Layla and Majnun (3 page)

H
aving failed to win Layla for his son, the old Sayyid enlisted the aid of his son’s friends in one last attempt to make his son see reason with words of advice and good counsel.

His friends took Majnun to one side and gently remonstrated with him. ‘Why only Layla?’ they said. ‘There are many girls in your own tribe who are every bit as desirable as Layla: sweet-scented, tulip-cheeked beauties with lips like rosebuds and eyes like narcissi —beauties who are perhaps even more attractive than the one who has stolen your heart! Why, we know of hundreds of such sweet maidens — you have only to take your pick! Come now, instead of torturing your poor heart and turning it into a shrine for the one you cannot have, find someone who will comfort it and fill
it with joy! Choose a mate from your own tribe, a companion for life who will be worthy of you. Forget Layla. Let her go!’

Majnun knew that his friends meant well, but when all was said and done they had no idea how intense the fire of his love for Layla really was: those who have never experienced such pain cannot understand it, let alone counsel against it. Indeed, instead of extinguishing the flames, their words served merely to fan them, and by the time they had finished advising him, the conflagration was blazing more fiercely than before.

Majnun’s despair was now deeper than it had ever been. There was nothing anyone could say to console him; there was nothing anyone could do to ease his pain, a pain that had darkened his days and turned his world to perpetual night. He could neither eat nor sleep: most of the time he would wander around in a daze, occasionally becoming conscious enough of his pain to pummel his face with his fists and tear his robes. Majnun was homeless, an exile from the land of happiness and an inconsolable mourner in the land of pain.

Eventually, Majnun felt that he could tolerate the company of others no longer. And so he left his parents, his relatives and his friends and ran away, deep into the desert, not knowing where he would go or what he would do. Crying, ‘There is no power except for the power of God’, he stumbled through the alleyways and past the market stalls, desiring only to put himself at the mercy of his Lord and the desert wastes.

For Majnun, good and bad were no longer distinguishable; for him, what was right and what was wrong could no longer be known. He was a lover, and love knows no laws. And so he ran, tears streaming from his eyes, the cry of ‘Layla, Layla!’ on his lips. He paid no attention to the stares and pointing fingers of the people as he ran; indeed, he neither saw them nor heard their shouts and their reproaches. Gradually people began to follow him, fascinated and magnetised by his bizarre appearance and even stranger behaviour, although in his trance-like state he paid them no mind. Yet, when he began to recite his poetry and sing his verses of love, their purely prurient interest in Majnun as a spectacle waned, and they began to sympathise with him. The fire in his heart had touched theirs, too, and as the haunting sonnets and beautiful odes tripped off his tongue, the hearts of his listeners trembled and many of them began to cry with him.

Yet Majnun noticed none of this; he was not even aware that he was being followed. He was not even aware of himself: it was as though he had ceased to exist, as though his name had been erased from the book of Creation, causing him to be forgotten. His heart was crushed, his flame of life had all but gone out, the bird of his soul had lost its will to live and now lay, fluttering helplessly in the dust, waiting for death to overtake it.

In the end, he felt all of the strength pour out of his limbs and he fell to his knees, as though at prayer. With parched lips he cried out, ‘For God’s sake, who can cure me of this sickness? I am an exile, an orphan, an
outcast. Where is my home? Where are my friends, my family? I am cut off from them completely and they have no road to me, either. And I am separated from the one I love. My name is dirt and my reputation is ruined, like a crystal goblet smashed upon the rock of Fate. My world was once filled with the music of happiness; now all that I hear is the solemn drumbeat of separation.

‘Layla, my love, my dearest heart! I am your slave, your victim: I am the hunter captured by the game! My soul cannot help but follow the mistress who owns it. If she says, “Drink the wine of love and become intoxicated!”, then I must obey; if she says, “Become mad with desire!”, who am I to argue? There is no way that a madman such as Majnun can be tamed, so do not try. What hope can there be for a heart as crushed as mine? My only hope is that the earth will open up and swallow me whole, or that a lightning bolt will flash through the heavens and strike me dead! Is there no one who will hand me over to the angel of death? Is there no one who will save me from myself, and thus save the rest of the world from my madness? For I am truly mad; I am a misfit, a lunatic, a demon in human guise! I am an embarrassment to my family and a thorn in the flesh of my tribe: the very mention of my name causes all who know me to hang their heads in shame. Anyone may shed my blood: I declare it lawful for them. For I am an outlaw, and whoever kills me will not be guilty of murder.

