AFRID
From the height of the monastery terrace, Bishop Afrid Aparytae, looked west across the thousand-metre elevation of the thriving vineyards of the river valley of Herat, ‘Pearl of Khorasan’ the ‘Bread-basket of Central Asia,’ and a key station on the 6,500 kilometres of the Silk Route.
The bishop saw specks on the horizon and knew it was another caravan of even-toed Bactrian camels, their two humps stored with fat. Weighed down with their merchandise from China, they were wearily navigating the precipitous track of the eastern crest. Each of them could carry up to two hundred and seventy kilograms, ten hours a day, which they did. Men and animals were exhausted after skirting the edges of the Taklamakan desert to reach Kashgar, from whence they passed through Herat for a rest — to the delight of its innkeepers, bar-owners, restaurateurs, traders and brothel keepers. The well-armed traders would continue to risk life and limb to reach the Mesopotamian port of Damascus or, for greater profits, go via Palmyra and Aleppo to reach Constantinople, which stared into the gaping European mouth. From there, they would sell their goods and reload their camels for the return trip.
A breeze caressed Bishop Afrid Aparytae’s curling locks. He looked up to see an eagle soaring in the cloudless morning sky. He caught movement in his peripheral vision and flicked his eyes without moving his head. It was one of the carrier pigeons, delivering the twenty-four-hour situation report tied to its leg from each of Herat’s districts.
The Khan of Herat was well-informed.
The eagle saw the homing pigeon but ignored it and swooped down for another kill — saw, coveted, but let it live, and it was thus among the eagles and the carrier pigeons of Herat.
Afrid Aparytae sighed, regretting that one had to die for the other to live, while some flew unscathed. The faint chanting of Monks reciting the gospels in Aramaic seemed a fitting backdrop to yet another beautiful morning.
The cedar grove nestled in one of the Harirud’s lethargic meanders. The dust rising behind it announced a party of horsemen.
“The Khan’s men returning from the four corners of the territory,” Father Qamisho’s voice was gentle, low-key, but it carried. Like his weighty, though light-footed character.
Bishop Afrid Aparytae turned and acknowledged the priest’s presence with a smile.
“With good news, one may hope?”
Father Qamisho sighed, his high cheekbones resigned.
“The poor child. I looked into her eyes. They were dark wells of exhausting loneliness.”
Father Qamisho’s pessimism confirmed what Bishop Afrid Aparytae, too, had perceived on his visit the day before. A case of extreme depression, resigned to let it all end.
HAKEEM MARAAL
Atash, the Zoroastrian sacred flame, burned serenely in its place of honour in the Khan of Herat’s court. The Khan’s face was a mask of stone as he listened to the kneeling emissaries admit their failure.
Thick, heavy silence descended on the court. The guards and nobles held their breath. Even the chained leopards on either side of the carved wooden throne seemed to lower their heads. The Khan looked at Maraal, the court hakeem, a renowned doctor. The sacred Atash flames danced in the gold cross around her neck. Her heavy-lidded green eyes locked into his. Fearlessly.
“I have nothing left but my prayers. If it is permitted, I’ll go up to the monastery and enter a period of continuous fasting and prayer.” Which meant she would remain in that state until, by a miracle, Princess Gulnaar recovered or had to be exposed to the sun on the Dokhma Tower of Silence, for her lifeless flesh to be picked by vultures.
The Khan lowered his head in silent pain.
The court emitted an inaudible sigh of grief.
Hakeem Maraal took three steps back, turned and departed between the two lines of nobles and courtiers, the usual swing of her majestic hips reduced to a subdued sway. At that time, there was no jealousy in the women’s eyes, nor lust in the men.
The rays of the sun suddenly found their way through the windows. The hall of the Khan’s court lit up like the funeral pyres of the eastern land of Bharatavarsha, where she had done her doctoral studies at the two great universities, Takshashila in the northwest and Nalanda in the north. She had the good fortune of being one of Doctor Charaka’s students at Taksashila. He was a direct descendant of the Great Doctor Charaka, whose medical thesis, Charaka Samhita, was a foundational component of Ayurveda medicine.
Doctor Charaka’s lecture was as fresh as yesterday. That day, he had sat cross-legged in his spotless professorial whites, humbly imparting his knowledge and wisdom to a rapt audience.
