‘I heard a strange thing about these beasts,’ said Sangram. ‘They say they choose where they’d like to die. This one seems like he has found his place.’
‘What are you saying? Chota is an infant,’ Jahan objected, disturbed by the words he had heard.
Sangram shrugged. Thankfully, Chota began to walk again, and the subject was dropped as quickly as it had started.
Before noon they arrived at the Grand Mufti’s house, a mansion with a dovecote carved in limestone, a pergola topped with a baldachin and cantilevered bay windows overseeing the Bosphorus. Jahan inspected the place with interest. He noticed that the windows mostly faced north and a few had stained glass, which he thought was a pity, since they did not capture the changing light. It occurred to him that if he could filch paper from somewhere, he could draw this place in the way he was imagining it.
Meanwhile the Grand Mufti appeared. Jahan saluted him under the eyes of his wives and children, who, having never seen an elephant before, were peeking from behind curtains and doors. With the help of a ladder and a dozen servants the old man took his seat inside the howdah. Jahan, as usual, sat on Chota’s neck. Sangram would walk.
‘Has anyone ever toppled down from up here?’ the Grand Mufti yelled when they set off.
‘Chelebi, I can assure you that has never happened.’
‘Insha’Allah, I won’t be the first.’
To Jahan’s surprise the aged man handled the ride well enough. They trudged along the wider streets, avoiding any alleyways too narrow for the elephant. Besides, Jahan had the impression that the Grand Mufti wanted to be seen by as many people as possible. One didn’t get a chance to mount Sultan Suleiman’s elephant every day.
They entered the square, where a crowd awaited them. Waving and hailing, people greeted them, although who was more heartily welcomed – Chota or the Grand Mufti – was hard to say. There was excitement in the wind. An anticipation for a remarkable spectacle. After being carried down, the Grand Mufti proceeded to lead the Friday prayer, followed by the ulema and hundreds of townsmen. Jahan and Sangram waited by the elephant’s side, whispering. Every now and then they glanced furtively at the spot where four husky soldiers stood guard. Among them, praying on his own, now getting on his knees, now standing up, was a stranger – a tall, lithe figure with a delicate face and a few days of stubble.
Sangram said his name was Leyli, yet everyone called him Majnun Shaykh. He was the youngest of Sufi scholars, the youngest of Friday preachers. He had eyes the pale grey of autumn rain, freckles like dots of paint, hair fluffy and fair. He was a man of mesmerizing contrasts: a child’s curiosity in the inner workings of the world and a sage’s unruffled wisdom; brave to the point of recklessness but diffident; full of vigour yet surrounded by an air of melancholy. Good with words, proficient in ma’rifa,* his sermons were popular, attended by both believers and doubters from all over the empire. His voice, soft and soothing, gained a lisping lilt whenever he became particularly emotional. His teachings dazed, dismayed and disturbed the ulema. The dislike was mutual. Not a day passed without Majnun Shaykh needling or ridiculing religious officialdom. ‘When one reaches a higher awareness,’ he said, ‘one need not pay attention to haram and halal† as much as to the inner core of faith.’ The Sufis, having attained an upper level of understanding, were not bound by the decrees of the ulema. Those were invented for the masses, for those who did not want to think and who expected others to think for them.
Majnun Shaykh spoke about love – of God and of fellow human beings, of the universe in its entirety and of the tiniest particle. Prayer should be a declaration of love, and love should be stripped of all fear and expectation, he said. One ought not fear boiling in cauldrons or wish for virgin houris, since both hell and heaven, suffering and joy, were right here and right now. How long were you going to shrink from God, he asked, when you could, instead, start to love Him? His followers – a motley collection of artisans, peasants and soldiers – listened to his oration spellbound. His ideas appealed to the impoverished, his manners to the rich. Even women, they said, even ignorant odalisques and resentful eunuchs, set great store by him; even Jews, Christians and the Zoroastrians, who had a book no one had yet seen.
The Friday prayer came to an end, the scholars settled down. Majnun Shaykh pressed on his eyes, like a kid rubbing the sleep out of them, and studied, one by one, his interrogators.
‘Do you know what you are being accused of?’ asked the Grand Mufti.
