But an important event, one which should not have happened, took place: a husband appeared for Marjan, and what a husband, who was both older and less attractive than Dash Akol. At this event Dash Akol didn’t turn a hair. On the contrary, with extreme contentment he busied himself preparing the trousseau, and he organized a fitting celebration for the wedding night. He took Hajji’s wife and children to their own home again and designated the large room with sash windows for entertaining the male guests. All the important people, the merchants and dignitaries of Shiraz, were invited to the festivities.
That day at five in the afternoon, when the guests were sitting around the room cheek by jowl on the priceless carpets and rugs and the big wooden trays of sweets and fruit had been placed in front of them, Dash Akol entered, with his old rough appearance and manner, but with his unruly hair combed and wearing new clothes, a striped robe, a sword belt, a sash, black trousers, cloth shoes, and a hat. Three other people entered behind him with notebooks and pads. All the guests looked him up and down. With long steps Dash Akol went up to His Eminence the Imam Jomeh, and said, “Sir, Hajji, God bless him, made his will and threw me into a sea of trouble for seven years. His youngest son, who was five years old, is now twelve. These are the accounts of Hajji’s property.” He pointed to the three people standing beside him. “Until today, whatever has been spent, including the expenses of this evening, I have paid from my own pocket. From now on I will go my way, and they will go theirs!”
When he reached this point he stifled a sob. Then without adding anything or waiting for an answer, he dropped his head and with his eyes full of tears went out of the door. In the alley he breathed a sigh of relief. He felt that he had become free and that the burden of responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders, but his heart was broken. He took long, careless steps. As he walked, he recognized the house of the Jewish vodka maker, Mullah Ashaq. Without hesitation he went down the damp steps and entered an old, sooty courtyard which was surrounded by small dirty rooms with windows full of holes like beehives and whose fountain was covered with moss. The smells of fermentation, of feathers, and of old cellars diffused in the air. Mullah Ashaq, skinny, with a dirty nightcap, a goatee beard and covetous eyes, came forwards, laughing artificially.
Dash Akol said gloomily, “By your moustache, give me a bottle of the best to refresh my throat.” Mullah Ashaq nodded his head, went down the cellar steps, and after a few minutes came up with a bottle. Dash Akol took the bottle from his hand. He hit the neck against a pillar. The top broke off, and he drained half the bottle. Tears gathered in his eyes, he stifled a cough, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Mullah Ashaq’s son, who was a sallow, scrawny, dirty child, with a swollen stomach, an open mouth, and snot hanging on his upper lip, was looking at Dash Akol. Dash Akol put his finger under the lid of a salt cellar which was on a shelf in the courtyard and laid salt on his tongue.
Mullah Ashaq came forwards, clapped Dash Akol on the shoulder and said, “That’s the way, fellow.” Then he fingered the material of Dash Akol’s clothes and said, “What’s this you’re wearing? This robe is out of style. Whenever you don’t want it, I’ll pay a good price.”
Dash Akol laughed dejectedly. He took some money from his pocket, put it in the palm of Mullah Ashaq’s hand, and left the house. It was near dusk. His body was warm, his thoughts were distressed, and his head ached. The alleys were still damp from the afternoon rain and the smell of mud walls and orange blossoms mingled in the air. Marjan’s face, her rosy cheeks, black eyes and long lashes, the curly hair on her forehead appeared vaguely and mysteriously before Dash Akol’s eyes. He remembered his past life; memories passed before him one by one. He remembered the outing he had made with his friends to the tombs of Saadi and Baba Kouhi. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he frowned. The one thing he was certain of was that he was afraid of his house – that the state of affairs had become intolerable for him. It was as if his heart had been torn out. He wanted to go far away. He thought that again tonight he would drink and tell his troubles to the parrot! All of life for him had become small, futile, and meaningless. Meanwhile he remembered a poem. Out of boredom he murmured it: “I envy the parties of prisoners / Whose refreshments are chain links.” He remembered another poem and recited it a little louder.