‘So goodbye, dear friends, for I must depart. May God bless and keep you, and may you forgive me. There is nothing you can do for me now: the goblet has
fallen from my hands and the wine is spilled. Of my happiness, and my sanity, only the razor-sharp shards are left; see how they cut into me and through me.’

The people surrounding him looked on in disbelief as he spoke, wondering whether he was aware of their presence at all. Then, as if to banish their doubts, he turned to them and said, ‘I do not expect you to understand what I say, for you have no idea how I suffer. So leave me, let me go. And do not try to find me, for your search will be in vain. How will you find me when I am lost, even to myself? Go now, for I cannot bear your torture and oppression any longer. Leave me alone with my grief. There is no need to escort me out of the town, for I shall go of my own accord. Farewell!’

But Majnun no longer had the strength to move. Instead, he fell to his knees in the dust, as though in prayer, and began to implore his beloved to help him.

‘Layla, I have fallen. I have fallen and I do not know what to do. Come, dearest heart, and take my hand. Reach out and touch me, for I can bear this loneliness no longer. I am yours, so come and take me: I am more use to you alive than dead. Be kind and give me some sign; send some message to revive my soul. Why don’t you come? Why have they imprisoned you when it is I, the madman, who should be in chains? Come and enslave me, my love! Do something, for the love of God! To live like this is worse than death: come and end this torture now! Things cannot remain as they are; it is not right that you should sit there and do nothing. Have you no pity? No, it would seem that you
do not. After all, those who are in comfort have no feeling for those who are in misery. What do the rich know about poverty? What does the full stomach care about those who starve? We are both human beings: does our common humanity mean nothing to you? Are you content to blossom and bloom while I wither and die?

‘You have the power to bring peace to my soul, yet you withhold it. What have I done to deserve this? Why, not content with stealing my heart, do you rob me of my sanity? Apart from the fact that I love you, what sin have I committed that I should be treated in this way?

‘I am not asking for much: even one night — one night out of a thousand nights — will do. Apart from the love I feel for you, I have nothing: everything else I have abandoned, gambled away and lost.

‘Please, I beg you, do not reject me. If you are angry with me, extinguish your wrath with my tears. Dearest heart, you are the new moon and I am a star that has fallen to earth out of longing for you. I am alone and friendless: my only companion is my shadow, and even with him I dare not speak the truth about my love for you, lest he become jealous and try to take you from me. What can I do? Can I hope? A man dying of thirst dreams of cool, clear streams, but when he wakes there is only sand. But what does it all matter? Whatever happens to me, nothing can destroy the love I feel for you in my heart. It is indeed a mystery, a riddle, a lock without a key, a book that cannot be opened, a code that no one can crack. Love
for you is part of me: it entered my veins along with the milk from my mother’s breast, and it will leave me only when my soul departs my body. Of that I am certain.’

As his voice trailed away, Majnun’s legs gave way and he fell forward into the dust. Those who had been listening rushed forward to help him; gently, they lifted him up and carried him home to his father’s tent.

Time passes, but true love remains. The life of this world is, for the most part, nothing but a succession of illusions and deceptions. But true love is real, and the flames which fuel it burn forever, without beginning or end. And thus, Majnun became famous throughout the land as a lover, for the fire of true love burned in his soul like a blazing torch as long as he lived.

M
ajnun’s passion grew with each passing day, and as it grew, so his reputation among family and friends declined accordingly.

But his close relatives, and especially his dear father, the old Sayyid, had not given up hope completely. They knew that the darkest hour is always before dawn, and that with love and patience it still might be possible to save the boy. Once more, the old Sayyid convened a meeting of tribal elders to discuss his son’s problem. After much debate, the thoughts of those present turned to Mecca and God’s most holy house, the ka’ba. Every year, many thousands of pilgrims from near and far would visit the sacred precinct, performing their pilgrimage rites and asking for God’s help and forgiveness. Why not take Majnun to Mecca, too?

