“You’re right. The entire world is in crisis. The empire has sunk into a cesspool of corruption. The hearts of our rulers are darkened. Their visions are impaired, and we are all sitting at the top of a volcano, waiting to be annihilated in its flowing lava. Yes, I feel we will pay dearly for the mistakes of Sultan Khârazm Shah, and the selfishness and corruption in Caliph of Islam’s court in Baghdâd.” He sighs and continues, “What words of wisdom can I articulate? There are locks on the hearts, mouths, and ears of men. And this calmness we see now, it’s the calm before the storm. I must remain here, for my roots are too deep; uprooting would be too painful for me and my family.”
As we rise to turn in for the night, Shaykh Attâr looks at me with tenderness and admiration. He gently touches my face and whispers, “Let it be known here and now that I see a burning fire of unconditional and pure eshgh within this boy and when it erupts its flames will give warmth to the hearts of mankind for millenniums to come.”
Overwhelmed by those words, I approach the Shaykh, reach for his right hand and place a kiss on it. Shaykh Attâr releases his hand from my hold, holds my face in his palms and gazes into my eyes with his that are brimmed with joy.
We move on toward the city of Shahr-e Ray a few days later, thousands of kilometers in front of the Mongol storm that is destroying everything in its path in Central Asia, heading towards Balkh, Samarghand, Marv, Harât and Bokhârâ.
Chapter Four
I question his (religious leader) intelligence, his wisdom.
He sees God in heaven; I see God in the eyes of men,
And I feel Him in the hearts of men.
I worship what I can see.
Shams-e Tabrizi
I arrive in the ancient city of Shahr-e Ray that lies undisturbed on the gentle southern slope of Mount Alburz. With its fourteen-thousand-foot- high snow-capped majestic peak of Tochal, it stands tall on the north side of the city. The looming mountain range appears as if it is there to protect the city against the mysterious mists of the Caspian Sea. The late afternoon sun is on its way to set in the western horizon. It has skillfully painted the patchy clouds with spectacular colors of cherry-red, sunflower-yellow, a dark brownish and purplish maroon; a magnificent and sublimely eye-soothing canvas.
The steady breeze that had stubbornly remained at my back since I started this morning has subsided now. The still air is pleasantly warm, but dry and light, perfumed with the sweet smell of an ocean of wild flowers in full bloom mixed with a strong smell of sage.
Basking in the luxury of no particular urgency, I’ve followed the trail on the lower slopes of the mountain range that extends steadily to my left. The mountain range, with numerous jagged snow-capped peaks, keeps me company, off and on, all the way from Tabriz to Meyâneh, to Zanjân, to Gazvin, to where I’m descending on a gentle slope towards the city of Shahr-e Ray. I’ve never been concerned or worried about being attacked and robbed by gangs of road thieves, for I’m certain that all my worldly possessions would appear worthless to any ordinary man.
I’ve enjoyed sleeping on the prairie under the stars at night, gazing at God’s face in the blue rays of His Uranus. I’ve slept under the trees, have seen God’s arms in the beautifully twisted contours of the tree branches, and have smelled the fragrance of His cool and refreshing breath in the night breeze. I’ve heard His tender and gentle voice echoing down from the mountaintops. And when I stayed with others, I’ve appreciated the hospitality extended to me in inns and cârevânsarâs by other travelers, residents of Sufi lodges, or worshipers in mosques. If I had any doubt before about the goodness people hold in their hearts, this journey, so far, has solidified my belief that ordinary man cares for his fellow man. Also, so far, I haven’t yet come across one single reason to regret my decision to embark on this journey, even though I’ve gotten myself into some arguments with a few devout worshipers over their religious practices. Each time, when I’d mention that they perform their religious rituals either because of their fear of God or from habits injected into them by their parents when they were only children, they would, of course, always reject my assertion angrily. They insisted that they performed these religious rituals for the love of God.
Even before my arrival, I was certain that I wouldn’t stay in the city of Shahr-e Ray for long. I had come to this decision at a much earlier age, that to accumulate knowledge, assimilate and absorb wisdom, one must constantly wander the world. It’s my firm belief that if a man remains in the same place his mind and soul stagnates, as water does in a puddle when it ceases to flow.
I check in to a cârevânsarâ [caravan inn] just as I enter the city’s northern gate, before the guards close it for the night. I check my mule into the cârevânsarâ’s stable to be taken care of. I introduce myself to those curious merchants in the cârevânsarâ as a prominent merchant from a faraway land. I wash, change my dusty clothes and wear another long black felt cloak over clean baggy trousers, a simple recently washed white turban and a pair of light sandals. I go out to the bâzâr [bazaar] and have a simple meal to rejuvenate my tired body.
To rest for a while, I sit quietly on a step at the entrance to a great marvel of a building, a mosque, built with light pink marble stones and colorfully painted ceramic tiles. The beauty of the building’s design and workmanship is quite extraordinary, a genuine expression of man’s true eshgh for his God. Questions cross my mind. What if the same men would love their fellow man as much as they love their God? Then would they express their love by building such an extraordinary artistic monument just for their fellow man? I wonder.
I watch the people in motion in the crowded and noisy square, and mind my own conflicting thoughts. I’ve been wandering around, searching for men with spiritual mysteries, philosophers, and wise men, who are made of flesh and not marble, who don’t place themselves on pedestals as freshteh [saint] and demand that people look at them. I’m hopeful I’ll find a few if not many in this vast Islamic land that at times seems like an unsalvageable sunken ship.
The square is crowded by all sorts of people dressed in a tapestry of clothes and colors. No one pays any attention to me, and that is just fine with me. As I contemplate where I want to go next, and whose lecture I want to attend, I see an old man in religious clothing in the square, heading toward the mosque. Wearing a broad smile, he looks very happy, perhaps because he’s about to perform his religious rituals, the five-times-a-day of namâz, prayer. He will bend over several times, placing his forehead on a piece of clay on the ground, the dried mud that is claimed to be from the soils of graves of relatives of Prophet Mohammad. Like a parrot, he will whisper words, the meaning of which he doesn’t know, thinking he’s talking to God. The poor fellow doesn’t know that the last thing his God needs is the prayer of a wretched soul like him. I feel this urge to go around and shout at people like him, telling them the truth – people who have in reality lost their way and habitually worship a God whose essence has been misinterpreted everywhere. But I’m not about to tell him that, for people don’t like to hear the truth.
He becomes aware of me and intensely locks his eyes on mine. He undoubtedly thinks that he knows me from somewhere or he is mistaking me for someone else. I see him approaching. Intuitively, I feel uncomfortable in his presence but I wait to see what he is after as I whisper under my breath, “Here we go again. Someone has found something new in his religion; he is now a true believer. The next thing he has to do is to convert another lost wretched soul, and that would be poor me.”
“What are you doing here, my good man?” the man asks without any introduction as if he has known me for a long time.
“Nothing except watching the people,” I respond, hoping he will go away.
“The Grand Vazir and many other important men are inside this mosque.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes!”
“Good for them!” I reply firmly, thinking that would convey