‘What you call heresy,’ he answered. ‘But the charge is unfounded.’
‘We’ll see about that. Is it true you’ve declared you are God and everyone is God?’
‘What I said was the Creator is present in each person. Whether a farrier or a pasha, we share the same lifeblood as of yore.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘We are made not only in His divine image but also with His divine essence.’
‘Is it true that you said you have no fear of God?’
‘Why should I fear my Beloved? Do you fear your loved ones?’
A murmur rose from the crowd. Someone shouted, ‘Silence!’
‘So you accept that you have claimed to resemble God.’
‘You think God is similar to you. Angry, rigid, eager for revenge … Whereas I say: instead of believing that the worst in humans can be found in God, believe that the best in God can be found in humans.’
One scholar, Ebussuud Efendi, asked permission to break in. ‘Are you aware that what just passed your lips is pure blasphemy?’
‘Was it?’ Majnun Shaykh paused, as if briefly considering the likelihood.
A shadow crossed Ebussuud’s face. ‘Instead of feeling remorse, you seem to be scoffing at the high court. Your mind is warped, clearly.’
‘I was not mocking. Besides we are not that different, you and I. Whatever you hate in me, does it not also exist in you?’
‘Certainly not! We couldn’t be more different,’ Ebussuud said. ‘And your God is surely not the same as mine.’
‘Oh, but are you not committing shirk, talking of my God and your God as if there could be more than one God?’
The crowd rippled with whispers.
Coughing, the Grand Mufti broke in, ‘Tell us more about God, then.’
Majnun Shaykh’s response to this was that Allah was not a king or rajah or padishah sitting on his celestial throne, watching from above, writing down every sin so that He could punish when the day arrived. ‘God is not a merchant – why should He calculate? God is not a clerk – why should He scribble?’
Not liking this answer, the court went on interrogating him from all sides. Each time they got similar responses. Finally they heard these words from the accused: ‘Where you draw a line and tell me to stop: that is only the beginning for me. What you call haram is to me pure halal. You say I have to shut my mouth, but how can I keep silent when God speaks through me?’
Dusk fell; the sky turned into a crimson mantle above the hills. Far in the distance the lantern of a passing boat shone dimly. Seagulls screeched, fighting over a piece of rotten meat. People got bored, as the excitement of the previous hours began to wear thin. They had tasks to complete, bellies to fill, wives to please. Gradually, the audience melted away. Only the adherents of the heretic remained, their devotion visible in their expressions.
‘We give you a last chance,’ said the Grand Mufti. ‘If you admit you have been speaking sacrilegiously about God and swear to never say such obscenities again, you might be forgiven. Now tell me, once and for ever, do you repent?’
‘What for?’ said Majnun Shaykh, his shoulders straightening as he seemed to take a decision. ‘I love the Beloved as the Beloved loves me. Why feel remorse for love? Surely there are other things to rue. Avarice. Ruthlessness. Deception. But love … ought not to be regretted.’
In his anxiety Jahan did not notice that he was pulling Chota’s reins too tightly. The elephant made a sound of discomfort, which drew everyone’s attention.
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‘This creature …’ said Majnun Shaykh, regarding Chota with something akin to admiration. ‘Is that not testimony to the beauty and variety of the universe? See how it reflects all existence, even though some may say it’s no more than a beast. When we die our soul passes from one body to another. There’s no death, therefore. No heaven to await, no hell to dread. I do not need to pray five times a day or fast the entire Ramadan. For those who have ascended high enough, the rules of the common people are of little account.’
Silence fell and lengthened into an awkward wait. Into this the Grand Mufti declared, ‘Let it be known that the accused was given a chance to see the error of his ways. He has decided his own end. He shall be put to death three sunsets hence. All his followers will be arrested. Those who repent of their sins will be spared. The rest will meet the same fate.’
Jahan lowered his gaze, unable to watch any more. He was startled when he heard the elephant being mentioned again.
‘Should the Grand Mufti allow me, I have an idea,’ said Ebussuud Efendi. ‘As you know, the people of Istanbul love our Sultan’s white elephant. Why not have the renegade die under the beast’s feet? No one would forget this.’