‘After all,’ said one of the elders, ‘only God can open the lock for which we impotent humans have no key. Maybe He in His compassion will come to our aid and cure this poor wretch of his affliction. The ka’ba is a place of prayer and contemplation for men and angels alike; it is the altar of the heavens and the earth, where all men ask God to help and forgive them. Why should He not help us?’

Majnun’s father agreed, and on the first day of the last month of the year — the month of pilgrimage — he left with a small caravan of his best camels for the holy city of Mecca. Majnun, still too weak to walk, was carried in a litter, like a tiny child in a cradle.

Finally, they reached Mecca and set up camp. As he had done throughout the journey, the old Sayyid gave charity by showering gold on the crowds as though it were sand. His heart, once so heavy with despair, lightened as soon as he caught sight of the ka’ba, around which thousands of white-robed pilgrims were circling like moths around a flame. He could hardly wait for the moment when he would be able to present his wretched, love-sick child to his Lord and petition Him humbly for assistance.  

At last, it was time for them to perform their rites. Taking his son gently by the hand, the old Sayyid said, ‘Here, my son, is the House of One who is a friend to all those without friends. Here is the House of One who can cure all ills, even those ills that have no cure. Yes, my son, this is where — God willing — one chapter of your life ends and another begins. We have come here so that you may seek solace in God and find
relief from your sufferings. Call upon God by His most beautiful names and ask Him to help you. Ask Him to save you from your obsession. Ask Him to take pity on you, to grant you refuge and lead you back to the path of sanity and goodness. Tell the Lord how unhappy you are and ask Him to unlock the door of your grief and let it flow away. Ask Him to free you from the evil of your desire, before it is too late. Go, my son, and do as I say.’

At first, the old Sayyid’s words brought tears to his son’s eyes. But then Majnun began to laugh. Jumping down from his litter, he dashed into the crowd and, snaking in and out of the pressing throng, found a way to the ka’ba, which he began to pound with his fists. Then, with a voice that hovered between laughter and tears, he cried out, ‘Yes, it is I who have come to knock at Your door today! I, Majnun, the madman, the fool who has sold his life for the sake of love! And may I remain love’s slave for ever!

‘O Lord! They tell me that only if I abandon love will I regain my sanity, but the truth is that love is all I have! Love is my strength, my rock. If love dies, then I die with it. Such is my fate, as You know. O Lord, I beg You, by all of Your names and attributes, let my love grow! Let it blossom to perfection and endure, even if I fade away and die! Let me drink from the well-spring of love until my thirst is quenched. And if I am already intoxicated with love’s wine, let me become more so!

‘O Lord! They tell me to banish Layla from my thoughts and to crush the desire I have for her in my
heart. But I beg You, Lord, to engrave her image more deeply on my mind’s eye and make my desire for her even stronger! Take what is left of my earthly existence and offer it to her as a gift; take the rest of my life from me and add it to hers.

‘O Lord! Let her berate me, castigate me, punish me — I do not care. I am ready to sacrifice my life for the sake of her beauty. Do You not see how I burn for her? And although I know that I shall never be free of this pain, it does not matter. For that is how it has to be. And so, dear God, for Your own sake and for the sake of love, let my love grow stronger with each passing hour. Love is all I have, all I am, and all I ever want to be!’

The old Sayyid listened in amazement as Majnun cried out to his Lord. What could he do for his son now? Their last resort — the pilgrimage to God’s own house — had failed. Now he knew beyond all doubt that there was nothing anyone on earth could do to loosen the chains of love that were binding the boy’s heart.

And so they left Mecca and began the long journey home, where Majnun’s friends and relatives awaited them in hope and fear. When they arrived, the whole family came out to welcome them. ‘How did it go?’ they all asked. ‘Tell us, has God cured the boy of his affliction or not?’

The old Sayyid could only shake his head, tears misting his vision. ‘I tried my best’, he said weakly. ‘I told him how to ask God for help, so that He in His compassion might free the boy from this plague in
skirts, this accursed Layla. But Majnun had other ideas. And so what did he do? He called down blessings on Layla … and then he cursed himself!’