The Sound of Lutes.

 

az darat duram u dardi daram

dagh-e dil u rukh-i zardi daram

I am away from thy door and suffer pain,

I have a scar in my heart and a pale face.

 

-Birbal Kachru Varasta (Srinagar, d. 1865)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sound Of Lutes. 

 

The caravan arrived, finally, into the poetic city of Herat, after traveling for more than a year, after losing the lives of nine people and the theft of three chosen amulets of XXXXXXXXXX, the magnificent. There were beautiful women waiting for them, dressed in exotic silvery netted silk; these houris of Herat led Mahad Joo to his chamber. ‘Bring to me the illimunationist that has decorated this chamber, I want to place a kiss on his hands’; said Mahad Joo at his first sight of the chamber, he stood astounded at the fineness of its artistic allure. The chamber was blossoming with white roses and red tulips on the bed; the fine soozani silk work on his quilts, the needle carved tree of life on the deodar wood of his bed. The curtains swayed like tresses of a young maiden, and one of the houris told him that it was the one eyed maestro of hook work who imitated the tresses and locks on the white pashm. The floor grooved with a exquisite Hamadan carpet, on the corner of which was a swan necked silver flask of red wine, sparkling like a blurred star on some cloudy night. Joo was tired and fatigued but restless with the haunting memories of Khu’s face, he was waddling, all he heard were echoes of the marching horse hooves and all he saw was the face of godly beautiful Khu. And in this world of his own, he missed the sweet seductive gossip of houris. Joo tasted a few grapes and resigned to sleep. His eyes longed to rest, but his heart fluttered with it the memories of Khu and threw him up from the sleep. He squirmed, most of the night, untill Hakim Yousuf the clergy, got up for  tahhajud, the night prayers. Mahad too rose up from his bed and dared to face the naked arrows of memory, he poured the wine for himself and decided to write to Khu, though, he knew Khu had left no way that he could reach her, send her a message, or a prayer or just a greeting. In the middle of a dark night, a witchy brew of madness and passion, the goblet skull of wine, Mahad addresses Khu, the slurred writing…

Dearest Khu,

Love has overwhelmed me, then and now. I pray to you; allow me to weave a eulogy in your praise, which I know, wefts with itself the pinnacle of my malady.

This moment the world has paused, the sun stands still and moon yearns to oscillate, the heart macadamized under sorrow crawls in loneliness, and soul cries it all up to rove free from the lofty fetters of your love. All that was buried under the soil of helplessness, by the trees of dried tears, in the coffin that never found its lid, is out to haunt me. Your furious powers of enchantment have played their spell skillfully. Now give me a chalice of poison, for this blood red wine of Shiraz doesn’t get me high enough to skip the torment of pain. Your heart ravishing beauty grips me to the deepest, as the roots of these maple trees. Through my veins into my flesh you wander and you spike.

Oceans apart, on the other part of world, tons of miles away from the land of your glorious fragrance, nah, your terrible reek, I wither, I languish, I squirm, I shrivel and I lose. I lose it all to the charm of your grace, the heaven that your piercing glances bind. You are as alive in me, as you were on the day my eyes met yours.  You walked in the court-way with the haunting long of your golden hair, as if the Sun God was on its acme shining wondrous glow on the frozen lakes. And your eyes Khu, life of mine, those brown diamonds glittering like fireflies in the murky thick mist of wilderness, bewitched me, for the rest of my life and lanced my afterlife, eternally. Your gentle jasmine scented voice still lingers in my ears, that voice spoke eloquence to the nightingale. The furrowed brow that you have cures scores of their pain and brings to life the corpses, the messiah that you are. Your coral lips, sprouting with the wine of love deludes a hundred believers. That cypress figure of your stature, tall like the Alif in Ko’ran with the swan necked glance of yours can wreck the mortal cages and knock out souls of anyone. Your heart purloining pearly teeth, tulip-petal tongue, and that sweet daisy’s smile sprinkles a miraculous sandal scent in the air. I shall not speak of that luminous silvery shank that glowed like the candle in crystalline lantern, or I may suddenly die.

O heart scorcher, the sun is but a flower in the garden of your beauty, a thought of you is so enlivening and verdure that I forget myself like an inebriate lover. The dust of your feet that zephyr winds bring is worthier to me than the treasure of gods. On nights when you close your eyes, I stand besides your bed and burn like a candle not to wax, but to cinders. I melt.

Its has been ages since you left me, but the wounds of separation are still  open wide, fresh as the dewed fragrant narcissus and brutal as rusted darts inside the walls of chest. I want to see the person who has said that time heals everything, and I want to thrash my cane inside his back, liar, deceiver, and a bitch of a writer.

I wail and I wait. You haunt me, my love.

Suffering,

Mahad Joo.

Mahad did not sign the letter and as was the norm, dumped it in the copper case of snake venom that Marjaan had gifted him long back in the cave of Koh-e-XXXXX. It was a little before the break of dawn, the moizein was calling faithful to join the prayers, and Mahad caught some sleep. His first day in the city of poets and …

 -MB

 

 

yik dast jam-I baad u yik dast zulf-I yar

raqsi chunin miyana-I maydanam arzust

 

with a chalice  in one hand
beloved’s tresses in another 

I crave to dance
in the center of a public square.

~Rumi

 

 

 

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