Afghanistan, Balzeeb, A Strange Love Affair

 

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)