“The most difficult form of depression to treat is that which is caused by the conviction that the patient is not loved. That even if the loved ones are near, and there is no physical isolation, there is a feeling of emotional deprivation. And it takes a heavy toll. So, the patient is convinced that nobody cares, and lives in a state of extreme emotional fatigue. Imperceptibly, the patient’s organs start shutting down, and no organic medicine can remedy it.”
Doctor Charaka paused to take a sip of perfumed water. There was pin-drop silence.
“So, then there is no remedy, Guru jee?”
He paused, then replied in a grave voice. “There is one, but to be able to obtain it is one chance in a million. However, once acquired, and brought to the patient, it has the power to subtly alter the patient’s consciousness. That change allows the patient to transpierce the outer shell of those from whom the patient expects love, and be able to see into their hearts. The human heart lives within these shells, and the patient can then see the truth powering the heart. It will revive the patient and alter the personality for life.”
He took another sip of perfumed water and smoothed his rich, dark hair.
And waited.
Nobody spoke.
Yes, he said to himself. They are respectful, waiting for me to share the secret.
And he did.
In measured, precise tones.
Hakeem Maraal now sighed at the memory, grateful to Guru Charaka, yet fearful of not being able to find the remedy.
A delicate human organ, preserved as a loving bequest.
She had told the Khan, but his emissaries had returned empty-handed. Apart from a fortuitous miracle, it was time to resign herself to the inevitable.
PAULOS
Paulos had been working in his vineyard on the valley floor since before dawn, on a breakfast of nuts, dried fruits and leftover ayran doogh. The mid-morning spring sun at forty-five degrees, was only hot if you worked. Bud-breaking and replanting were hard work, and his back ached. Sweat rippled down his work-hardened body and the sun-drenched moisture made his sculpted muscles glow. Paulos was of medium height, but built like a brick outhouse. He had to squeeze every inch of land from his two-hectare birthright to provide a living for his family, unlike the substantial vineyards his two brothers had inherited. The sound of hoofbeats from the direction of the grove grew louder and the dust cloud bigger.
Paulos now stood waiting in his vineyard as Azita, his curvaceous wife, came into view, carrying his breakfast.
The group of horsemen rounded the grove and came into view. Their penants hung limply from horizontal lances, signalling a failed mission. They would intersect the space between Azita and Paulos.
AZITA
Azita finished churning the whole-cream yoghurt, added more milk, churned again, then added water and finished churning to make the ayran doogh drink. Her lips were slightly parted with the effort, her nostrils flared and she could feel the moisture from the effort between her unrestrained breasts pushing against her shirt. She was relieved that her husband Paulos was not there. He was rather excitable.
She smiled to herself, folded the flatbread around a hunk of cheese, wrapped it in a cloth, and placed the cloth on the wicker tray, closing the mouth of the earthenware ayran doogh pot. Then she wound a scarf around her long brown hair to make a stable platform, balanced the pot on it and stepped out of her humble abode to glide her way to the fields, in the ritual as old as agriculture itself. As she neared the vineyard, she caught the sound of hoofbeats on the air and guessed what was fast approaching from the other side of the grove.
AZITA AND PAULOS
On the monastery terrace overlooking the vineyards, the breeze ruffled Bishop Afrid Aparytae’s dark locks. He appreciated the grace with which Azita balanced Paulos’ morning meal in the earthenware pot on her head, covered by a wicker tray. A hardworking couple, he mused. Ajita, a Tajik descended from the Sogdian and Bactrians, and Paulos, a Pashtun descended from the Pakthas mentioned in the seventh mandala of the Rigveda. Tajiks, Uzbeks and Pashtuns were an overlapping mixture of Buddhists, Zoroastrians and Christians, living together undisturbed. Warlike peoples, they were quarrelsome and murderous, but respected the boundaries of each other’s faith.
Azita’s lips parted and her nostrils flared as Paulos grew in her vision. She sneaked a glance at the bare space where the wood stack for the monastery had been, then scolded herself and suppressed the memories.
Well!
Their eyes caressed each other’s planes and contours, but it would have to wait.
The hoofbeats grew to a deafening volume as the Khan’s emissaries rounded the cedar grove.
The galloping horses thundered between the couple, obscuring their vision of each other. The commander shouted something to his men, which Azita didn’t understand, but Paulos did. His mind went back to those early hours of the morning when his father had lain on his deathbed, ten years ago.
BAABAK — warrior-mystic
Under the large wooden cross, Baabak lay dying from the sword thrust in his side. The battle with the ferocious Türkmen had been hard, his fearsome reputation keeping swordsmen at bay, until an ambitious young pup risked all in single combat and succeeded with the mortal strike.
