Balzeeb
A strange Love Affair in Afghanistan
This book is published by no other than the great Publisher
Phil Harris of All Things That Matter Press, available on Amazon, live link to
the left of this blog. Afghanistan now ruled by Taliban tyrants was once a land
of emerald valleys and exotic gardens. It had the scent of freedom where women
went horse riding, studied literature, played music and had freedom to work and
entertain. King Babur of Afghanistan who became the first Moghul Emperor of
India was a great patron of poets, scholars and theologians. The story of
Balzeeb with its mystery and romance unfolds in this land of mystical charms,
once a center of rich culture brimming with Afghani talents. Based on a
folklore that one hundred years old serpent is transformed into a beautiful
lady, is Balzeeb, exploring her own journey into past lives. All characters in
this book are living, breathing emblems of wisdom caught in the tragic times of
partition of Hindustan into two nations, India and Pakistan. The history of
Afghanistan in the epilogue provides gradual decline of Afghani culture by
brutal, foreign invasions in transforming jihadis into Taliban extremists.
A Litte Excerpt
“This body is a Bodhi tree
The mind a mirror
bright
Take care to wipe them
clean
Lest dust on them alight” Shen-hsiu
“There never was a Bodhi tree
Nor any mirror bright
Since nothing at the
root exists
On what should what
dust alight” Hui-neng
Chapter One Valley of Death
You are the prisoner of
my heart
The key is lost
~Old German Song
The cold, blue sky with its morning gold, and
glory was flooding the Valley of Kabul. It could be seen as a sheet of ice and
haze from the dining-room window where Dr. Haroon sat enjoying his breakfast.
His devoted servant, Ali, could be seen looming over the rosewood cadenza,
alert and ready to serve his master at the least inclination of his gesture!
Haroon was wistfully aware of his devoted companion, whom he never treated as a
servant, but loved and respected as a friend. Right that moment, while attacking
his omelet, his thoughts were reaching out to another friend of his, Dr. Latif,
who was on a two-week leave visiting his parents in Karachi. Actually, he was
feeling lonesome and restless this morning, rather exultant and delirious for
some nameless reason he could neither release, nor fathom.
Latif was Haroon's childhood friend,
their hometown Karachi, and their homeland Hindustan. Both were great friends
and both had studied medicine, graduating with honors and hoping for a bright
future. Haroon had started working at a hospital first in Karachi, then in
Lahore, while Latif had opted to work in a more congenial climate as of Kabul.
So, the two friends were separated for almost four years, until Latif had
convinced Haroon to move to Kabul. The hot city of Karachi, teeming with
industry and commerce was forgotten by these friends, and their friendship was
strengthened in this haven of a Valley, perfumed with nature's bounties in
beauty and flowers, both wild and intoxicating. And yet, Haroon could not help
feeling a subtle change in his friend, a sense of mystery and alienation. And
yet again, Latif was gone only a week, and Haroon was not only missing him, but
longing to fly to the parched, seething homeland of yonder memories. One recent
epigram of Latif was swelling in his head like a bubble, his handsome features
rather pale, and his dark eyes gleaming.
Virtues are the victims of vices, and both the eternal foes of each
other!
Haroon
gulped down his tea. The boyish, mystical face of Latif with all-pervading
sincerity and agitation in his voice was etched in Haroon’s mind like a throb
of revelation. And yet, virtues and vices
are like the twins in one womb. Together, inseparable! One soul, with
ambivalent needs, announcing the dawn of duality in this nightmare of a world! Haroon
was thinking and smiling. This epigram of Latif was unspooling its
sanctimonious colors in the ocean of life. Vice
and virtue! These twins, living and
pulsating! Pure and innocent! Knowing the dawn of evil and beholding the sunset
of good! Forever in conformity and eternally at rift, none vanquished and
neither one victorious! The smile was fading from his eyes, his expression
at once somber and ponderous.
Why I am thinking about Latif when I have a whole army of patients to
heal and discipline? Why is this morning also so cold and mysterious?
