Layla and Majnun (2 page)

T
hey say that first love is the greatest, and that its happy memory never dies. For Kais and Layla this was most certainly true. Indeed, so intense was their happiness that they did not dare question it, for fear that it might disappear as quickly as it had come upon them.

For Kais, Layla was like the sun, ascending into his sky with a beauty and radiance unparalleled. With each passing day she shone more brightly, illuminating not only his world but the worlds of all those who had the good fortune to meet her. The other boys were
sunstruck
, too, filled with awe by her blinding light. During their lessons, they would stare at her
openmouthed
, until the teacher appeared with his stick to beat them back to their lessons. If the school was closed, they would roam the alleyways and the
passages between the market stalls, all in the hope of catching a tiny glimpse of her dimpled face. And whenever they did, they would feel like pomegranates, full of juice and fit to burst with desire. Such was her attraction.

Naturally, Kais knew that the other boys desired her, but he also knew that they could not desire her as much as he did, and so their antics did not perturb him in the least. Yet at the same time he felt a certain unease, a sense of foreboding of what fate had in store. Given the miracle of Layla’s beauty, he knew that he would never be alone with her. He knew that there would always be someone — or something — that would come between them. Suddenly, the whole situation seemed to change and that which he had thought perfect now appeared to have its defects. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a small black cloud appeared on his horizon.

But is that not always the case? Nothing lasts forever: everything in this transient world is fated, one day, to perish.

While the two lovers basked in the glow of each other’s love, quaffing the wine of forgetfulness and enjoying the paradise of oblivion, the eyes of the world were on them. Did others realise what had happened between Kais and his Layla? Did they see the stolen looks, the furtive glances that passed between them? Could they read the signs and crack the codes of secret love that bound their hearts together? Who knew about them, and how much was known? Nothing was said, of course. Until one day, in the market, a voice was heard
to say, ‘Kais and Layla are in love. Have you not heard?’

A whisper, they say, can cause a kingdom to fall. And soon the rumours were being whispered all over the town, from tent to tent, and stall to stall.

Slowly, the two lovers began to realise how blind they had been. People had seen them together, heard them talking, watched them laughing and they, in their cocoon of love, had been completely unaware. The veil was torn, the wall had crumbled, and now it was time for action. To save themselves, and to protect their love, they tried to tame their wild glances and seal their
love-hungry
lips.

But desire and caution rarely mix and love, once out in the open, cannot be hidden. Caution is no chain for a heart that is already chained by its lover’s beauty. What was Kais to do? His soul was a mirror for Layla’s radiance: how could he keep such a reflection to himself? She shone in him like the sun at noon in a cloudless sky: how could such light be concealed? How could he turn away, even for a second, from the only thing that gave meaning to his life? Kais’ heart was out of step with his reason, and however hard he tried to hide his love for Layla, he failed miserably. With her, he felt the arrows of reproach from a thousand bows; without her, the pain of separation cut into his heart like a knife.

Kais could see no way out of his predicament, and in his confusion he fell. Having lost his heart, he now lost his mind. All he could do was wander around in a trance, extolling Layla’s beauty and praising her virtues
to everyone he met. The more people saw him and heard what he had to say, the more insane he appeared and the more bizarre became his behaviour. And everywhere the stares and the pointing fingers, the laughter and the derision, the cries of ‘Here comes the madman, the “majnun”!’

For Layla’s people, the entire situation became intolerable. Not only Layla’s honour, but the honour of her whole tribe was at stake. Was it right that they should have their integrity questioned and their name tarnished by this mad boy from the Banu Amir? Was it right that Layla’s reputation should be sullied? They had to act, and act fast. The first thing they did was ban Layla from leaving her tent. A guard was posted at the entrance with orders to apprehend Kais should he try to approach the girl. Thus did they conceal the new moon from the baying hound.

And there was nothing that Layla could say or do to prevent it. Furthermore, she had to hide her grief — grief that threatened to tear her heart in two. Only when she was alone did she let the mask drop and allow her lonely tears to fall.