My heart has gone crazy, oh wise ones.
The crazed man is bound with a chain.
Bind my heart with a chain of prudence,
Or its madness will break out again.
He recited this poem in a sad hopeless tone, but as if he had lost interest, or was thinking of something else, he fell silent.
It had grown dark when Dash Akol reached Sare Dozak. This was the same square where in the old days Dash Akol would take on all comers, and no one had dared tangle with him. Without intending it, he went and sat on a stone bench in front of a house. He took out his pipe, filled it, and drew on it slowly. It occurred to him that this place was more run down than it had been; the people looked different to him, just as he himself had changed and broken down. He saw things hazily. His head ached. Suddenly a dark shadow appeared coming towards him, saying, as it approached, “Even the d-d-dark night knows who’s the b-b-better man.”
Dash Akol recognized Kaka Rostam. He stood up, put his hands on his hips, spat on the ground, and said sarcastically, “God damn your coward father. You think you’re the better man? You haven’t even learnt where to pee.”
Kaka Rostam laughed mockingly, came close, and said, “I-i-i-it’s a long t-t-time we haven’t seen you around here. Tonight there’s a w-w-w-wedding at Hajji’s house. Didn’t they let y-y-you?…”
Dash Akol interrupted, “God knew what he was doing when he gave you only half a tongue. I’m going to take the other half tonight.” He pulled out his sword. Kaka Rostam reached for his sword also. Dash Akol drove his sword into the ground, folded his arms across his chest and said, “Now I dare you to pull that sword out of the ground.”
Kaka Rostam suddenly attacked him, but Dash Akol hit the back of his hand so hard that the sword flew out of his grasp. At the sound, a handful of passers-by stopped to watch, but no one dared to come forwards or try to separate them.
Dash Akol said with a smile, “Go on, pick it up, but hold it tighter this time, because tonight I want to settle our accounts!”
Kaka Rostam came forwards with clenched fists and they grappled with each other. They rolled on the ground for half an hour, sweat dripping from their faces, but neither one gained the upper hand. In the middle of the struggle Dash Akol’s head hit hard against the cobblestones. He nearly lost consciousness. Kaka Rostam, too, despite the murder in his heart, felt that his power of resistance was exhausted, but suddenly his glance fell on Dash Akol’s sword, which was within his reach. With all his strength he pulled it out of the ground and drove it into Dash Akol’s side. He pushed it so hard that neither could move any more.
The onlookers ran forwards and lifted up Dash Akol with difficulty. Drops of blood splattered on the ground. He clutched his wound, dragged himself next to the wall a few steps, and fell to the ground again. Then they raised him and carried him to his house.
The next morning, as soon as the news of Dash Akol’s wounding reached Hajji Samad’s house, Vali Khan, Hajji’s oldest son, went to see how he was. When he reached Dash Akol’s bedside, he saw him stretched out deathly pale in bed. Bloody froth had bubbled from his lips, and his eyes had darkened. He breathed with difficulty. In a state of torpor, Dash Akol recognized Vali Khan. In a half-choked, trembling voice he said, “In the whole world… that parrot… was all I had… please… please… give it to…”
He fell silent again. Vali Khan took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes. Dash Akol lost consciousness, and an hour later he died.
Everybody in Shiraz cried for him.
That afternoon, Marjan placed the parrot’s cage in front of her and sat looking at the parrot’s
colourful wings, its hooked beak, and its round, lustreless eyes. Suddenly the parrot, in a rough, scratchy tone, said, “Marjan… Marjan… You killed me… Whom shall I tell… Marjan… Loving you… has destroyed me.”
Tears streamed from Marjan’s eyes.
The Man Who Killed His Passions
(from Three Drops of Blood)
The passions are dragons,
Perhaps sleeping, but never slain,
In the proper circumstances,
They’ll rise up again.
