The Ascension

One of my truly delightful friends, a man in whom the dust of poverty itself tasted sweet. He had stitched the torn rags of his heart with the thread of poverty, his heart as scorched as it was bound to that thread. You have reached out to take hold of self-annihilation; you have turned your back on the ways of the world. From him the dervish cloak found its proper form and custom; from him poverty gained its pride and dignity. Renouncing the world was the substance of his work; the wearing of plain hide was the very vessel of his songs. For years he was the dust of the road to Najaf, fleeing the cruel sky to find shelter at Najaf. In that court of glory and high station, he set up a busy market by serving at its threshold. His awareness was the interpreter of his fine qualities; his heart was as pure as the pearl of Najaf. One day, among my brightest days, my heart full of joy and empty of sorrow, In the company of a few chosen friends, each one the fruit upon the tree of life, He told a colorful tale that turned the bitterness of life sweet. He said: this wit, a gift to any eager ear, is famous throughout Arab Iraq. When their spirits blossomed at this springtime of words, joy clapped its hands and said: What a pity this old story in its worn garb deserves to be dressed in bright new clothing. When everyone fell silent rather than answer, desire pressed its finger to my lips. Since the nature of desire accepts no excuse, listen for a moment to this account. A good man among the Arab merchants, the hand of seeking had gripped his skirt. His name in the world was Hajji Najm; he had stoned every wayward desire like Satan. He put on the pilgrim's robe to circle the sacred pillar and station, and from Najaf he set out gracefully toward the Kaaba. I do not know why, with his discerning eye, he did not see the Kaaba already present in Najaf to circle there. By way of Egypt he resolved to reach the Hejaz, so that truth might be sought beyond mere appearance. He joined the pilgrims' caravan, sometimes cutting the road with his feet, sometimes with his gaze. Travel on foot does not reach the heart's true goal; on a journey it is the eye of insight that must travel. The camels in that valley, foaming at the mouth, every one of them swept away with joy. Behind the she-camel the Arab travelers went, now singing the camel-driver's chant, now calling on God. Suddenly Najm's gaze fell on a litter that rose so high it seemed to reach the moon. Its curtain's hem given over to the wind, its eye turned aside to gaze upon the truth. In that canopy he saw a girl, the litter itself like a tent of the moon from her beauty. In perfect beauty and good fortune, everything about her blessed with loveliness. From head to foot she was all the eye could desire, yet her hair was white as a moonlit night. A white dawn broke through her night-dark hair: a sun whose eyebrows curved like a crescent moon. His thoughts tangled at this wonder, and his bewilderment kept piling higher. When that moon-faced one looked at Najm, she saw a small volume packed with meaning. She said: You who don't honor the sanctity of the pilgrimage, you walk the path of faith with a crooked eye. Those trusted within this sacred threshold, when do they ever gaze at outsiders? Close your eyes to black and white; open the eye of meaning, the eye that truly sees. The man was stung by the woman's words. He said: Hush, for some suspicion is sin. Bewilderment threw my state into turmoil, for I saw the sun and the crescent moon together. I saw white hair upon the moon's head; I made my eyes blacken at that whiteness. When the moon-faced one grasped, free of any lie or trick, the scent of truth hidden in his words, she said: This tale is long and winding; I'll tell you when you reach the Hijaz. My story is long and the road is short; the thread of this song is not the thread of the road. When the caravan arrived to circle the Kaaba, their faces dusty from the road, the mirror clear within, after the running and the circling of the pillar and the station, what had been forbidden became allowed. Najm longed to see that moon again; his heart lay at the feet of every glance along the way. Until one day they chanced to meet, and, to be brief, the two became companions. The moon took Najm to her own home, spread a cloth and set out bread before him. There he saw an old woman sitting, a meadow that had survived a hundred autumns. They washed their hands of food and drink, and the way opened amid question and answer. She began her tale, that sweet-lipped moon, a face like the moon at midnight. This white hair is not from old age, for I am still only twenty years old. I am a marvel; my story is strange; the wonder of my state has this as its cause. My father is a chieftain among the Arabs, foremost in his tribe in lineage. My father and mother, going back through the ancestors, uncles on both sides and brothers beyond counting, all distinguished among the Arabs, all with wealth, rank, honor, and pedigree. Yet in faith and creed and community, they are all people of the Sunni tradition. The Sunni faith is widespread among them; they follow the school of Abu Hanifa. Before this we had a brother, in his youth surpassing anything you could name. His love was set in my heart like the stamp on a ring; day and night, serving him was my rule. Not for a single breath were we apart, nor were we close to anyone but each other. Suddenly the harsh wind of death came rushing in, and the angel of life traded his place for a shadow. When they laid his body down in the earth, at once the collar of my patience tore open. His body, like snow, became the grave's container, and vanished the way one