K
ais’ separation from Layla brought about his separation from the rest of those he loved — from his family and friends, from his parents and home. And if Layla wept in secret, Kais wept openly, displaying his sorrow for the world to see.

He wandered aimlessly through the market where the merchants had their stalls, talking to no one, driven by nothing more than an aching heart, oblivious to the people and their staring eyes and pointing fingers. And as he wandered from stall to stall, from tent to tent, haunting love-songs were on his lips, tears of separation in his eyes. Passers-by would shout, ‘There goes the “majnun”, the madman. Hey, Majnun!’

The shell of his being had cracked, revealing the rawness of his soul. He was open, exposed, his innermost feelings and emotions laid bare. Not only
had he lost Layla, he had lost himself. The pain in his heart was reflected in his face; it glowed like fire and no one could mistake it. Kais, one of the walking, talking wounded. Kais the lost, the forgotten; Kais the orphan of fate.

The longer his suffering lasted, the more Kais became what the people were already calling him: Majnun, the ‘mad one’. Is it not madness to burn at all times like a candle? Is it not madness, this inability to eat or sleep? The more he searched for a cure, the worse became the pain. And each day at dusk, the phantoms of his vain aspirations and ambitions would march him to the edge of the town and kick him out into the desert, barefoot and without so much as a cloak to throw around his shoulders.

He was mad, it is true, but he was also a poet. In his separation from Layla — a separation that had made him her slave — he was moved to compose the most beautiful odes and sonnets in her name, verses the likes of which those who were fortunate enough to hear had never heard before. And in the still of the night, he would cover himself with the cloak of darkness and steal to Layla’s tent. Sometimes others would accompany him — friends who, like Majnun, had tasted love and known the pain of separation — but mostly he went alone. Moving like the desert wind he would fly to her tent, stand at the threshold and say a quiet prayer, then return home as quickly as he had come.

So near, yet so far. How difficult it was for him to pull himself away from his beloved’s tent and return
home! On his way to her, he would almost fly; on his way back, he would stumble like a drunkard or a wounded animal. Why was Fate so unkind? His heart had been wrecked like a ship caught in a storm; what was left of him now drifted at the mercy of the waves. His home had become a prison where people talked, but never listened; where people counselled, but never understood. He had reached a point where he no longer paid any attention to what they were saying; he was past caring. Only the word ‘Layla’ meant anything to him now; when people talked of other things, he would block his ears and say nothing.

One day he would walk around as though in a trance; the next day would find him falling this way and that like a drunkard, weeping bitter tears and moaning. Verses of love streamed from his lips; when the poetry stopped, the messages began. He called the east wind and asked it to take a message to Layla, whose tribe had set up camp in the mountains of Najd.

‘East wind, go quickly and you will find her there,’ he said. ‘Caress her hair softly and whisper in her ear. Say, “The one who has sacrificed everything for you sends greetings from afar. Send him a breath of air on the wind to let him know you still think of him.”

‘Dearest heart, if I had not given my soul to you, it would have been better to give it up for good, to lose it for ever. I am burning in love’s fire; I am drowning in the tears of my sorrow. Even the sun that lights up the world can feel the heat of my desire. I am the moth that flies through the night to flutter around the candle flame. O invisible candle of my soul, do not torture me
as I encircle you! You have bewitched me, you have robbed me of my sleep, my reason, my very being.

‘You are the cause of my pain, yet the love I feel for you is my only consolation, my only cure. How strange, a cure that brings even greater pain! If only you could send me a sign! If only the wind could touch your lips and bring your kisses to me, but then I should be jealous of the wind and ashamed of myself for asking.

‘The Evil Eye has separated us, dearest heart. Fate has cast her evil spell and knocked the cup from my hand: the wine is gone and I am dying of thirst. And now Fate mocks me as I lie dying. Yes, I am one of those who are cursed by the Eye, by Fate, by whatever you choose to call it. Who would not be afraid of such an enemy? People try to protect themselves from the Evil Eye by wearing blue amulets; even the sun, terrified of the darkness, wears a sky-blue veil to ward off evil. I did not wear an amulet and so I lost everything. Yes, everything. I lost everything because I lost you, for you are my everything. If this is not the work of Fate, then whose work is it? And if it is the work of Fate, then I have every right to be afraid. And to be mad …’

T
he new dawn cast its cloak of gold over the earth, pinned the golden stud of the sun to the ear of the sky and banished the stars with one glance.

