Layla and Majnun (15 page)

N
othing that happens to us in this life is without meaning, even if that meaning is at times difficult to fathom. Every page of the vast Book of Life, which is as great as the cosmos itself, has two sides: on one side, we commit to writing our plans, our dreams, our aspirations; the other side, the side we cannot see, is filled by Fate, whose decrees rarely accord with our desires.

Who can decipher the cryptic inscriptions of Fate? At first, we are unable to read them; then, when we are able to read them, we are unable to endure them! Our thoughts and hopes, our dreams and aspirations all extend to the future, but often we make mistakes and have to pay when our calculations do not balance. We admire the rose and long to make it our own, only to see our hands ripped by thorns when we stretch to pluck
it. We suffer hunger and thirst and desires unfulfilled, forgetting that to satisfy our desires may be our undoing, and that to go without the things we covet most may be our salvation. The fact is that Fate and human desire are usually at odds: when man is in conflict with what has been written for him in Fate’s book, he would do well to acquiesce rather than rebel. For man forgets that what appears to be poison sometimes turns out to be honey.

Take Layla, for instance. To others she was a treasure, to herself a burden. To her husband, Layla was a jewel of unparalleled beauty; to Layla, her husband was a venomous serpent coiled around her. In his eyes, she was the moon in all its splendour; in her eyes, he was the dragon that holds the moon in its putrid jaws. Thus both Layla and her husband suffered, she from him and he from her.

For her husband, the situation was unbearable, but for Layla it was pure torture. Was she not, after all, like a priceless ruby trapped in the heart of a stone? What weapons did she have but patience and deceit? What earthly joy did she have but her love for Majnun, a love that she nurtured in secret, a love that she hid from all eyes, especially those of her husband?

And what of Ibn Salam? Was his situation any better than hers? In the eyes of the world, he possessed the most precious jewel known to man; in reality, however, he possessed nothing. He knew that Layla was not really his, had never been and could never be his. He knew this and he kept it secret from others, however much it pained him. And so he kept watch
over a treasure that he was not allowed to enjoy, even though to all appearances it was his for the taking.

The wounds of unrequited love sting and smart, but Ibn Salam’s feelings for Layla were so strong that he was grateful for anything she gave him, even if it was only pain and heartache. And if he could not have her, at least he could keep her: he would be the magician and she the fairy, held captive in his palace, hidden from the eyes of men. If he could not love her and be loved by her, at least she was his to worship for ever.

Did Layla know how he felt? Whenever he approached her, she would hide her tears and feign a smile. Those who saw her did not realise the extent of her grief, but then why should they? When a solitary candle burns, one sees only the light it gives; rarely does one notice that as it gives of itself to others, the candle sheds waxen tears until it is consumed and can shine no more.

But the wheel of heaven turns, and as it turns so the hand of Fate is revealed. Eventually, Ibn Salam lost all hope. Layla would see him rarely, each meeting more painful than the one before. What can a man do when he loves but is not loved in return? The sorrow trapped in his soul had slowly spread, poisoning his whole being. His body was wracked with fever, his breath as hot and dry as the desert wind. Gravely ill, Ibn Salam took to his bed.

A physician was summoned, the most skilled in the land. He took his patient’s pulse, tested his blood and his water, and gave him herbs and potions that eventually extinguished the fire. Gradually, Ibn Salam’s
strength returned and it seemed for a while that he was out of danger. But as soon as he was able to get up and walk around again, he ignored the doctor’s instructions and began to eat and drink those things forbidden him. The fever was unleashed once more and Ibn Salam fell, his body weaker than before.

With the first wave of the flood, the hard earth is softened; with the second wave, it is washed away completely. This time there was nothing the doctor could do to help him. Ibn Salam was still young, and although illness and grief had weakened him almost to the point of death, his robust constitution fought off the fresh attack. For several days, it seemed that he would pull through. But then his breathing became slower and shallower until, on the fourth day, his soul departed his body and danced up and away with the wind, leaving behind this world of sorrows, this vale of tears.

Indeed, whatever we are and whatever we have are given to us on trust: the loan of life is ours but for a short time. There comes a time when we must hand back all that we have been given. Thus man should not cling to that which has been entrusted to him, for his desire to possess is but a rope that binds him to this transient world. To obtain the real jewel, one must burst open the casket and soar up and away from life’s crumbling tower.

