Layla and Majnun (5 page)

M
eanwhile, the promise made by the bud was most definitely being kept by the blossom, for Layla was growing more beautiful with each passing day. One glance from her eyes would have been enough to bring a hundred Kings to their knees; one smile from her ruby lips would have been enough to conquer an entire army, had she so wished.

Her beauty was lost on no one, and no one escaped her snare. Her eyes took prisoner after prisoner, each one tied and bound with her tresses. Anyone who so much as glanced at her flower-like face was smitten instantly, hungry for the nectar of her lips and the honey of her kisses. Yet her eyelashes refused to give charity; her eyes, as they closed, seemed to say: ‘God alone can grant you what you desire, for I shall give you nothing.’ Hundreds of hearts had already fallen
into the well of her beauty, so powerful was her spell.

Yet although her magic worked on others, for herself she could do nothing. For while she blossomed on the surface, deep inside she wept tears of blood. From dawn until dusk she sought her beloved Majnun in secret; then, at midnight when the world was deaf with sleep, she would call out to him with her sighs. Tears were never far away, and if she laughed, she laughed to hide her grief.

Ever since their separation, the fire of desire had burned in the lovers’ hearts. In Layla’s case, however, the flames were concealed and gave no smoke. When a man lies dying, a doctor will often hold a mirror to his mouth to see whether he is still breathing. Layla, too, had her mirror, only for her the mirror was her own soul, which she questioned constantly about her beloved Majnun. There was nothing or no one else in whom she could confide and so, at night, she would tell her innermost thoughts and secrets to her own shadow. On one side there was the ocean of her tears; on the other, the raging fire of her love. Layla stood between them like a
pari
, a spirit who hovers between fire and water.

Although sorrow had bitten through to her very soul, she concealed her grief and would not share it with anyone. Sometimes, when the world lay sleeping, the light of the moon would draw her to the entrance of her tent. There she would stand transfixed, staring at the path, waiting — but for whom? Was she waiting for some messenger to ride by with word of him? Did she expect some well-wisher to bring her beloved’s
greetings from afar? Whatever she awaited, it did not come. And so she imagined the breeze to be his messenger, bearing his sighs from the mountains of Najd, while each cloud that brought rain she imagined to be a well-wisher, conveying her lover’s greetings like tears from heaven.

But the one thing that did reach her was her lover’s verses. His poems were on the lips of every passer-by; even the street urchins in the market-place would recite them in their sing-song voices. Whether he knew it or not, Majnun’s voice was being heard by the one he loved, and for this Layla was truly grateful.

Now, beauty was not Layla’s only gift, for she, too, had a flair for the poetic art. And so she would commit Majnun’s verses to memory as soon as she heard them; then, stringing pearls of wisdom together in ornate rosaries of verse, she would compose her responses. These she would write down on scraps of parchment, heading them with little messages such as: ‘The jasmin blossom sends this song to the cypress tree’, before casting them to the wind when no one was looking. Sometimes these scraps of verse would be found, and the finder — guessing the hidden meaning — would realise for whom they had been sent and take them to Majnun. To reward the finder, Majnun would compose a poem, which in due course would find its way back to Layla. Many such messages passed between them in this way, allowing them to tear the veil of separation just enough to give them both heart and hope. And others who heard the lovers marvelled at the unity of their voices: so similar were they in tone and
expression that they sounded like a single chant. For theirs were the voices of love, and love is strong enough to break any spell.

I
n the garden, the trees were bedecked with smiling blossoms, while yellow roses and vermillion-red tulips fluttered like flags in the breeze. Violets dipped and swayed on their long, curved stems, as though trying to hide from one another. The rose-bush pointed thorny swords skywards, ready for battle, while the water-lily, taking a moment’s rest from the fray, threw down her shield on the crystal mirror of the lake. The hyacinth opened her eyes, while the box tree combed its tresses. The blossoms on the pomegranate tree yearned for their own fruit, while the narcissus glowered feverishly, like a lover emerging from a nightmare. The Judas tree stood tall and proud, its veins full of sap, quickened by the sun. The wild-rose bathed her leaves in the jasmine’s silver fountain, while the iris raised her lance with pride and determination. And on
the topmost branch of the plane tree, above the cooing turtle doves, sat a nightingale, the Majnun of birds, singing its songs of love.