Mowlavi*
Regularly every morning, Mirza Hoseinali, wearing a black buttoned-up frock, pressed trousers, and shiny black shoes, came walking steadily out of one of the alleys near Sar Cheshme.* He passed in front of the Sepas-Selar Mosque, went through Safi Ali Shah Alley, and went to school.
He didn’t look around as he walked. It was as if his thoughts were directed towards something special. He had a pure, dignified face, with small eyes, prominent lips and a brown moustache. His beard was always trimmed. He was very humble and quiet.
Occasionally around sunset, the thin figure of Mirza Hoseinali could be discerned from afar outside the city gate, walking very slowly, hands linked behind his back, head down, back bent. Sometimes he would stand and whisper to himself for a while, as if he were searching for something.
The principal of the school where he taught and the rest of the teachers neither liked nor disliked him. Perhaps he made a mysterious impression on them. In contrast to the teachers, the students were satisfied with him, because he had never been seen to be angry or to beat anybody. He was very calm and reserved, and he behaved in a pleasant manner towards the students. Because of this he was known for lacking authority, but in spite of that reputation, the students were polite in his class and were apprehensive of him. The only person with whom Mirza Hoseinali had a warm relationship and with whom he sometimes had discussions with was Sheikh Abelfazl, the teacher of Arabic, who was very pretentious. Sheikh Abelfazl was always talking about the degree to which he had mortified his flesh and the wondrous things he had done. For a long time he had been in a state of religious rapture, and he hadn’t spoken for several years. He saw himself as a philosopher, heir to Avicenna, Mowlavi, and Galen. But in reality he was one of those selfish phoney mullahs who liked to show off his knowledge. In any conversation that arose he would immediately insert a proverb or an esoteric Arabic sentence, or he would cite a poem as evidence, and then with a victorious smile he would look for the effect of his words in the faces of those present. And it was strange that Mirza Hoseinali, the teacher of Persian and history, apparently modern and without pretension, should choose Sheikh Abelfazl of all people to be his friend. Sometimes he would take the Sheikh to his home, and sometimes he went to the Sheikh’s house.
Mirza Hoseinali was from an old family, and was a knowledgeable, well-rounded man. People were impressed that he had graduated from the Darolfonoun. For two or three years he had travelled with his father on duty, but when he returned from the last trip he stayed in Tehran and chose the teaching profession, so that, even though he knew it was a difficult responsibility, he would have time to turn his attention to his own interest.
From childhood, from the time a mullah started to come to their house to tutor him and his brother, Mirza Hoseinali showed a special talent for learning the literature, poetry, and philosophy of the Sufis. He even wrote poetry in the Sufi style. Their teacher, Sheikh Abdollah, who considered himself a Sufi, paid special attention to his pupil. He indoctrinated him with mystic thoughts and described the mystic state for him. He had especially told him about the distinguished position of Mansour Hallaj, who by the mortification of his passions had elevated himself to such a position that even on the gallows he refused to stop saying “I am God”. This story seemed very poetic to young Mirza Hoseinali. And finally one day Sheikh Abdollah declared to him, “With the nature that I see in you, if you follow the Way of Truth, you will attain excellence.” Mirza Hoseinali always remembered this thought. It took root and grew in his brain, and he always wished for a suitable time to begin devoting himself to asceticism. Later he and his brother entered the Darolfonoun School. There also, Mirza Hoseinali did very well in Arabic and literature. Mirza’s younger brother was not of the same mind. He would mock him and say, “These fancies will only make you fall behind in life and give up your youth for nothing.” But in his heart Mirza Hoseinali laughed at his brother’s words; he considered his brother’s thoughts materialistic and small, and he became even more stubborn in his determination. On account of this difference of opinion they separated after their father’s death.
Something which reinforced Mirza’s resolution was that on a recent trip to Kerjan he met a dervish* who, in the course of conversation, confirmed the words of his teacher, Sheikh Abdollah, and promised that if he should take up mysticism and discipline himself, he would reach a position of eminence. Thus it was that for five years Mirza Hoseinali had chosen seclusion and had closed the door to family and friends. He lived alone, and after his teaching, he would begin his main occupation at home.