Haroon was savoring his breakfast as well as his ruminations. True that this world is on the verge of ruin
and devastation! Or just Hindustan? The reek of blood and plunder, I can smell
it! Even the scented valleys of Kabul are gathering this odor, breathing
dissent and corruption, of war and frenzy. Hindustan! This festering wound of
diverse faiths. Is it about to split open, and flood this earth with its own
abscess of gall and blood? Hindus and Muslims, striking each other with the
bolts of hatred, malice and bigotry? Or, is it just the British, sowing the
seeds of rivalry from the very mud in their soiled hearts? Ambition and
hypocrisy, two dangerous cannons in the hands of Sovereigns alien and hated! In
name, isn't Hindustan already divided, India and Pakistan? Pakistan, the land
pure and holy yet to be born! Would not such holiness be forgotten and
desecrated, if gained at the cost of millions foundering inside the blood-bath
of tyranny and madness? His dark thoughts were impatient and struggling for
liberation. Why should I care for such
chaos and confusion in this world, when life is young and brimming with the
promise of joy and hope? His usual sense of optimism was returning as he
pushed his plate away.
“I love these cool, sunny mornings,
Ali. They make me shiver with the pulse of life and challenge.” Haroon smiled.
"These hills up here are
splendid, Sir, I must admit.” Ali hastened to pour another cup of tea for him.
"All splendid and glorious, Ali!
This is paradise, paradise!” Haroon laughed. His thick red lips sucking the
warmth of tea deliciously. "Do you think, Ali, these hills will be
splashed with blood and bullets one of these days?” he asked capriciously.
"The war, if you mean by that,
Sir, is imminent, I reckon.” Ali confessed sadly. "Before the British
leave, they will make sure that Hindus and Muslims cut each other's throats
with the poisoned arrows of hatred, if not with swords.” He murmured.
"You are a poet and a mystic,
Ali! If I had the time, I would be serving you than to be served. Wonder where
you get all that wisdom and knowledge.” Haroon eased himself up, sipping his
tea thoughtfully. "We are all cutthroats, my poet friend, murderers and
sycophants all. In the name of religion, Ali, we would not only kill the
so-called infidels, but slit the throats of our own brethren. And remember, we
would do it with gloating and with a sense of exultance that we are serving God
and exalting the name of Allah. Muslims, Ali, don’t they invoke blessings on
Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him
whenever the name of the Prophet is mentioned and then they go out on the
streets, killing most brutally in the name of the peaceful Prophet, wishing him
peace and willing murder and brutality for all others. Isn’t it the height of
hypocrisy if not the mockery of religion! Yes, the height of stupidity and
absurdity.”
“Didn’t your good mother used to tell
you, Sir, and I remember each and every word.” Ali couldn’t help but recite
what Haroon’s mother taught him.
“Islam is the Alphabet of Love with Quran as its dictionary, seeking dialogue or
conversation with the People of the Book and with the people of all Faiths, who
wish to study its message in the light of wisdom and understanding. Its, one
hundred and fourteen verses—with the exception of one, Surah 1X Al-Bara
beginning with: The Most Merciful, The Most Gracious, The Most Compassionate
God, testify the universal love for mankind. Though its verses appear harsh at
first, poetic when one gets into the rhythm of reading, enveloping and enlightening at the same
time, but they are to be understood in context to the times when Arabia was
caught in the fever of greed, cruelty, debauchery, drunkenness, not to mention,
in violent conflicts with tribes within tribes. Blood feuds were common,
slavery was rampant, women were oppressed, infant girls were buried alive, and
gods were revered and mocked with the same passion as the passionate needs and greeds of men, striving toward riches
and power.” He looked feverish, gasping for breath.
“That
is admirable, Ali. Now I understand who is or was your teacher. My own mother,
can’t believe it.” Haroon laughed. “Can you repeat this to her verbatim when
she comes? Reading as one reads, the Divine Word of God, as one believes the
Quran to be, with one’s limited intelligence, one tends to squeeze out a
handful of interpretations, most of which become gilded with distortions, if
not becoming the victims of lies, depending upon the intent or the inclination
of the author or a scholar. If moved by zeal, such persons mold each
interpretation into fire-brands, and if others who are guided by the purity of
their own minds and hearts, the same verses lend the glow of well- preserved
pearls. And yet, they melt against the hurricanes of lies and distortions. If
one were to riffle through the pages of history, one would not fail to discover
that many truths lie buried under the mounds of lies, and that lies have been
repeated so often, by so many, and with such pious persistence that if someone,
even in this age and time dared speak truth, it would sound like a lie. And
yet, it is a difficult task, to know truth, since truth is a relative term—oh I
am stumbling upon my own inanities. And I must stumble on to the hospital,
before I have to fetch excuses for running late.” He stood brushing the crumbs
off his gray suit before trooping out of the room.
The pine-valleys slumbering under the
gold-dust of morning haze were not lending any peace to Haroon's thoughts, as
he careened his jeep downhill into tortuous paths. The sense of exultance and
loneliness inside him was somersaulting on some lands far and alien. His young
heart was aching all of a sudden. Throbbing with an abrupt violence, as if it
would break into a million fragments to explore peace inside the heart of its
own mysteries. He had not ever felt like this before, and this sensation was making
him giddy. A sort of mystery and exhilaration, inside him, all around, above
and beyond! The wise, wrinkled face of Ali was unveiling in his mind's sight
like a continent familiar and peace-loving. He was exploring this face as he
had not ever explored it before, not in this age and time, but in ages past
where time could be eternally young, and utterly heedless. A kind, ascetic face with the wisest, kindest of hearts which needed no
Knowledge to perceive the maladies of the souls, and that was Ali. While he— Haroon-
had to glean knowledge from medical books, only to know the anatomy of the
superficial body and flesh. Ali could heal both hearts and souls with his
innate wisdom alone, Haroon was thinking, while his own meager learning could bandage only the bruised frames of
mankind, destined to suffer the ignominy of age and time.
Time, right that moment,
was frozen in timelessness, as Haroon kept driving under some spell of inertia
and oblivion. Why were the clouds of war
hovering over Afghanistan more dense than any other place around here? And yet
Afghanistan had been a gateway to Hindustan for countless invaders since
centuries. Haroon’s thoughts were reaching out to the fierce tribes of the
Afghanis. Afghanis, with their potpourri
of clan, race and culture have one
common ideal amongst them, and that is their spirit of independence which
defies even the thought of being ruled or subjugated. I must study the history
of Afghanistan. This land and its people have endured centuries of raids,
massacres. Marauders and fortune-hunters have played havoc, and yet Afghanis
have remained resilient in their spirit of independence against the hurricanes
of woe, tragedy and devastation. No one has ever been able to rule the fierce
tribes of this land inundated with wild, treacherous valleys and terrains with
the exception of King Babur, becoming the first Moghul emperor of India. I must
visit his tomb, where is it, probably in Kabul since he was the king of Kabul,
his cherished kingdom? Babur and later Moghuls in succession safeguarded Kabul
as their precious Jewel to polish and preserve until the sixth Moghul emperor
in line lost this jewel as well as the jewel of India by the grand folly of his
zeal, intolerance and savagery.
Though Haroon’s thoughts were
wandering, he was becoming aware of the saffron fields meandering in and out of
the lush vistas like the shuddering of oasis. The pines and the cedars could be
seen tall and motionless, edged with a profusion of wild flowers swooning under
the warmth of the sun. He could smell the earth and the perfume of the valleys.
The raw, naked fecundity of earth and cosmic holiness! All were holy, mute and
awesome, inside the very fabric of his soul and psyche. Something vestal was unfolding
its petals of innocence this morning. He could feel it seething in each atom of
his silence and awareness. And yet his senses were greeting sadness, following
some shadows profane and ephemeral. The molten gold in the sun was burning
inside him, licking the flames of destiny, kindling the fire of ache and
loneliness. He was suspended in a vortex of bliss and conflagration. For some
strange reason his thoughts were flipping the pages of the books he had read as
a teenager.
The Bassari myth of virgin birth of love and
spirituality which he had mocked and
digested. Journeying through the Nile and fascinated by the wealth of knowledge in Egypt. Communing with the
Greeks. Absorbing the hum of age-old songs, while drinking the elixir of death,
salvation, resurrection. Visiting the chess gardens of Hinduism,
Buddhism, and Sikhism. Bowing low before the
lords of Taoism, Confucianism, and Zoroastrianism. Gathering the blooms of
Judaism, Christianity and of course Islam, and scattering them over the
flowerbeds of all races, creeds and religions. So absorbed was he inside
the hush and absurdity of his own contemplations, that he didn't even notice
one sharp turn, commanding his jeep to one screaming halt. A fleet of jeeps had
materialized on this road like an army of ants.
What is this? Where am
I? Have the British decided to say farewell to this
Paradise
Lost? Haroon cranked the gear to park,
and abandoned himself to rage.
He had taken a wrong turn, the alien
landscape before him was dripping with the cold threat of delay and danger. He
could see the shadow of death and mourning inside the very heart of this
valley. This was the valley of death, a secluded graveyard, manicured to
emerald brilliance, and spruced with daisies and cosmos. The mourners were
alighting from their jeeps, forlorn and graceful. Donned in black and white,
they were floating toward the neat cemetery in a solemn procession. Reflected
in the rearview mirror, Haroon could see a string of jeeps behind him, his
despair rising as to being stalled till the funeral ceremonies were over. He
wanted to jump out of his jeep and scream at the top of his lungs that he was a
doctor and needed to tend his patients, not waste his time in being hemmed in
by a horde of mourners. But this wild impulse of his was silenced by an
astonishing, bewildering sense of peace and tranquility. Some sort of serenity
was replacing his rage and impatience. His heart was gathering rills of sadness
again, singing and fluttering to catch the mysteries of nature unseen and
unexplored. He was feeling light and giddy, pressed by some inner turmoil to
rush out and breathe freshness, of life and death, of the living, dying cycles
of hopes and doubts. His youth itself was constricting inside the hands of some
powerful destiny, wrenching out the pain of loneliness! Like a reed, torn out
of its muddied pool, he was hurled out of the stationary abode of his
conflicting thoughts. He was drifting toward the unknown, caught into a storm
of fever and curiosity. What was goading him to follow the mourners, he neither
knew, nor wished to know? His heart was pounding, and his former sense of
exultation was his companion. The hills and the valleys were dancing in his
head, and he was floating on the clouds of magic and mystery. The shadow of
pain was with him too, looming and hovering above, not behind and yonder.
In a flash, all fever and madness
were gone from him. Rapt and motionless, he was impaled alive on the very
blades of grass upon which his feet had come to a sudden halt. Who had
crucified him thus, only his heart could expound in a tremor of agony. A miracle
sublime, A revelation supreme! The arrow of cupid had stung his heart to the
most exquisite of agonies. The lady in
black with white rose of a face, and sparkling eyes had chained him to the
longings of the insane and the accursed.
I am dying. She has taken my breath away. Where does this breath come
from?
Where
does it go? Haroon’s thoughts were descending like bolts of lightning. How would
I understand the whole when I don’t
understand the parts of the whole of who I am? I think I alone am the author of
my achievements, master of my will, not even knowing that everything within me
works without my will. Independently, involuntarily and concurrently. I can’t
will my blood to stop coursing in my veins, or my stomach to take a break in
its act of digestion. I profess to know without knowing and boast of knowledge
while steeped deep in ignorance. Content in being ignorant and remaining proud that I can accomplish so many things.
A misconception, alone I can’t accomplish anything. How many times I have
thought about an airplane? Luxurious and carrying tons of weight, meals served,
countless amenities. How does it stay in the air? How many thousands of people
have put in their effort and time to make it fly? Do I know who worked
monotonously for hours even to fit an insignificant screw in the wing of that
plane, or the electrician who did the wiring or the engineers? I don’t even
know how many people work together to take care of my daily needs, food,
clothing, house, medicines, equipment. Am I grateful? Am I capable of thanking
everyone personally who have made my life easy and comfortable? Do I know the
mechanics of my own body, mind, soul?
His breath was coming back, but his mind was
empty and luminous.
End of Chapter One
Hoping that Taliban might awaken to a sudden
realization that they are defiling the very name of Islam by oppressing women,
banning them from education, work force in defiance to Prophet’s injunction: “Acquisition
of knowledge is obligatory for every Muslim male and female.”
“And the women have rights similar to those
of men in equity, I God will not allow the work of any worker from among you,
male or female, to be lost.” Quran (3:196)
“Allah promiseth to the believers, men and
women, Gardens underneath which rivers flow, wherein they shall abide—blessed
dwellings in the Garden of Eden. And greater from acceptance from Allah. That
is the supreme triumph.” Quran (9:72)
Prophet Muhammad’s sayings:
The rights of women are sacred, see that
women are maintained in the rights assigned to them.
Only a man of noble character can honor
women and only a man of base intention will dishonor women.
Paradise lies under the feet of mother.
What a Muslim must never do is to raise his
hand against woman. Treat each woman with respect and kindness.
“I cast the garment of love over thee from
Me and this in order that thou mayest be reared under Mine eye.” Quran (20:39)
