Now I understand the reason for the changes in father’s disposition and mood.
“The traveler says it will take about two or a maximum of three months before they reach us here in Balkh,” the man says worriedly.
“God have mercy upon all of us here and the rest of the world,” father offers us only those hopeless words.
I’ve never seen father so worried before. His words trouble me. I wonder what will become of us, my family.
Lately, father has spoken about his urgent need to go to Makeh, circle the black stone of the Kabeh before it is too late, meaning the early arrival of his death. Someone, a well-known man of wisdom, a long ago told Father, that he wouldn’t live longer than ten more years. Although he has lived beyond that foolish prediction, I’m certain that the echo of those words still remains in father’s mind and constantly reminds him of his mortality.
I’ve also overheard him many times confiding to his close disciples about the danger he feels in his heart about prominent men expressing desires for young boys openly. Also, the fact that this corruption is widespread among some of the leaders of the society bothered him even more. He would often, with indignation, criticize men who kept boys at home as if they were their wives. My heart always overflows with mohebbat for him when he expresses his concern for my well being like that.
Also, father would become angry whenever he heard Fakhroddin Râzi, a famous powerful preacher – a theologian who believes in Athenian philosophy – speak in public and challenge father’s fatwâs. Since Fakhroddin Râzi was the teacher of Sultan Khârazm Shah when the Sultan was young, he has remained the Sultan’s close confident and enjoys his protection. Once I heard a rumor that Sultan Khârazm Shah himself has spoken against father.
Putting all these reasons together, I’m convinced that, soon or later, we will be moving again. To what city we might migrate? I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to anyone about my feeling, nor have I ever brought the subject up to my father.
The night following the bad news, father discusses the matter of migrating with the rest of the family. I confess that I have had some sort of intuition about it. In fact, I’d been expecting it to happen and was secretly delighted when father first announced it. But when I look at my mother and the other members of my family and see how badly this news affects them, a sense of sadness comes over me.
The very next day, in the large room of the convent, father sits on the wooden pulpit looking very somber. The entire area are filled with thousands of his disciples, followers and students, people of all ages, men and women, who sit in rows, facing him, and attentively listen to his speech.
“Our Sultan, Khârazm Shah, is angry with me,” father starts. “I’m not interested in being where I’m not wanted. This is my last sermon from this place. I have wanted to visit Makeh for a long time. I’ll soon be leaving with my family. In my absence, Shaykh Ahmad Rafir will manage the affairs of this convent.”
I look around and see the anxious and mostly sad faces of the crowd but, to my own surprise, at such an unhappy time, a strange feeling of joy and pride overwhelms me. I’m ashamed for allowing myself to feel this way but I can’t help equating the depth of the sadness on the people’s faces to father’s worthiness.
The next several days our house loses its usual visible order and goes through the chaotic activities of preparation for the long journey. The entire family packs, and the others who have come to help us all perform their jobs quietly. No one speaks a word unless it is absolutely necessary, and all faces are devoid of smiles.
On a pleasant early morning in March, 1216, our cârevân [caravan] of ten camels, five horses and seven mules, carrying men, women, children and supplies, slowly leaves the city of Balkh and moves westward. Our itinerary includes the city of Marv, Harât, Nayshâbour, Shahr-e Ray, Esfahân, to Baghdâd, then on to Makeh. I’m certain that we will be welcomed by many religious scholars in those cities, for my father is well-known and respected throughout Persia and beyond.
I don’t understand the notion that sometimes unexpectedly flashes through my mind: that this long and probably treacherous journey is meant to be. I feel my father is seeking his destiny. And I am also in search of my destiny, which is perhaps very different from his. I may meet many interesting people and, perhaps, one who will be my ultimate friend with whom I may remain for life. Who is this person? I don’t know. Perhaps, he’s somewhere out there searching too. Or maybe he is a small seed, a thought, in the belly of a shell in the vast sea, waiting to be a pearl. Maybe he is a beautiful butterfly in the wind of events, carrying a seed to pollinate a flower of eshgh [love] in my heart.
I ride on my camel next to father and my brother in front of our cârevân. The ups and downs, this rocking motion, this monotonous constant movement of the camel make me lethargic. To keep awake and break the hardship and boredom of the journey, particularly when we travel on barren flat land, I read books, question father, or talk to my brother.
The excitement of this journey, the anticipation that I’m going to see all those big exotic cities of culture, learning centers, with big libraries, is hard for me to hide from the others whenever we stop for a rest.
The journey was planned so precisely by father’s disciples, who are accompanying us to the holy city of Makeh, that we never have to camp in the wilderness. We always reach some village or town in our itinerary, stay a night, or a few days, and always leave at dawn.
In Marv and Harât, we stay for a few days in the houses of father’s friends to clean and energize our tired bodies.
When I first see the vista of the city of Nayshâbour, a city with over one and half million inhabitants, its beauty takes my breath away. Oh those blue minarets, those golden domes are even bluer and yellower than they were in my dreams!
I knew we would be welcomed by one of the great, if not the greatest, Sufis of our time, the most renowned mystic poet, Faridalddin Attâr. Indeed, a short distance away from our moving cârevân, in front of the entrance to a house, two old bearded men with turbans and robes are waiting. Father points out Shaykh Attâr to me as we dismount and I follow my father walking toward the waiting men.
As we get within hearing distance, I hear Shaykh Attâr saying to his friend, “Here comes a sea of wisdom followed by an ocean to be.” I wonder what the great Sufi means by those words.
Father is welcomed into the opened arms of Shaykh Attâr. They kiss each other’s cheeks and hold one another in a hug and exchange pleasantries. Father is introduced to Shaykh’s friend, and I am introduced to the wise men. Shaykh Attâr comes up to me. He gazes at me with a special look, a mixture of affection and admiration. He squats down to make his height equal to mine and kisses both my cheeks.
He invites father and I, and the rest of our company to his spacious house. I follow my father and his friends into a room and sit on the carpet-covered floor. We sit across from the Shaykh Attâr and his friend, and I’m amazed at the tranquility reflected on his face.
We wash and conduct our prayers standing behind father, which is a respect Shaykh Attâr extends to him by praying behind him. We then enjoy an elaborate feast of tasty food around a large sofreh.
Afterward, the adults begin a serious conversation of matters of importance. Shaykh Attâr presents a leather-bound book to father and explains, “This is Esrâr Nâmeh [Letters of Secrets], thirty-six-thousand verses, words of wisdom, about the entanglement of the soul in a world of material temptation and greed. In the future, it may help you and your sons to push aside the curtain to see the face of the unseen. It’ll bring warmth to your hearts. I know it’ll be safe and protected in your hands.”
Father humbly accepts the