The Grand Mufti looked puzzled. ‘That has never been done before.’
‘My Lords, they exercise this punishment in the lands of Hindustan. Thieves, murderers, rapists are often trodden on by elephants. It has proved effective. Let the elephant trample on him and make of him an example for those who hold similar views.’
The Grand Mufti was pensive for a moment. He said, ‘I don’t see why not.’
With that, all heads turned towards Jahan and Chota. The mahout opened his mouth but could not speak for panic, at first. His heart thudding, he then managed to say, ‘I beg you, esteemed scholars. Chota has never done a thing like that. He wouldn’t know what to do.’
‘Don’t you come from the land of Hindustan?’ asked Ebussuud Efendi suspiciously.
Jahan paled. ‘Yes, I do, effendi.’
The Grand Mufti said the final word. ‘Well, then, teach him. You have three days.’
Three days after the trial, shaking like a leaf in a gust of wind, Jahan was sitting atop the elephant, staring down at the sea of spectators. His eyes flicked between them and the man lying supine on the ground, only an arm’s length away. Majnun Shaykh’s hands and feet were tied, as were his eyes. He was praying in soft tones that were swallowed by the clamour of the crowd.
‘Go, Chota!’ Jahan yelled, his command devoid of strength.
The elephant didn’t budge.
‘Move, you beast!’
Jahan prodded the elephant with a stick, then a wooden cudgel. He uttered threats and curses, offered nuts and apples. None of it worked. When Chota did finally care to move, instead of stamping on the convict, he took a step back and waited, flicking his ears nervously.
The jurists, seeing that the public was getting bored, changed the verdict at the last moment. The heretic and his followers were to be killed in the traditional way.
In the end, Majnun Shaykh and his nine disciples were executed by hanging. Their bodies were dumped into the Bosphorus. The last disciple, the one who had escaped because he had been travelling at the time of the trial, waited at the bay where the land jutted into the sea. He knew the tides of the Bosphorus would bring him the bodies. One by one, he fetched them, cleaned them, kissed them, buried them. Unlike all other Islamic graves in Istanbul, theirs would be without headstones.
From the moment he arrived in the menagerie, Jahan expected Sultan Suleiman to inquire about the elephant. But weeks, then months passed without any sign of the sovereign. He was either on a battlefield or on his way to one. On those rare occasions when he stayed in the palace, he was wrapped up in affairs of the state, if not in the entanglements of the harem. Jahan kept waiting for the Sultan to come. Instead it was the Sultana who turned up one afternoon.
Quick as the wind and quiet as a cat after a pigeon, she caught him unawares. One minute the garden was empty and the next she was there, her entourage waiting demurely seven steps behind her. She wore a scarlet petticoat trimmed with ermine, a headdress with tassels that accentuated her sharp chin and an emerald larger than the egg of some queer fowl on her middle finger.
There, behind the erect figure of her mother, apart from everyone and everything, was Princess Mihrimah, gauzy scarves dangling from her headdress. Ruddy and radiant, sparkles of sunlight dancing in her hair. Her eyes, glossy like pebbles at the bottom of a creek, lit up as they caught his admiring gaze. Her lips twisted in a smile, revealing the gap between her two front teeth, which gave her face a mirthful, impish appearance.
Jahan opened and closed his mouth as if unbeknown to him his tongue wished to speak to her. He was almost going to take a step in her direction when a eunuch slapped him on his neck. ‘Kneel down! How dare you!’
Startled, Jahan bowed so low and so fast that his knees knocked against the stones. A giggle ran through those present that made him blush up to his ears.
Ignoring the scene, Hurrem walked past, her skirts brushing Jahan’s forehead. ‘Who looks after this beast?’ she asked.
‘I do, my Sultana,’ Jahan said.
‘What’s the beast’s name?’
‘Chota, your Highness.’
‘What can he do?’
Jahan found the question so bizarre it took him a moment to answer. ‘He’s … he’s a noble animal.’
He wished to tell her, if he only could, elephants were huge not only in size but also in heart. Unlike other animals, they comprehended death; they had rituals to celebrate the birth of a calf or to mourn the loss of a relative. Lions were fierce, tigers were regal, monkeys were smart, peacocks impressive – yet only an elephant could be all of those things at once.