His three sons, Mehrdaad, Kaaveh and Paulos at the foot of the bed, surrounding his wife Bita, were ready to face the inevitable. Then Baabak’s eyes lost their glaze and shone. His breath rattled but his head rose slightly.
“My dying wish.
“The northern and southern vineyards go to Mehrdaad and Kaaveh.”
Both young men looked triumphant. These were prosperous holdings, even among the yeomanry. Paulos’ eyes were wells of sadness.
“The eastern vineyard goes to Paulos.”
The smallest holding, resistant to a decent yield, and demanding constant, hard work and luck.
Paulos lowered his head in acquiescence.
“And this, Paulos!” Baabak indicated his right eye. “Pluck it out and put it in the silver urn which contains the sacred liquid blessed by our Sage at the feet of the Buddhas of Bamyan —” they lowered their heads in respect to the holy place of their former ancestral faith, its thousand caves where mystics contemplated, and the cliff face in which three colossal statues of Lord Buddha, carved out of the rock, kept vigil. “— the urn was given to my grandfather before his conversion to Christianity.” He looked straight into Paulos’ eyes. “Treasure it and one day it will bring you great fortune. Greater than that of your brothers. Until that time, work hard and be content.”
The warrior-mystic gave a great sigh, his breath rattled again and his head fell back on the pillow, lifeless eyes eloquent.
Bita’s earsplitting wail pierced the stone walls of the house and reverberated across the valley of vineyards ready for another rich harvest.
PAULOS
Paulos squatted on the damp floor of the murky cell, clutching the silver urn. He half-dozed and had lost track of time in the dark. He knew why the guards hadn’t seized the silver urn, valuable in itself. He had told them where it was from and what it held, and they had recoiled, fearful of a malediction.
The iron door banged and light spilled into the cell.
“Up!” the guard barked, his scar running from nose to cheek livid.
The other looked warily at the urn.
Both held naked swords.
THE GIVING
Barefoot, Paulos walked fearlessly between his two guards, urn in both hands, his visiting shoes placed at the entrance to the court. The nobles approved of the respectful gesture.
The Khan noticed a fleeting change in Hakeem Maraal’s face. Her heart skipped a faint beat as she recognized the urn by its silver and style, as one that could only come from the monastic artisans of the Bamyan-Buddha caves. The court held its collective breath as Paulos neared the Khan’s carved wooden seat on its stone-flagged dais, passing through the tall stone pillars and the two rows of nobles. He stopped and bowed, holding forth the urn in both hands.
The Khan nodded.
Even as Maraal stepped down from the dais’ second level, she caught a faint whiff of cardamom oil from the urn but fought down her excitement. It was the smell of the embalming mixture used for Egyptian mummies which she remembered from her post-doctoral studies in Thebes. What they were looking for was here. She raised the lid, then turned and nodded to the Khan. Neither smiled, but their eyes glinted. They would wait for the result.
“Do you bring this offering of your own free will?” she asked in a voice that carried the length of the court. It was a ritual question asked before accepting a yeoman’s gift.
In Khorasan, yeomen were treated with respect.
“Yes, Hakeem Maraal,” he confidently replied in a clear voice, addressing her by her doctor’s title. “The content, not the urn, though.”
However poor a Pashtun yeoman, he would not cringe, not even in the Khan’s court. Nor give up a possession unnecessarily. Certainly not one of such value.
The Khan and nobles nodded with approval as Paulos placed the urn in Hakeem Maraal’s proffered hands.
PRINCESS GULNAAR
In the halfway world, Princess Gulnaar floated weightlessly in the empty tunnel of infinite length, its beginning lost to view. She felt no sensation of abandonment but felt her existence was a prop for traditions and rituals. She was filled with the deep sadness of being alone and irrelevant in an alien universe teeming with life.
Float, float, float … she soundlessly chanted in her aimless buoyancy.
There were others she recognized, floating in bubbles, orbiting around a golden orb. Her grandparents, aunts and uncles who had died, but now lived. They looked fulfilled. They were near, yet neither attainable and nor aware of her presence, her need. She was extraneous to their joy, still merely an object.
Float, float, float …
The thought came unbidden — who cared back down below?
There, the arbiters of her world dressed her in finery, weighed her down in jewelry and she had maids attentive to her every need. When she passed by, people bowed. She lacked nothing, except recognition as a person, a human. Signs of love she craved. To be asked what she wanted. Not exist as a gilded trophy.
