Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [136]
All of a sudden Ziad’s voice through the window brought me out of my reflection.
“Hey, desk jockey! Are you coming back out?”
“You bet.”
“The chicken is done. We’re just waiting on the camel.”
“Coming!”
“Bring my laptop while you’re at it, would you? I feel like hearing some of that Bulleh Shah again.”
I went into Ziad’s room, the e-mails still in my hand, looking for his white MacBook. I didn’t see it at first. Then I noticed a corner of it sticking out from under a pile of papers on the bed. I sifted through them quickly as I pushed them aside. The computer printout of an article containing the picture of a white-bearded old man with a turban, a chador draped around his shoulders, caught my eye. At first I thought it was a picture of Bulleh Shah, perhaps because I’d just heard his name.
It turned out to be part of an article entitled “A History of Spiritual Love,” written by Osman Mir for EGO, an online magazine. The man in the picture wasn’t Bulleh Shah but Jalal al-Din Rumi, one of the greatest poets and mystics in history. He was the author of the Masnavi—a work of such literary brilliance that it was called “the Persian Quran.” That was all I knew of him. Out of curiosity I picked up the article and began skimming.
This particular piece focused on the relationship between Rumi and his teacher, Shams of Tabriz—its warmth, its intimacy, its ecstatic and celebratory subtlety. Their relationship began with a three-month period of seclusion, I read, during which the pair withdrew themselves from the rest of the world in Shams’s house. They worked together for some years, until Shams heard a voice outside of his door while he and Rumi were speaking. He followed it out and was never heard from again. At that point Rumi made Shams into his poetic signature, his alter ego, and integrated him into his “I-ness.” Thus wrote Rumi: “Why should I seek? I am the same as he. His essence speaks through me. I have been searching for myself.”
Suddenly Ziad’s voice came from the balcony. “The camel is cooked to perfection!”
Startled, I dropped the essay and the e-mails, grabbed the laptop, and ran outside. “This camel is coming,” I called.
“Hurry up,” Ziad shouted. “I’m hungry like a lion.”
14
The burgers were so good they made me forget about the e-mails. Juice ran down my chin with each bite I took. I could feel the shan masala weaving through my stubble. As I chewed the tender flesh, I made muted moans of pleasure. By the time I took the next bite, one line of juice dried up and another trailed down the side of my mouth. The two lines, dry and wet, kept alternating with each bite.
“This is unlike anything I’ve ever had,” I said appreciatively.
Ziad looked at me and smiled, nodding in agreement.
In the background Abida Parveen’s voice crooned Bulleh Shah, but I was so intent on my burger that I wasn’t paying much attention to it. Looking up, I noticed Ziad staring closely at me.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?”
“I just thought about something I read,” he said.
“What?”
“I was reading up on your Sufi poets in Punjab the other day. Did you know that one of their favorite motifs was the idea of the bela?”
“What’s that?”
Ziad laughed. “And you call yourself a Punjabi! You know when a river changes its course? Well, the word bela refers to the basin it leaves behind. It’s supposed to be very fertile and lush.”
“Why are you thinking about that?”
“Because of the tributaries of grease on your face.” He reached forward and with his index finger traced the two lines down my chin.
I dabbed with a napkin. “So what’s your point?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just think it’s cool that rivers change course. You wouldn’t think they would. They seem so permanent. It’s like they wake up one morning and go and lie down somewhere else. That’s all.” He shrugged and sipped his lemonade.
Ziad’s reference, now lodged firmly in my head, made me listen closely to