Oblivious to his thoughts, Hurrem said, ‘Show us a few tricks!’
‘Tricks?’ Jahan asked. ‘We don’t know any tricks.’
He could not see the expression on her face, as he could not look up. Instead he watched her feet – long and shapely, clad in silk slippers – glide a few steps; she came to a halt in front of the elephant and ordered her concubines to fetch a twig. Instantly one was provided. Jahan feared she was going to hit Chota, but she waved it in the air, asking, ‘Can the beast catch this?’
Before the boy could answer she flung the twig up towards the elephant. It made a crescent in the air, landing near Chota’s hind feet. The animal wagged its trunk as if to ward off an invisible fly, and remained still, unruffled.
The Sultana made a sneering sound. In that instant Jahan saw Chota through her eyes – a massive creature that ate too much, drank too much and, in return, offered nothing.
‘Are you telling me there’s nothing this creature can do?’ Hurrem said – less a question than a statement.
‘Your Majesty, this is a war elephant. So were his grandfathers. He might be young, but he has already proved his bravery on the battlefield.’
She turned towards him, this boy who was clearly unfamiliar with the ways of the palace. ‘A warrior, you said?’
‘Yes … your Highness, Chota is a warrior.’ Even as the words left his mouth, Jahan felt uneasy, already regretting his lie.
The Sultana took a quiet breath. ‘Then you are blessed with luck. The war is soon!’ Hurrem half turned to the Chief White Eunuch. ‘Make sure the beast joins our valiant soldiers.’
She flounced away, her chambermaids and concubines obediently trotting after her. Carnation Kamil Agha, after giving the elephant and the mahout each a cold stare, followed them. Not everybody had left, though. Two figures had stayed behind and were now watching the boy – the Princess and her nursemaid.
‘You’ve upset My Lady Mother,’ Mihrimah said. ‘Nobody upsets my mother.’
‘I did not intend to,’ Jahan mumbled on the verge of tears.
‘Tell me, why are you so upset?’
‘The elephant does not know how to fight, your Highness.’
‘So you lie
d to my mother?’ she asked, less appalled than amused. ‘Look at me, mahout.’
No sooner had Jahan glanced at her than he lowered his gaze in shame. In that fleeting instant he had seen her eyes – set wide in her oval face, inherited from her mother – glow with mischief. She said, ‘You are more of a fool than I thought. Tell me, have you ever been in a war?’
He shook his head. From a nearby tree came the squawk of a crow. A loud, harsh cry of warning.
‘Well, I haven’t either. But I have travelled more than My Lady Mother. Even more than my noble brothers! My venerable father loved me so much he asked me to accompany him to many lands. Just the two of us.’ A tinge of sorrow crept into her voice. ‘But he doesn’t take me anywhere any more. You are no longer a child, he says. I must be kept away from the eyes of strangers. My brothers are as free as migratory birds. How I wish I had been born a boy.’
Mystified by this statement, Jahan duly kept his head down. Yet his compliance seemed to annoy her. ‘Look at you and look at me! You are a boy, but you are frightened of the battlefield. I am a girl, but I am dying to go to war with my father. I wish we could exchange places, just for a while.’
That evening, mustering his courage, Jahan went to see the Chief White Eunuch. He explained to him Chota was still young and not ready to fight. He blathered on, repeating himself, not because he thought the man hadn’t understood but because if he stopped speaking he might begin to cry.
‘What does he need to be ready for? Isn’t he a war elephant?’ the Chief White Eunuch asked. ‘Or did the Shah deceive us?’
‘Oh, he is. But he has not been trained. There are things he’s scared of.’
‘Like what?’
The boy swallowed hard. ‘Tigers. I’ve noticed every time the tiger growls the elephant cowers. I don’t know why but –’
‘In that case, don’t fret,’ Carnation Kamil Agha scoffed. ‘There are no tigers in Black Bogdania.’
‘Black Bogdania?’ Jahan echoed.
‘That’s where our army is heading. Now get out of my sight and don’t come back to me again with such nonsense!’