Layla had come into the garden with her friends to enjoy the birdsong and to play among the flowers like the beautiful maidens who adorn the gardens of paradise. Was it her intention, once their games were over, to seek repose in the shadow of the scarlet roses? Was it her wish to make the green of the grass darker with her own shadow, or raise her cup in the company of the narcissus and the tulip? Or had she come as victor, there to exact tribute from the kingdom of this magnificent garden?

No, she intended none of these things. She intended, once their games had ended, simply to sit and lament, like those whose hearts are torn apart by love. She wanted to converse with the nightingale, to tell that love-sick bird her innermost thoughts and secrets. And maybe the breeze would bring word of the one she loved and mourned …

She was trying to find comfort in the garden, for she saw it as a mirror of her lover’s beauty and nothing more. She even hoped that the mirror might show her the way to the one reflected therein …

Of all this her friends, of course, knew nothing. For a while they played among the roses, but later, when they sat down to rest in a secluded corner of the garden, Layla walked on and sat down under a tree away from them. Only then could she pour out her grief.

‘Dearest heart,’ she sighed, ‘is it not true that we were created for each other? How noble you are, and
how passionate your heart! How it grieves me to think that our hearts were once as one: now the icy dagger of separation has ripped them apart. If only you could walk through this gate and into the garden; then, my love, our hearts would be as one once more! If only you could sit next to me and look into my eyes; then, my love, you would fulfil my deepest desire. But maybe you have already suffered so much because of me that you no longer wish to have my love, or to look upon the beauty of the garden.’

Suddenly, a voice cut through her dreams. Someone was passing by the garden, a haunting refrain on his lips. It was a stranger, of course, but Layla recognised Majnun’s verses immediately. The passer-by sang:

When Layla heard these words she began to cry bitter tears, sobbing so heavily that even the hardest of hearts would have been moved. Although she had no idea that she was being watched, one of her friends, noticing Layla’s absence, had followed her. Hiding behind a rose-bush, the friend saw everything: Layla’s impassioned pleading, her surprise at the verses sung by the passer-by, and her tears.

Later that day, the friend went to Layla’s mother and told her what she had seen. Layla’s mother began to cry, too, unable to bear the thought of her daughter’s
suffering. But what could she do? However hard she tried, she could not think of a way out. ‘I must not let Layla do what her heart desires most’, she said to herself, ‘because Majnun is truly mad and not to be approached. If Layla so much as sees the boy, she, too, will become insane. Yet if I counsel patience, her separation from him may destroy her. And whatever destroys Layla destroys me also.’

And so Layla’s pain became her mother’s burden, although of course Layla was completely unaware of this. Layla remained silent, and so did her mother.

L
ater that same day, as Layla returned with
tear-swollen
eyes from the garden, she happened to pass by Ibn Salam, a young man from the tribe known as the Banu Asad. Ibn Salam was a man of considerable renown and untold wealth. Respected by all who knew him, he was a strong and generous man upon whom fortune had always smiled — so much so, in fact, that his nickname among his close friends was ‘Bakht’ (Good Luck). Would such luck continue in his quest for Layla?

Yes, as soon as Ibn Salam caught sight of her as she passed, he knew that he must make her his own. To him she was the full moon in all her splendour — a fitting ornament indeed to adorn the lonely sky of his soul. And so he decided to ask Layla’s parents for her
hand. And why not? Did he not have riches in abundance? Was he not of honourable birth? The more he thought about it, the more determined he became to win his beautiful moon, to possess the one shining light that would turn his night to day and make life bearable. The only thing he did not consider was Layla herself, and whether she would surrender herself to him willingly. Apart from this — admittedly the most important thing of all — he had thought of everything. Layla’s response was a bridge he would cross when he came to it.

And so, in accordance with Arab custom, Ibn Salam sent one of his most trusted companions as a go-between to ask for Layla’s hand. He instructed his mediator to petition Layla’s father with much humility, but at the same time to make it quite clear that Ibn Salam was willing to shower them with gold if they complied with his wishes.

And comply they did — in a fashion. They realised that they would be foolish to refuse such an offer, yet it all seemed so sudden, so final. There is no reason, they told each other in private, to give our blessing today when tomorrow will do. And so they neither accepted nor rejected his offer, preferring instead to make him wait a while.

‘Of course your wish will be granted,’ they said, ‘if you are patient. At present, our daughter is weak and sickly — she is like a tender flower caught by a late frost, and thus needs time to grow strong again. See how thin and pale she is! Let her gain strength and then, God willing, we shall agree to the union with
happy hearts. What does it matter if you wait a few more days?’