She was their pride, but was she, their joy? Was her happiness theirs?
Float, float, float …
Then the darkness seemed to lighten and she was enveloped in a thick-grey-cloud.
The tunnel walls seemed to recede.
Now she couldn’t see them anymore.
Was she still in the tunnel, she wondered.
The thick-grey-cloud started receding.
Became a light mist in which multi-hued sylvan creatures appeared and exited.
The people in bubbles orbiting the golden orb faded out.
The mist started thinning, then cleared.
The orb itself started mutating.
It became the solid glass ball from Damascus that hung above her bed and caught the light to radiate a golden hue. It was hazy but becoming clearer. There were blurred silhouettes around her bed.
They became people.
People she vaguely recognized. Their eyes — eyees! They showed grief, care, concern, anxiety — but for what or whom? For her — he-e-r? They became people she knew! She loved. And they loved her. Their eyes — the eye! It was looking at her, telling her — her father, her mother, the doctor, the attendants. They love you, a voice yelled triumphantly in her brain. Again. And again. Her mouth opened. Her head rose. She looked straight into the eye. The eye said YES.
Princess Gulnaar’s head flopped back on the pillow, eyes wide open, her smile lighting up the room. The queen, bent down and hugged her daughter. There was not a dry eye in the royal chamber, except the one held before Gulnaar’s face by Hakeem Maraal. Tears ran freely down the Khan’s battle-heardened cheeks as he, too, bent down to kiss his daughter. The queen fell at Hakeem Maraal’s feet who lightly skipped aside to reveal Paulos framed in the entrance behind her.
REWARD.
They had come from all corners of Herat Khaganate to express their joy and relief at Princess Gulnaar’s recovery from near-death, and filled the entrance courtyard and the fields next to the moat. The royal orchestra of string, flute and percussion played joyful compositions and groups of warriors broke out in dance. Attendants circulated with trays of delicacies and the best wine from the cellars. Wisps of smoke curled skywards from fires over which lamb and venison turned on spits.
The court was in full ceremonial session, filled with the heady smell of incense burning in victory. It could be seen in the flaring silk turbans of the nobles, their silk robes and sashes and the hilts of their bejewelled swords — and in the sparkling silk dresses and scintillating jewellry of their ladies in the row behind them. The leopards’ coats shone from a clarified-butter massage. The Zoroastrian, Buddhist, and Christian prelates were present in their formal attire. Atash, the Zoroastrian sacred fire, burned with the intensity of triumph.
The Khan’s birthday pair of scales had been placed at the foot of the dais. On each birthdate, the Khan sat on one plate and the nobles piled gifts on the other until both plates hung equal. Some of the gifts were kept, but most of the valuables were distributed among the needy.
Today, both plates stood empty.
Paulos and Azita, holding the silver urn and a very small silver plate, stood next to it.
The court was filled with the low murmur of voices.
Two horns blew a long blast and the war-drum beat a victory tattoo.
A hush fell over the court and the Khan, his Queen and Princess Gulnaar made their entry, faces glowing.
All present bowed and the Khan settled on his carved wooden chair, then wiggled his bottom in it for greater comfort. The Queen and the princess sat on silk upholstered stools on either side of him.
Hakeem Maraal stood at the head of the rank of nobles on the right hand of the Khan.
“We are gathered here today, to celebrate the miraculous recovery of our beloved daughter, Princess Gulnaar, and to thank Paulos for his gift which caused it. Paulos will be weighed in gold on the scales.”
A sigh of appreciation rippled down the ranks of nobles.
“Great Khan of Herat,” Paulos flattered the Khan. “Only kings and nobles are weighed thus, and I am not one of them. I am only too happy to see that my father’s inheritance played a part in healing the princess. Let my father’s eye be honoured in my place.”
Before the Khan could disagree, Princess Gulnaar leaned forward and whispered into his ear.
The Khan nodded, then spoke. “So be it. The princess desires that her benefactor’s wish be honoured.”
The Khan clapped his hands twice, and two massive, bare-chested men entered, one behind the other, carrying a shining cauldron like a litter with a stave on either side of the shoulder and the cauldron between tied to the staves. Their gait bespoke the cauldron’s weight. They lowered the cauldron to the floor, straightened up, bowed to the Khan and stepped back.
The Khan made a graceful gesture at Paulos. “Put the eye on the scales.”
“Your word, my command, Great Khan,” he replied.
Paulos took the tiny silver plate from Azita and placed it on the scales. He very gently tilted the urn to pour some of its liquid on the plate. Then he tilted it more and the warrior-mystic’s eye gently slid out and settled on the plate.
There were some gasps and a few suppressed titters from the nobles.
At the Khan’s nod, one of the bare-chested men, his eyes amused, extracted a small nugget of gold from the cauldron and placed it on the empty plate of the pair of scales.
The scales remained steady.
Another nugget.
Five, ten.
The gold bars and nuggets became a pyramid.
The scales were serene.
The court was filled with whispers of consternation, but Princess Gulnaar, back from her near-death experience, was the only one who looked excited. Hakeem Maraal was looking keenly at the process. It was as her professor at Taksashila University, in the northwest of Bharatvasta, had told her. Something that happened very rarely, if you were lucky enough to be part of the configuration. Which she was.
The Khan and the Queen were fighting hard to maintain their composure.
The princess could not define it, but her overhauled consciousness told her something very benign and honourable was happening right under her eyes. She felt the vibes. Her gaze fell upon the muscly figure of Paulos, roved over his muscles, looked into his eyes. Then she quickly turned her head. Her interest did not go unnoticed by Azita, who clenched her jaws. Hakeem Maraal noticed both reactions and smiled inwardly.
The cauldron emptied, piled on the plate, yet the scales did not budge.
The court emitted a gasp. There were mutters of ‘sorcerer’ and a few blades loosened in their scabbards.
Paulos and Azita looked bewildered.
Only Hakeem Maraal seemed unflustered.
As the gold started piling up, she had remembered Guru Charaka’s remark about greed, covetousness and contentment, that his students had thought off-hand at that time. She let herself slip into a controlled meditational state, emptying her mind and consciousness of all except the state of the scales and the Guru’s remark. Milliseconds before the nobles started gripping their sword-hilts against what seemed to be sorcery, a serene smile lit up her face.
She turned to the bewildered Khan.
“May I, O’ Khan?”
His right hand made a graceful motion of consent.
Princess Gulnaar’s eyes shone, her own consciousness radiant.
Hakeem Maraal gestured to Princess Gulnaar, who rose and came beside her.
An expectant hush enveloped the court.
Paulos and Azita’s index fingers were in their half-open mouths.
Hakeem Maraal bent her head and whispered into the princess’ ear.
The princess nodded excitedly, and understood.
She walked confidently to Paulos and dipped her thumb and index in the silver urn to coat it with the embalming liquid. Then she turned to face the scales. Her right hand reached out and very delicately seemed to touch the unblinking eye.
As though by divine intervention, the plates levelled.
The princess and the hakeem had wide smiles.
The court broke into applause. Then it receded and gradually faded out.
All eyes were on the princess and the hakeem.
This time, the princess gestured to Hakeem Maraal, who spoke in her clear voice that carried the length of the court.
“What the eyes see, it covets and its appetite is limitless. When the princess closed the eye, it had nothing more to see, or to covet.”
Once again, there was applause in the court which slowly died out as expectant eyes silently screamed at the Khan to give a decision. The Khan looked at his daughter.
“The treasure belongs to Paulos,” Princess Gulnaar announced.
There was a collective gasp from the court. The nobles expected that a small part would be given to Paulos and the rest returned to the treasury. The Prime Minister opened his mouth but before he could utter a word, Paulos spoke.
“I cannot digest so much wealth. My intentions were without hope of reward, yet life is a struggle. I will take some of the gold to buy a few more acres and build Azita a fine cottage. The rest goes back to the treasury.”
Princess Gulnaar raised her hand to stay the nobles’ confirmatory applause.
“Not to the treasury, but to the needy, with a gift for Hakeem Maraal — I would offer her a visit to her old university of Taksashila.”
The Khan nodded and the applause was thunderous.
Bio
Azam Gill has authored three thrillers — Blood Money, Flight to Pakistan and Blasphemy — six non-fiction books and, numerous articles. His doctoral dissertation on William Faulkner, delivered summa cum laude by Stendhal University, is also carried by the University of Michigan. He writes for Dawn, The Express Tribune, Different Truths and blogs at https://writegill.com/. He has served in the Punjab Regiment and the French Foreign Legion and retired as a tenured lecturer in English from IUT Figeac, Toulouse University, France.
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