letter dissolves into another. I, who had no peace without him, felt my cup overflow with loss of self. I said: this was my beloved brother, as dear to me as my own soul beside me. A precious, tenderly raised soul, accustomed to comfort and to gentleness. The chamber of the grave is cramped, dark, and dim, with a companion neither asleep nor awake. Who will wake him now from his sleep? Who will loosen his robe and his turban? He has fallen into a sleep that has no end, and gone down a road that has no return. The thought reached here and grew fine and sharp: a journey so far, yet the road so near. It is better that I go along with him, to grieve for him at every hour and the late ones too. I went with him, my face fresh as a garden, and became a lamp for the lonely grave. I made this resolve and tore my heart from life, and cast my body down into his tomb. All my kin and tribe gathered over me, weeping bitter tears of blood at my side. They kneaded my fistful of clay with blame, but the ear of my heart heard no counsel. They all left me there and went away; they counted me as dead and went away. In that grave, cramped, dark, and dim, I had pulled my heart from life and my hand from all work. I had settled with myself to die, and taken my own blood upon my own neck. Suddenly a corner split open, and a light shone forth like the dawn. A radiant figure came inside, and the dread fled out of my heart. From the glow of that sun's beauty, the dark night turned white as day. With great dignity, over my corpse he came and sat down at the head of my pillow. After a moment, from another side, two more came to the door. One of them was fierce and terrifying, the other had a share of balance and calm. One asked for the right hand, the other went straight to the left side. In his fist was a club of fire, that made every sweetness turn bitter at its sight. Before the poor dead man's coffin he struck the club down like sky upon earth. From the terror of that sound in the dark night, the dead man woke from the sleep of death. Out of dread I went out of myself; my shell stayed behind, and I departed. From the touch of that comforting one, my living self died, and my dead self came alive. When I came back from my faint to my senses, I saw white hair fallen on my shoulder. The day turned dark in my aching heart; this black-haired night of mine had gone white. When I cast my eyes upon my brother, for a long while I lost all sense of myself. I saw him risen from the sleep of death, the departed soul rejoined to his body. He found himself in a state of disbelief: no father before his eyes, no mother. His shroud had become a garment, his food was regret; four walls of wood, the planks of the coffin. His bed was dirt, his pillow a brick; loneliness was his oldest companion. No way to come or go, neither forward nor back; only his choked breath was left to speak with him. Tears sprang from his eyes, a sigh from his heart; he cried out on every side, 'Oh, my father!' When he got no answer back from his father, he sent the messenger of his call toward his mother. When despair of his mother knocked at the door, he cast the lot of his cry upon his brother. When he gave up hope of his brother too, the names of his uncles rushed to his tongue. When his heart grew cold toward uncles as well, he brought my name, warm, to his lips. I wanted to draw a breath to answer, but my own breath threw a noose around my throat. When no answer came back from anyone, he began to beat his hands upon his head. He set out to weep and wail, and the weave of a hundred moans tore the shroud thread by thread. No helping hand, neither present nor unseen; at times he tore his hem, at times his collar. The fever of madness rose from his heart; he pulled out the coffin's wood and struck his own head. That moment he understood this was the night of the grave, that the hem of life had slipped from his grasp. His eyes woke from sleep just at the moment he found every remedy bolted shut. Alas, awakening that lasts forever brings no gain when the hands and feet of any remedy lie still. He kept crying for help, but no rescuer came; no road ahead, no way to step back. His breath, from wailing, caught in his chest; his eyes fell upon Munkar and Nakir. All at once his hands and heart gave up; little worth seeing, much unseen and dreadful. Munkar came forward to question him; first his tongue was struck dumb with terror. He asked him first about God; he sought from him what he had never known. His tongue silent, lost in dread, even what he once knew he had now forgotten. A man of light at the head of the grave prompted him with the answer. He spoke, to make the dead man aware: 'There is no god but God,' all on his own. After that he questioned him about the Prophet; the test left his stammering tongue mute. His tongue froze in answering, until the one who unties all knots loosened it again. Then he was asked: tell me, who is your guide? Who is the source of your pride and honor? The one without whom no prayer is valid, and without whom the prayers of lovers don't hold. Since he had no knowledge of his guide, his tongue grew too dull to answer along. Since the leader of faith had no place in his creed, the prompter gave him no prompting at all. Since he knew nothing of the guide of religion, the same fiery mace came down on his head. A blow of the club struck fire from him, and hair by hair his body caught the flame. His shroud was cotton, the club was fire, flames leaping wild from every thread of him. You'd say the flame ran so hot through it that the shroud on his body was white naphtha. Once more I fainted away, no wits in my head, no voice on my lips. When I came back from that swoon, a silent melody reached my ear. I saw that the terror had been driven from my chest, those two had gone, and only this one remained. Pure in essence, a being of light, with a form like a body, yet truly a spirit. I clung to the hem of his robe, I became an ant circling his harvest. I let tears of shame fall from both eyes, I turned to dust and fell at his feet. I said: O essence of light, light of the eyes, you stand at the head and the height of nobility. By the truth of that glorious God who gave you this greatness and rank, tell me, who are you, what kind of being, you who help the helpless and answer the lost? Are you an angel close to God in deed, or are you a prophet sent from Him? I do not know who you are in honor and rank, you whom both moon and fish obey? As a sweet smile joined his lips, he drew a fragrant breath and what did he say: I am that one who truly knows God, keeper of the boundless treasury of destiny. Heir to the law of Ahmad, the sent messenger, the scholar of the knowledge of the last and the first. I am the one without whose love neither duties nor traditions are accepted. Whoever has no knowledge of me, what good is his knowledge of God? To know me is to know God; love of me is the substance of being Muslim. Hatred of me is the cause of ugly disgrace; in the hand of love for me lies the key of paradise. Without knowing me, your brother was humbled like this before you. Had you carried within you any love of me, your rank would have risen to the very stars. You would have raised your honored head to the sky and rested in eternal bliss. Since my name was not on his tongue, he never spoke even the part he knew. Because my love had no place in his heart, its market sat empty, with no buyers. I said: you who are the pure light of God, you before whom a whole world stands in ignorance, Tell me your name; who are you? Of what kind, of what world, and what are you? For I know no one of these qualities, and have heard of no such person among the ancients. He said: my name is Ali, son of Abu Talib, in every matter triumphant over all. I am that sun that lights the world, whose face no veil of cloud has ever covered. The light of my face burns through every screen; no single atom is empty of my love. When the name of Ali reached my ears, his love became eternal in my heart. I said: may I be a sacrifice to your sweet name; my faith and heart, my reason and senses are offered to you. Though this question is a breach of manners, bewilderment has trampled me with wonder: Why, when that poor wretch was questioned, did you withhold your name from him like this? He saw from you the unraveling of two knots; why was the third withheld from him? He said: in answering the first two questions, the truth of his state was already known to him. But out of dread of the grave and fear of harm, a bond had fallen upon his tongue. It became a duty upon my mercy, no less, for he had received from me those two unbindings. Since he had no belief in my excellence, he recalled my name only by mistake. This knot stayed firm upon his tongue; inevitably he was fit for hell. Had anyone reminded him of my name, out of stubbornness it would not have come to his lips. Such is the decree of the Lord God: that one without sight cannot see the road. I said: alas, dust upon my head; a curse upon my father and my mother. My whole people and clan, every one of them, have gone following Abu Bakr and Umar. May their tongues be twisted and tangled at the Resurrection, for they walked crooked off the straight road. They have all hidden the truth by force, and taken the long way around the near road. What remedy, since I did not walk the road straight? What can I do, when no remedy remains? Since I fell short while I was alive, when will they accept my excuses in the grave? I did not walk it, though the road was bright; my excuse of darkness is no use. Since no other remedy is left, what shall I do? What shall I do, dust on my head, what shall I do? He said, when he heard my weeping, and saw my crying out and my distress: You still have some life remaining; the feast still has its wine, and the cupbearer is still there. You may have rushed toward your own death, yet you have been granted a second life. When you escape from this dark, narrow place, follow our path and become a devoted servant. From now on take the straight road, and whatever you wish to know, ask your aunt. For her faith is sound and her nature is good; she is one of my own special followers. In all the tribe she stands alone in religion and learning; one such woman is worth more than a thousand men. She said this and vanished from my sight, and my chest was left drained of strength and endurance. My father lay in wait for me, having stationed a group to stay awake. So that when they heard my pitiful cry, when they caught the trembling note of my voice, they would hurry to me without delay and rescue my half-living self from death. When this good news made my spirit blossom, my heart, freed from grief, was wedded to joy. But since I found no way out, my heart filled with blood from fear of perishing. At times my soul grew weary with pain, at times it clung to the king's kindness. When my heart handed its reins to despair, my moaning carried word to my companions. Suddenly an opening appeared, as if my heart had unlocked within that cellar. Young and old poured down upon me; my Joseph carried my life from the wolf's claws. I hid nothing of my condition, great or small; I told everything that had happened to my aunt. My aunt showed me the solution, and taught me all that was needed. I have told you my own story without leaving anything out; now hear the tale of my aunt as well.