What of Layla, now that Ibn Salam was dead? True, she had never loved him, that much was certain. But he had been her husband and surely he deserved her pity at least. Pity him she did, but her pity was tempered by a tremendous sense of relief. For too long she had kept 
her innermost feelings concealed; now, the chains that had kept her a prisoner for all these years had suddenly fallen away and she was free, like one of the animals that her beloved Majnun had delivered from the hunters’ traps. Now she was free to weep to her heart’s content, to weep without fear of being questioned or stared at. For now no one could know whom she was mourning! On the surface, of course, her mourning was for Ibn Salam; deep in her heart her tears, as always, were for Majnun, and for him alone.

Yes, she was free, as free as her beloved Majnun, although her freedom was of a different kind. In accordance with the customs of her people, she must now veil her face and see no one: for two whole years she was to keep to her tent, cut off from the world, alone with her grief. This, of course, was exactly what she had wanted; nothing could have been more pleasing to her! To be alone, without fear, to dedicate her heart and her soul and her tears to the only one she had ever loved.

I
n the garden, the leaves were falling like tears. The flowers had cast off their many-coloured summer gowns and donned the sombre robes of autumn. The silver of the jasmin had lost its lustre; the rose wept petals as it mourned the passing of summer; the narcissus bade its companions farewell and made ready to depart.

Like sailors afraid of an advancing storm, the fruit trees threw their loads overboard and the gardeners collected apples, grapes and berries to protect them from the coming frosts. The rivers and the lakes gave up their warmth, while the complexion of the countryside surrendered its emerald sheen and became yellow and wan.

As the garden slowly withered, so did Layla: her spring was over, made winter by the freezing finger of
Fate, by the icy touch of life’s most trying tribulations. The fire of life had once burned brightly within her; now it was hardly more than a flickering flame, a plaything of the wind, which might be extinguished at any moment. Of the full moon that was once her radiance, only a pale crescent remained; of the stately cypress tree that was her demeanour, only a weak shadow could be seen. Layla was a flower that had lost its freshness and shed its petals; indeed, Layla was Layla no more.

Her limbs were wracked with fever; rashes and blotches marked her face and her arms. Her fatigue was so great that she was unable to leave her bed; it soon became apparent to her that she was not long for this world.

She knew that death was close for she could sense its presence in the room, she could feel its icy breath on her neck. Knowing that the time to depart had come, she allowed no one but her mother to visit her.

Before it was too late, she decided to reveal her secret for the first and last time. She took her mother’s hand and said, ‘Dearest Mother, my light is fading and soon the candle of my being will be snuffed out. Before the darkness falls and my soul is taken, I must give voice to that which is in my heart.

‘Indeed, I have no choice but to unburden myself: grief has smashed open the seal on my lips and I can hold back no longer. The one I love — the man for whom I lived and for whom I now die — is far away and cannot hear me.

‘But you can hear me, dear Mother! And since you
can hear me, I beg you to listen well and do what I ask of you.

‘When I am dead, dress me in a bridal gown; I shall wear no shroud or winding sheet. Dress me like a bride and make me beautiful.

‘To paint my eyes you are to take dust from beneath my lover’s feet; instead of indigo you are to use the darkness of his sorrow; instead of rose-water you are to use his tears; and instead of perfume you are to use his grief.

‘My bridal gown must be blood-red, the colour of martyrdom. Am I not a martyr to love? Red is the colour of feasting and festivals. Is death not my feast? Is it not my festival? Then, when you have dressed me in red, cover me with a veil of earth — a veil that I shall never take off again.  

‘And then I shall wait. I shall wait until he comes, for come he shall. That restless wanderer, love’s eternal nomad, will find his way to my tomb and there he will sit and beg me to appear. But the veil of earth will never be lifted and he will weep bitter tears. Comfort him, Mother, for he is my true friend. Treat him well and show him compassion, as though he were your own son.

‘Do this for the sake of God, and because I have loved him; I have loved him more than life itself, and my wish is that you should love him, too. He is all I have, Mother, and I bequeath him to you for safekeeping.’  

Layla gasped for breath, her eyes rolling, beads of sweat forming like pearls on the ivory of her forehead.
But she had not finished yet. Her voice reduced to a breathless whisper, she continued, ‘When he comes, you will know him immediately. When he comes, give him this message. Tell him: “When Layla left this world, she left with your name on her lips. Her dying words concerned you and you alone; in death, as in life, she was faithful to no one but you. She has shared your grief in this world and now she has taken it with her as sustenance for her journey.

