt alcohol, the smell of a sickroom, has pervaded the air. I want to get up and open the window, but an overwhelming laziness has nailed me to the bed. I want to smoke a cigarette, but I have no desire for it. It hasn’t been ten minutes since I shaved my beard, which had grown long. I came and fell in bed. When I looked in the mirror I saw that I’d become very wasted and thin. I walked with difficulty. The room is a mess. I’m alone.