And now Majnun appeared, his friends at his side, near the tent of his beloved Layla. He was risking much; never before had he ventured this far without the veil of night to cover him. But his patience had worn thin and he could bear the situation no longer. His heart was melting for Layla; before it was destroyed completely, he had to see her. Like a drunkard, his mind confused and dazed, he stumbled towards her tent, verses of love falling from his lips.

And suddenly he was there, on the very threshold of his heart’s most holy shrine. He had to rub his eyes to make sure he was not still dreaming. But there it
stood — Layla’s tent — and, to his amazement, the curtains were drawn back. And there, sitting in the entrance of the tent, clearly visible in the half-light, was Layla herself.

Majnun let out a deep groan, as though ready to faint. And then Layla saw him. For a second that seemed like an eternity their eyes met, and in the mirror of each other’s gaze they read the whole story of their fear, their longing, their pain and their love. Tears filled their eyes as they spoke to each other with mute eloquence, exchanging sighs on the breeze that acted as messenger between them.

Layla was the radiance of dawn itself; Majnun was a candle, slowly consuming itself with desire before her. Layla in her splendour was a rose-garden; Majnun was a beacon of longing. Layla scattered the seeds of love; Majnun watered them with his tears. Layla was a spirit beauty from another world; Majnun was the blazing torch that lit her way from that world to the world of men. Layla was a jasmin blossom in spring; Majnun was an autumn plain, where no jasmin grows. Layla could bewitch the world with one glance; Majnun was her slave, an entranced dervish whirling before her. Layla had the cup that held the wine of love; Majnun stood intoxicated by its musky scent.

Only this briefest of encounters were the lovers allowed, and then it was over. One more second and even this, the most fleeting of pleasures, might have ended in disaster for both of them. Afraid that he would be apprehended by guards or spies, Majnun took to his heels and fled.

I
t was not long before Majnun’s secret visits to Layla’s tent became common knowledge. Layla’s people were outraged and, by night and day, they guarded the area around her tent lest the intruder return. Gradually, through no fault of her own, Layla became a prisoner of her own people … and of Majnun’s love.

Majnun continued to roam the mountains and desert wastes of Najd, spending more and more time away from his own tribe. Clad in rags, he wandered aimlessly through the desert, composing odes and sonnets that he sang in mournful tones to himself. Broken by grief, he could think of nothing but his love for Layla: food, sleep, family, friends — it was, to his broken heart, as if they had never existed. The two or three friends who had accompanied him on his
nighttime
visits to Layla’s tent had long since left him. Unable to bear the wild changes in Majnun’s temperament, they too had come to think of him as crazy, demented, and completely deranged by love. Those who caught sight of him from afar would point and cry, ‘There he is! There goes Majnun, the madman, the lunatic once known as Kais! There goes the fool who has heaped so much shame and ignominy on himself and his tribe.’

And it was true: there was not a single member of his tribe who did not feel ashamed of Majnun’s behaviour. But they had done everything in their power to make him see reason, to help him and to prevent a disaster from taking place. How can one put out a blazing fire with advice and good counsel? How can one stop an ocean of tears with mere words? Yet, although they had exhausted all possibilities, Majnun’s people knew that the situation could not continue unchecked. Majnun’s own sanity, his family’s reputation, the honour of the whole tribe — all of these were now at risk. Could Majnun’s father, the Sayyid, not do something? After all, he was the leader of the Banu Amir, and if anyone was in a position to do something positive, surely it was he.

Yet the Sayyid was, like those around him, completely powerless to help. Who can turn back the hands of time and change the course of Fate? Furthermore, he was by now an old man, the burden of his years exacerbated by the strain of his son’s madness. The only thing he could do was pray that Majnun would come to his senses and become Kais once more.