That was their final word on the subject, and Ibn Salam had no option but to be content and wait.

T
he ravine in which Majnun had decided to live lay in an area ruled by a Bedouin prince, Nowfal. His courage and steadfastness on the battlefield had earned him the epithet ‘Destroyer of Armies’, but although he had the heart of a lion in front of his foes, to his friends he was compassion itself.

One day, Nowfal was out hunting with some of his retainers. They had ventured further than usual into the desert, lured there by the prospect of bagging some particularly handsome antelopes they had been chasing from oasis to oasis. As the swift-footed creatures tried to escape into their mountain hide-outs, Nowfal and his men threw caution to the wind and began to follow them. Just when they were beginning to give up all hope of ever reaching their prey, one of the hunters saw the antelopes disappear into a cave some way above
them. Nowfal told two of his servants to dismount and, armed with bows, arrows and daggers, the three of them set off over the rocks.

Slowly and silently the men tiptoed towards the cave, certain that within minutes the trapped antelopes would be theirs for the taking. But when they reached the entrance to the cave, a strange sight stopped them in their tracks. The antelopes were indeed inside the cave; they were huddled together in the semi-darkness, their eyes wide with fear and their flanks trembling. But they were not alone. For there, crouching behind one of them, was a creature the likes of which Nowfal had never seen before.

The creature was naked, his emaciated limbs cut to ribbons by thorns, his dirty, lank hair hanging to his shoulders. Was it an animal or a human being? Was it a demon from the realm below, come to haunt the world of men, or was it a jinn in human guise? Nowfal was about to reach for his dagger when, to his amazement, the creature started to weep. Turning to his companions, Nowfal whispered, ‘Do you have any idea who this wretched creature is?’

‘I have heard of him,’ said one of the servants. He stepped forward and continued, ‘He is a young man whom love has turned insane. He has left the world of men and now lives here in the desert. Day and night he composes sonnets and odes for his beloved. Whenever a cloud passes, he thinks it brings some message from her; whenever a breeze sweeps by, he imagines that it bears her scent. And so he sings his songs of love, hoping that the wind and the clouds will carry his
words back to her.’

‘And he lives here all alone?’ asked an astonished Nowfal.

‘People visit him from time to time,’ replied the servant. ‘In fact, some travel great distances and suffer untold hardship in order to see him. They bring him food and drink; sometimes they even offer him wine. However, he eats and drinks little — barely enough to keep him alive. And if his visitors do persuade him to sip the wine, he does so only in the name of his beloved. Whatever he says or does is solely for her sake.’

Nowfal listened attentively, his sympathy for Majnun increasing by the minute. All thoughts of hunting had disappeared. ‘This poor confused soul is in need of assistance,’ whispered Nowfal, ‘and I think it would be an act of charity and nobility if I were to help him attain his heart’s desire.’ And so saying, Nowfal had his servants support Majnun and lead him down to where his other men were waiting. There, he ordered a tent to be set and food to be brought from the nearest oasis. It was time for dinner and Majnun was to be his guest.

Now, Prince Nowfal was a man of great generosity and hospitality, but on this occasion it seemed that even his efforts would be in vain. However much he urged his guest to eat and make merry, the wretched hermit would not even look at the food, let alone eat any of it. Nowfal laughed and joked, but the merrier he became, the less Majnun seemed to understand where he was and what he was doing there. Nowfal tried as hard as
he could to humour him, but Majnun did not respond; with each solicitous word from his host, he would retreat further and further into his own shell. Tired of eliciting no reaction from Majnun, Nowfal decided to let slip the word revealed to him earlier by one of his servants, the one word he knew would have an effect … the word ‘Layla’.

When he heard his beloved’s name spoken, Majnun’s eyes widened and a smile lit up his face. ‘Layla!’ he murmured lovingly. ‘My dear, sweet Layla!’ And then, falteringly, he helped himself to a morsel of meat and took a sip of ruby wine.

Nowfal had cracked the riddle: all he had to do now was speak of Layla, praise her beauty, extol her character, glorify her virtues, and Majnun would respond. And respond he most certainly did. While the silver-tongued Bedouin prince wove garlands of roses with his words of praise, Majnun added to them with the shimmering pearls of his poems. And although his verses were composed without preparation, they were as sweet as honey, as glowing as gold. Nowfal listened in awe and admiration. True, his guest was a wild man, a mere savage, but there could be no doubt that he was also a poet of the highest order, an alchemist of the tongue, a magician of words without equal.