His house was small and neat as a pin. He had an old housekeeper and an errand boy. As soon as he entered the door, he took his clothes off with care, hung them up, put on a long grey robe, and went into his library. He had allocated the largest room in the house for his library. At one corner beside the window a white mattress was spread. On it were two pillows. In front of it was a low table on which were several volumes, a pile of paper, a pen and an inkpot. The covers of the books on the table were worn. Many other books were stacked on shelves built into the wall.
The subject matter of these books was Gnosticism, mysticism, and ancient philosophy. His only recreation and pleasure was reading these books, and until midnight, behind the table under the oil lamp, he would pore over them and read. He would interpret them to himself and whatever seemed to him difficult or doubtful he would make a note of and later discuss with Sheikh Abelfazl. Not because Mirza Hoseinali was unable to understand their meaning: on the contrary, he had passed many of the spiritual stages and could penetrate hair-splitting ideas and the fine points of some Sufi poems better than Sheikh Abelfazl. He let these things inside, and he had created within himself a world beyond the material world. This had become a cause of egotism, because he considered himself to be superior to others, and he had complete faith in this superiority.
Mirza Hoseinali knew that there existed a secret in the world which the great Sufi had discovered, and it was evident to him that to begin the search he would need a preceptor, someone who would guide him. Sheikh Abdollah had told him, and he would read, that “because the initiate’s thoughts are scattered at the beginning, he should concentrate on the teacher in order to collect his thoughts.”
Thus it was that after searching a great deal he found Sheikh Abelfazl, even though he was not to Mirza’s taste and knew nothing except for how to pass judgement. Whenever the Sheikh would encounter something difficult, he would say that it was too soon and he would explain it later, as if he were working with a child. In the end the only thing that Sheikh Abelfazl recommended to Mirza was to kill his passions. The Sheikh considered this the beginning of everything. In other words, by means of asceticism one could prevail over the senses, and the Sheikh delivered detailed lectures full of hadith* which he had prepared about killing the passions. Among the things he said was: “Your worst enemy is inside you”. Another was: “Your fight is with your passions”. He quoted Chadi, who said: “Whoever kills his passions is a crusader”. He also quoted the poem:
If the self can’t be contained
It must somehow be restrained;
The fatal sword of ignorance
Should be sheathed in continence.
Another one he liked was:
To kill the passions should be our delight,
Man’s highest honour is winning that fight.
Among other thi
ngs which Sheikh Abolfazl preached there was this: “The seeker of the Truth should hold in contempt wealth, position, splendour, power and pomp, because the greatest wealth and pleasure is the subduing of the passions.” He quoted Maktabi, who said:
Win the battle over self,
And attain eternal wealth.
And he said, “Know, oh friend of the Way, that if you are seduced once by the bodily senses, you have walked in the valley of death, just as Sanai says:
Keep your passions under control
If you would have them your slave.
Give them control and they will send
A thousand like you to the grave.
“And as Sheikh Saadi says:
If you help a man attain his ends
He’ll help you achieve your desire.
The passions are different: foes, not friends.
Instead of helping, they’ll rule you entire.
“And learned men of the Way have considered the passions as a vicious dog which must be bound by the chain of self-discipline and which one must avoid letting free. But the disciple must not become proud and reveal hidden secrets to the uninitiated. He should consult the preceptor at every difficulty. As Khawje Ha¯fiz, God bless him, says:
‘This gallows was erected,’ someone said,
‘For giving secrets. Now the giver’s dead.’”
Mirza Hoseinali had always had a special interest in asceticism and Indian philosophy, and he wished to go to India to pursue his studies. He wanted to meet members of Indian religious sects and learn their secrets. Thus he was not surprised by the suggestion that he should control his passions. On the contrary, he greeted it wholeheartedly, and the same day, when he returned home, he opened his handwritten copy of the Masnvai* to find an omen. As luck would have it, these lines came up: