Layla and Majnun (4 page)

N
ews of Majnun’s pilgrimage to Mecca, his hammering on the doors of the ka’ba and his impassioned confession of love soon spread far and wide; before long, talk of Majnun’s love — and his madness — was on everyone’s lips. Some attacked him with harsh words of reproach, while others pitied him and came to his defence. A few had good things to say about him, while many were content to sit and gloat … and to spread evil rumours.

Talk of Majnun reached Layla, too, but there was little she could do to defend her lover: she simply sat in silence, nursing her grief. The members of her tribe, however, knew that they must act. And so they sent a delegation to the Caliph’s Chief Minister and lodged a complaint against Majnun.

‘This lunatic,’ said the Chief Delegate, ‘this
madman, this Majnun, has dishonoured our tribe with his behaviour. Day and night he wanders around the countryside, his filthy hair matted and his clothes in tatters, with a bunch of vagrants and vagabonds in tow. He laughs for no reason, cries for no reason; he screams and shouts and dances and whirls, jumping up into the air, prostrating himself in the dust and kissing the earth below. And all the time he recites his sonnets and his odes, his songs and his quatrains — verse after verse after verse. The unfortunate thing is that his poetry is of the highest quality and the people have taken to committing his songs to memory. This is bad for us and for you, since the words of his song are, for the most part, an affront to public dignity and the high moral standards of society. As you may have heard, his verses concern our leader’s daughter, Layla; her name is on the lips of every man, woman and child in the land. It is not only an affront to public decency, it is a slur on her honour and dignity. We ask, therefore, that you apprehend this rogue and put an end to this business, so that both Layla and the members of our tribe may be safe from this most pernicious affliction.’

As soon as the delegate had finished speaking, the Minister rose from his chair, unsheathed his sword and showed it to the members of the delegation. ‘Tame the madman with this, if you can’, he said. ‘And I wish you well.’

Now the Minister’s words were overheard by a member of Majnun’s tribe, the Banu Amir, who happened to be at court that day. Wasting no time, he rushed to tell the old Sayyid, Majnun’s father, what he had heard.

‘Layla’s tribe are out for Majnun’s blood,’ he cried; ‘The Caliph’s Chief Minister has sanctioned this business himself. I was there when it happened: the man was like a dragon possessed, breathing fire and spewing threats. We must warn Majnun before it is too late. A well has opened up in the middle of his path; unless we take the blindfold from his eyes, he will fall into it and be lost for ever.’

The informant’s words pierced the old man’s heart like a hundred arrows. Fearing for his son’s life, he sent several of his men to find him and bring him to safety. One by one they came back, empty-handed and disheartened. ‘Majnun is nowhere to be found,’ they said, ‘and we fear that his fate has already been sealed. Either that, or he has been devoured by wild animals, who can tell?’ At which point, Majnun’s friends and relations began to weep and wail as though mourning the dead.

But their kinsman was not dead. Majnun was safe — for the time being — in one of his mountain retreats. He was quite alone; like the Creator before the first act of creation, Majnun was a ‘hidden treasure, waiting to be discovered’. He had no idea what was happening back in the world of men; indeed, for him that world had all but ceased to exist. Why should it concern him? Had he not abandoned it, given it up, turned his back on it? He had troubles enough of his own, trials and tribulations to fill a thousand such worlds — why should he care about the world he had left behind? How could they help him anyway? He was suffering because he was unable to reach the treasure for which he had
given up his life. What good were friends and family at a time like this?

But Majnun did not remain alone and undiscovered. Several days after the delegation had petitioned the Caliph’s minister, a Bedouin from the tribe known as Banu Saad was passing through the area when he saw a huddled figure crouching under a thorn bush. At first, he thought it was a mirage of some sort; after all, who in his right mind would choose to reside in such a desolate, God-forsaken place? But then he saw the figure move and heard it moan. Approaching him cautiously, he said, ‘Who are you and what are you doing here? Is there anything I can do for you?’

He repeated his questions over and over again, but Majnun gave no response. Finally, the Bedouin gave up and went on his way, but as soon as he reached his destination he told his family what he had seen on the road. ‘It was a creature,’ he explained, ‘obviously a madman in great pain, writhing under a thorn bush like a wounded snake. His hair was filthy and dishevelled, his clothes no more than soiled rags, and there was nothing left of his body but skin and bone.’

The news of this man’s encounter with Majnun eventually reached the old Sayyid, who set out at once to find his son and bring him back from the wilderness. When finally he found his son, Majnun was exactly as the Bedouin had described him: pale, emaciated, dirty and incoherent. He wept, stood up, fell down again, groaned, and began to writhe in the dust. The old man bent down, put his hand under his son’s head and looked into his eyes. At first, Majnun did not recognise
his father, and it was only when the old Sayyid began to talk that Majnun knew who it was that had come to his aid. And with this recognition came another flood of tears as Majnun clasped his father to his breast and sobbed. Then, when the storm had subsided, he said, ‘Dear Father, forgive me! Do not ask how I am, because you can see that there is not much left of my life. I wish you did not have to see me in this state; to behold your angel face while mine is in the dust fills me with shame so deep, I cannot begin to describe it. Forgive me, Father, but know this too: none of this is my fault. You see, dear one, the thread of my fate lies in the hand of another …’

F
rustration clouding his senses, the old Sayyid tore at his turban and threw it to the ground in despair. His world had crumbled; his day had turned to endless night. He breathed deeply and tried to regain his composure. Drawing on his last reserves of strength and courage, he began to speak: ‘You were once a flower — my flower — but now your petals are crushed and torn and I no longer recognise you! Look at you! You immature, love-sick fool! Who has put this curse on you? What sins have you committed that you should be forced to do such penance? You are falling to your death: tell me, who pushed you over the edge?

‘Yes, you are young, and the follies of youth are to be excused. But folly to this extent? This is not folly — this is pure madness. Have you not suffered enough? Has your heart not felt enough pain? Enough is enough!
This passion of yours is destroying you and me and my honour. Why this reckless abandon, this lack of
self-control
? Can you not see what you are doing to yourself? If you cannot see, then let me be your mirror. Let me show you what you are doing, so that you may stop. Unchain your heart from this self-inflicted slavery! Free your heart and your mind from this sickness you have brought upon yourself!’

The old man caressed his son’s cheek with his trembling fingers. Then, with tears in his eyes, he continued: ‘You won’t even look at me. Am I not your friend? You do not have to be alone, my son. Those who escape and try to remain aloof will always be alone — alone with their grief. You do not have to escape, at least not while there is a place for you in my heart.

‘Do not forget, we are both of the same flesh and blood. While you are moaning for your love, I am mourning for you; while you are tearing your robes in desperation, my heart is being torn in two. When you burn, I burn also; when you cry, I drown in your tears.

‘I beg you, wake up before it is too late. There is still time, still hope. You must never give up hope. Even those little things that seem on the surface to be useless can help you attain salvation, if only you knew. And have faith in God; with faith in Him, even despair can be turned into hope, believe me.

‘Have hope and try to be happy! Mix with those who laugh and joke and make merry: do not shun them! By mixing with those who are happy, you too will find happiness, of this I am certain. It will come slowly at first, but it will come, believe me. Does the mighty
mountain not consist of tiny grains of sand? Is the vast ocean not made up of tiny drops of water? With patience, your happiness, too, will grow; it will grow so great that all of the sorrows you now suffer will be forgotten. All you need is time — time and patience.

‘And with time and patience, you will forget her. And rightly so — after all, why do you give your heart to a rose that blossoms without you, while you remain in the dirt? Only a heart of stone could crush a heart like yours, for that is what she has done. And so, she is best forgotten.

‘My dear child, you are more precious to me than life itself. I beg you, come back home! What is there for you here in these mountains except pain and loneliness and tears? If you remain here, your madness will increase and eventually you will be lost for ever — even to yourself. The sword of death hangs over you, as it hangs over us all, and so you must regain your senses while there is still time. Leave this hell and come back with me; choose joy, not grief, and thus make your enemies weep!’

M
ajnun listened in complete silence as the old Sayyid opened his heart and poured out his grief and his hopes. Then, as his father’s words trailed away, he gave his reply.

‘You, most noble sir, are the pride of all Arabs and the master of all that you see. And you are my father, my flesh and blood, whom I love with all my heart and respect with all my being. You gave me my life; may you never lose yours, and may I never lose you. Father, I kneel before you as your slave.

‘Yet, dear Father, you ask me to do the impossible. For I have not chosen the path which I tread: I have been thrown on to it. I am chained and bound by fetters of iron, but it was not I who put them in place. If I am a slave to love, then it is the decree of Fate that I be such. The ties bound by Fate cannot be undone. I cannot shake off these fetters; I cannot unburden
myself unless Fate unburdens me first. Does the moon rise by its own power? Do the tides turn of their own accord? Search the cosmos and examine every living thing, from ant to elephant, and you will find no creature that is not ruled by the dictates and decrees of Fate.

‘There is a stone bearing down on my heart. Who can remove it? Not I! There is a fire burning in my soul. Who can put out that fire? Not I! I bear a burden that has been put on my shoulders by Fate, and even if I were to try from now until Doomsday I would not be able to cast it to the ground. You ask me why I do not laugh. I am a sufferer: tears of grief become the sufferer, not tears of joy. Would it become a mother to laugh as she buried her child? Does it accord with reason that someone in my position should laugh?

‘Have you not heard, dear Father, of the fable of the partridge and the ant? Then I shall tell you. A partridge was out looking for food when it came across an ant. It seized one of the ant’s legs in its beak and was just about to swallow it when the ant cried, “Hey, partridge! If you think you are so clever, let me see you laugh! For laughing is the one thing you are simply no good at!” The partridge, of course, was a proud bird, and just to show the audacious little ant how good she was at laughing, she opened her beak wide and began to cackle. At which point the ant scurried away to safety, leaving the silly partridge alone with no supper.

‘And so you see, dear Father, if man laughs when his situation does not warrant mirth, he will fare no
better than the partridge; he will live to regret that he laughed too soon.’

‘I, too, have no reason to laugh,’ said Majnun. ‘Even the dying ass does not throw down its load until death overwhelms it completely: why, then, should it fear dying? It is true, my dear Father, that you warned me — but what lover takes the threat of death seriously? A man consumed by love does not tremble at the thought of dying. A man in search of his beloved is not afraid of the world and its snares. Where is this sword that hangs over me? Let it fall! Layla is the very moon in the sky of my being: since Fate has sent clouds to cover that moon, let the earth swallow me up! If my soul has fallen because of her, so be it: at least the fall was like heaven itself!

‘Now let me be, I beg you. My spirit is destroyed, my soul lost forever. What do you want from me?’

O
n hearing this, the old man’s heart sank and he began to weep. Taking his son gently by the hand, he led him home to the comforting welcome of his family. There, his friends and relatives gathered round, determined to help as best they could.

But to Majnun they were all strangers. Life at home was unbearable; Majnun darkened everyone with his sorrows, and all who came to visit him left in tears of grief and frustration at his plight. For the first few days, his friends were able to placate him by recalling the happy memories of the times they had spent together as children. But soon the enormity of his pain became too much to bear in company, and so, early one morning, Majnun ripped aside the veil of love and protection that his friends and family had cast over him, gathered together a few belongings and escaped once more into
the desert wastes of Najd.

Like a wounded animal he roamed the wilderness, not knowing where to go or what to do. All he knew was that he had to be alone; no longer could he live in the world of men and survive. He had to be alone with his grief, and the desolate land of sand and rocks, of mountains and ravines, was the only place for him. And so he wandered through the mountains, chanting his sonnets and his odes. Majnun the ‘madman’, alone in the desert with his poems. But even if Majnun was mad, his poetry was not. Even if people berated him, castigated him and heaped upon him insult after insult, they could find no fault with his verses.

And thus it was that people began to come from near and far to hear him recite his verses in his mountain retreat. They would sit at his feet as he sang his songs of love, and as they listened, they would write down the words and take them back to their towns and villages.