But his son’s condition did not improve, and Majnun remained Majnun. Indeed, his state went from bad to worse — so wretched did it become that his father was moved to convene a meeting of tribal elders to discuss the problem and try to arrive at a final solution. Assembling in his tent all of his counsellors and advisers, the old Sayyid asked those present to tell him what they knew. One by one they stepped forward with their stories of Kais (Majnun) and his madness, each tale more harrowing than the last. The old Sayyid’s heart grew heavier with each passing moment. Finally, after he had reflected upon everything he had heard, he said, ‘It is clear that my son has abandoned all reason and given up his heart, his soul and his mind to this girl. Only if he wins her will he be restored to his former state. Only if he attains his heart’s desire will Majnun become Kais once more. It is a painful situation, yet not difficult to understand. The boy’s senses are confused. For him, Layla is the light which illuminates his world; since that light is hidden from his view, he lives in darkness, like one without sight. I say that we must find this light, this jewel of piercing brightness and surrender it to him. Only when one dusts away the dirt from the rosebud will it bloom.’

Then the old man asked all of the tribal elders in turn to voice their opinions. Amazingly, they were all in agreement: a delegation was to be despatched immediately to Layla’s tribe, their aim to win Layla’s hand for Majnun and thus put an end to the boy’s suffering. Within the hour a party of tribal elders,
led by the old Sayyid himself, was on its way.

Now, there was no history of feuding between the two tribes, and so the Sayyid was confident that the outcome would be to his son’s advantage. And indeed, he and his men were received most cordially by Layla’s people, who treated their visitors with great kindness and hospitality. Presently, his hosts asked the old Sayyid to tell them why he had come. Was he in need of help of some kind? Did he need their support in some feud or battle? The old Sayyid cleared his throat and looked Layla’s father in the eye.

‘Noble sir,’ began the old Sayyid, ‘I have come here to strengthen the ties of friendship that have always existed between us. I have come here to ask for your daughter’s hand on behalf of my son, Kais. May they long be the light of each other’s lives! There is no greater love than that which exists between our two children, and I see no impediment — save for your possible refusal — to their union. Nor am I ashamed to make this request so frankly, so openly. As you are aware, there is none among us whose standing is higher in society than my own. My wealth is without parallel and my supporters are without number. I can be either a most valuable friend or a most formidable foe. Whatever you require as a dowry, I shall give you — and much more besides. I am not a man to stand on ceremony: I have come here as a customer, and you, if you know what is good for you — and I have no doubt that you do — will state your price clearly and sell me what I want. You stand to make great gains if you move now: tomorrow may be too late.’

His anxiety for his son had made the old Sayyid more audacious than usual in his approach and manner of speaking, but what had been said could not be unsaid. Layla’s father, a proud man at the best of times, nodded slowly and replied, ‘You speak well, my friend, and your words are weighty enough. But you cannot change what has been decreed by Fate with words alone. Did you really imagine that I would be moved to accept your request by the force of your rhetoric? Did you really think that I would not see beneath the surface of your eloquence? What you have shown me is attractive enough, but that which lies under the cover, the very thing that would give my enemies happiness, you fail to mention! Yes, indeed, your son is a prince of men, a veritable idol of love — from a distance. And from a distance he would be welcome even in the family of the Caliph himself. But we all know better than that, don’t we? Do you think I am so cut off from the world that news from the outside does not reach me? Do you not realise that the story of your son’s madness is known throughout the land? And did you really believe that I would take a madman for a son-in-law? For I swear by God that he is mad, and a madman is no husband for my daughter.

‘Thus, my dear friend, I must ask you to leave. My advice is this: pray to our Lord that your son be cured of his illness. Until he is cured, I will hear no more talk of love or marriage between him and my daughter. I hope, dear friend, that I have made myself clear.’

The old Sayyid had no option but to withdraw his request and depart. Defeat did not sit easily with him,
and the words spoken by Layla’s father had stung him like a swarm of bees, yet what else could he do but give in? And so he returned to Majnun, silent and empty-handed.