By the end of the evening, Nowfal had reached a decision: he would restore the shattered mirror of this poor man’s heart, piece by piece, however long it might take. Addressing his guest, he said, ‘You, my friend, are like the moth that flutters around in the darkness, clamouring for the candle flame: take care that you do
not become like the candle, which cries hot tears while consuming itself in its own sorrow. Why have you given up? Why have you abandoned all hope? I have wealth and I have strength. Trust in me and I shall see to it that you receive that which Fate has decreed: Layla shall be yours. I promise this with all my heart. And even if she were to become a bird and escape into God’s boundless sky, or a spark of fire inside a flint of rock beneath God’s earth, I would seek her out and bring her to you. I shall not rest until I have united you both in marriage.’

Majnun threw himself at Nowfal’s feet and praised God for sending him so noble a benefactor. Yet, there was still doubt in his mind when he said, ‘Your words still my heart and give me hope, but how do I know that they are not simply words? How can I be sure that you will do what you say, or whether indeed you possess the means to do what you say in the first place? I must tell you now that her parents will not give her in marriage to someone like me, to someone whose insanity is beyond doubt. “What?” they will say. “Are we to abandon this precious, fragile flower and allow her to be carried off by a whirlwind? Are we to let a madman play with a moonbeam? Are we to hand over our daughter to a demon? Never!” Yes, that is what they will say; you do not know them as I do. Others have tried to help me in the past, but in vain. However hard they tried, they could not make my dark fate any lighter. Nothing would sway her mother and father, no amount of gold and silver, of orchards and cattle, could make them change their minds. Thus you can see how
hopeless my case is. Only a miracle could help me; tell me, are you a miracle-worker? I think not. Besides, I imagine that you will soon tire of the quest and turn back when only halfway.

‘But I hope not. My prayer is that you will succeed. And if you do succeed, may God reward you. But if the promise you have made is merely idle talk, and if that which you have offered is a mirage rather than a real oasis, then you had better tell me now.’

The young man’s frank words served only to increase Nowfal’s admiration for him.

‘Do you really doubt my word?’ Nowfal asked. ‘Then, let us make a pact. In the name of God Almighty and His Prophet Muhammad I swear that I shall fight like a lion for you and your cause, sacrificing my life if need be.

‘I swear that I shall neither eat nor sleep until you attain that which your heart desires. But you must also promise something: you must promise me that you will practise patience and forbearance. You must try to give up your way of life, tame your wild heart and take it in hand, if only for a few days.

‘So, let us agree: you will damp down the fire that rages in your heart; I, for my part, will open the iron gateway to your treasure. Are these terms acceptable to you?’  

Majnun agreed. And so, in return for his friend’s assistance, he began to quieten the storm that had raged in his heart for so long. Gradually, for the first time in many long months, peace began to seep back into his soul and the wounds inflicted by the sharp blades of his
madness began to heal. Like an innocent child, he placed his complete trust in Nowfal; as tranquillity returned to his spirit, a change came over his whole life. Without further ado, he left the cave and went back with Nowfal to his camp on the edge of the town.

Under the protection of his new benefactor, Majnun no longer deserved to be called ‘majnun’. Within days, his madness had gone and he had become Kais again, the strong and handsome young nobleman he once used to be. For the first time in months he took a bath; then he put on the fine turban and robes that Nowfal had prepared for him. His appetite returned and he ate and drank with gusto in the company of friends, reciting his odes and his sonnets to them rather than to the wind and the clouds. Colour flooded back into his pinched, sallow cheeks; once bent like a broken reed, he now stood tall and straight like a firm young sapling. The flower, its petals once scattered by the storm, was in bloom again.

Since he had returned to the world of men, Majnun’s view of the world and of nature had also changed. No longer did he ignore the pages of the book of creation that God opened each day before his very eyes. The golden finery of morning brought him delight once more, as though he were witnessing the miracle of dawn for the first time. He matched the midday laughter of the sun with his own beaming smiles, and he became one voice with the birds at evensong. Much to everyone’s surprise and delight, Majnun had joined the world of men again.

If Majnun was happy, Nowfal was even happier, for
it was he who had worked this miracle. He was like a spring cloud, sprinkling its showers over the parched earth. Every day, he would bring new gifts for his recuperating friend; nothing was too expensive or extravagant. He kept Majnun by his side at all times, refusing to be parted from him for even an hour. Neither Nowfal nor Majnun had ever known such deep friendship. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, storm clouds started to gather on the horizon.