‘Her love for you did not die with her; wherever she is, she still longs for you. True, you cannot penetrate this veil of earth and look upon her eyes, but if you could you would see that they are searching for you still.

‘Her eyes speak volumes, each written in your name, each dedicated to your memory.” That is the message you must tell him, Mother.’

Layla’s lips quivered and, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she called out her beloved’s name for the last time. As her voice trailed away, the light in her eyes dimmed and her soul broke free of its bonds.

Layla’s mother cradled her dead child in her arms, squeezing her tightly as though to force life back into her body. She pressed her lips to her daughter’s pale cheeks and stroked her hair, all the time whispering her name and shedding bitter tears of pain and pity. She would have given the world if only her dear child could have had another few moments …

But even if she had owned the world, nothing could have brought Layla back to the land of the living. The girl was gone and nothing could be done to bring her
back: death is a realm from which no traveller can return. And as the mother sat there weeping, a soft rain began to fall, as though the heavens themselves were joining in the lament.

L
ayla’s prediction came true: as soon as Majnun heard of his beloved’s death, he rushed to her grave like a thunder cloud driven by a raging storm.

It was a terrible sight, for here was a soul desecrated by grief; here was a heart ravaged by the fire of pain and misery, a fire so fearsome that it had reduced Majnun’s very being to a mere cinder. Those who saw him at Layla’s graveside were so shocked by his appearance that most of them fled in terror; those who later heard about it from others took pity and wept for him. No one — not even the hardest of hearts — was unmoved by what they saw or heard that day.

At first, he writhed in the dust like some crazed serpent guarding a priceless treasure. Then, as Layla’s death began to sink in, he took on the dazed,
glassy-eyed 
appearance of one in a trance or under some spell. For some time he sat there, unable to speak; presently the flood-gates of emotion opened and a torrent of lament burst forth:

‘My darling flower! You withered before you had a chance to bloom. The cruel frosts of misfortune turned your spring to autumn: scarcely had you opened your eyes to look upon the world when they were closed forever.’

The gathering crowd watched dumbfounded as Majnun rocked back and forth on his knees at the foot of Layla’s grave like a man possessed.

His words — surely, they thought, the product of some strange delirium — grew louder and wilder with each breath. He continued, ‘Tell me, how are things with you down there in the dark? What has become of your beauty now? The mole on your cheek, your
doe-like
eyes, the fragrant curls of your night-black hair — what has happened to them? Which colours have they dressed you in, my sweet? Whose eyes do you brighten now, and whose minds do you bewitch with the magic of your smile? Which riverbank do you adorn, my flower? Whose bed of thorns have you transformed into a rose-garden? Tell me this: how do you spend your time in the dark, dank cave of death? Do you not realise that where there are caves, there are snakes in abundance? A cave is no place for one such as you, whose beauty outshines the moon! On the other hand, you are one of God’s greatest treasures, and a cave is as fitting a place as any in which to conceal that which is most precious. That is it! You are a buried treasure now:
if not, why do you lie deep beneath the earth? What is more, every buried treasure has a serpent to guard it: I am your serpent and I shall guard you until the day I die.

Majnun rose to his feet and looked around. The people had gone, terrified by what they took to be the ravings of a madman. But Majnun was not alone. Around him stood his animal companions, supporting him with a mute loyalty that touched his heart. And when, finally, he headed back into the wilderness, his beasts followed him.

The sombre caravan of man and beasts made its way through the desert, with Majnun singing a haunting song as he led the way. As he sang of the only power that can conquer death — the power of love — his plaintive tones echoed through the mountains; it seemed as though the very sands beneath his feet were whispering the same lament. And as he sang, he shed tears of blood that fell to the ground, leaving a crimson trail behind him.

Yet he no longer felt at home in the desert wastes; every now and again, the urge to visit Layla would overcome him and he would hurry back to her grave, his beasts in tow. Like a river in flood he would rush down into the valley where she lay, there to plant tender kisses in the earth that covered her. And throughout his pilgrimage, as he lay in tearful communion with his buried angel, the animals would stand guard and watch over him. His visits to Layla’s tomb had no pattern; consequently, her friends and family kept away from the graveyard, afraid that the madman might suddenly appear without warning. Who, they argued, would want to risk being mauled by a crazed lion, or bitten by a rabid dog?