“Happy morning, Our Poet!” said
Assem, all smiles.
“May God make all your life
happy, sir.”
“How was your night?”
“Fantastic!”
“And the bride?”
“Good. Good.”
“Where’s she now?”
“I left her in the tent.”
“No, Salman. You should not
have left her alone. Take care of her. Get up! Get up and go back to her
quickly.”
The Poet stood up and went out.
He did not find Sawsan in the tents. And while he was looking for her Sufyan
rushed up to him.
“What are you looking for?” he
said.
“Ah, Sufyan? How are you? I was
looking for Sawsan. Have you seen her this morning?”
“I have. She’s with the women
in the house.”
“Ah, good. Now, I want you, Sufyan.
Right?”
“Yes. What do you want me for?”
“I want you to fetch two long,
smooth and strong sticks.”
“What for?”
“Get them and you’ll see.”
Sufyan brought the sticks.
“Take this one,” the Poet said
as he handed back one of the two sticks to the boy. “And now let’s have a
fight!”
Sufyan waved the stick happily
and lunged at the Poet, who hit back promptly. And both went on fencing,
shouting and laughing merrily. Assem appeared and came toward them. He stood
aloof and watched, smiling. Sufyan was a better fencer than the Poet, but the
Poet was happy nonetheless. Assem drew near and said:
“Salman, in the wilderness
you’d not find people like Sufyan! And even now I see Sufyan has whopped you
down!”
The Poet glanced at him and said, panting:
“This is just the beginning,
sir!”
“Ah, you say so! We shall see.”
Later in the day the Poet and Sufyan
went to the lake together. And still Sufyan swam better than the Poet. On their
way back to the compound, the Poet said to his little friend:
“From now on you’ll be my
teacher, Sufyan. You’ll teach me everything you know.”
“I shall provided you too teach
me everything you know!”
“I shall try.”
“And so will I!”
That day rolled by and the Poet
returned to his tent. Sawsan did not talk to him. He tried to change her mood
by speaking for a short span of time, but the woman just remained silent. And
when the Poet insisted, she burst out: “Either shut up or I’ll spend the night
in the other tent.” So the Poet chose to shut up.
The Poet’s next few days and
nights followed one another in quite the same way. By day he did his monotonous
small jobs. In his spare time he went swimming or hunting. Whenever Sufyan was
with him in the woods they would play at fencers. Sometimes the Poet read a
book there. In the evening, he would read and pray in his tent. At night, he
slept with Sawsan…in silence. And very often he thought of his first wife
Sultana…And this helped him remain indulgent to this insensitive Sawsan.
Two weeks after the
wedding-day, Sawsan was still far from amenable. Whenever the Poet tried to
reason with her, by day or by night, she would rebuke him in strong language.
The Poet knew through experience that the nearer he tried to get to a woman
like Sawsan the farther away she would get from him. He knew that sympathy was
useless with some women. But he was too weak to be so indifferent as Sawsan. He
was not ready for a war of attrition. Sawsan talked and smiled to others,
including Sufyan, but not to the Poet. And this infuriated him. He strove to
keep this secret. But how long would he resist? His anger was great and his
spirit was somewhat pacified only when he read the Quran… He would then realize
that his wife’s conduct was but a punishment for the sins he had committed in
the past. Hadn’t he slept with Yamna while she was still the wife of somebody
else? Hadn’t he drunk wine? Hadn’t he failed to observe last year’s Ramadan?
Hadn’t he given up saying his daily prayers?… For these sins he should have
suffered more! He in fact felt acute remorse for all his wrongdoing. And thus
he wept ruefully and prayed earnestly for forgiveness. He also prayed for his
wife to make a change…
As the days wore on the Poet
came to notice something unusual. Hassan had suddenly begun to spend at Kufr-Hanoon
more time than had been his wont before Sawsan’s arrival. Hassan was a
handsome, sweet-tongued person. Any woman would be prone to desire his company.
He had the look of a prince. And whenever he was around, Sawsan would spend
much of her daytime in the compound. The Poet could not prevent her. He only
prayed that the worst should not happen…
One day Hassan joined the Poet
in the woods. The mere sight of him made the Poet shiver. Sufyan too was there.
A handful of shepherds watched from various distances as Hassan greeted the
Poet and squatted by his side.
“How do you do, Our Poet? How
are you?” he said.
“Fine. Bless you! And you,
sir?”
“I’m fine too. How do you find
your work?”
“I enjoy it.”
“And my son Sufyan?”
“Oh, Sufyan is a good boy. I
wish I had a son like him.”
“Here you are now married!
Sawsan will bear you as many good sons and daughters as you like!”
The Poet could not help
sighing.
“What are you sighing for, Our
Poet? Is there any problem?”
“No, not quite.”
“Are you hiding your feelings
from me? Am I a stranger?”
“Well, my wife is unfortunately
unkind to me these days.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. As you may
have noticed, she now spends more time in the house than in the tent.”
“I find that quite normal.
What’s unusual about it? Do you have suspicions?”
“No, no! Not at all! I only
don’t understand my wife.”
“If you don’t understand, I
do!”
Hassan took from one of his
pockets a gold necklace and handed it to the Poet, saying smilingly in his
sweet voice:
“This is the key to your wife’s
heart!”
The Poet hesitated, his heart
beating with fear. Hassan insisted.
“Take,” he said. “Try this and
you’ll see.”
The Poet puzzled over what
Hassan might be aiming at. But Hassan insisted bewitchingly:
“I haven’t the least desire for
your wife, if you have any suspicions about me. I have wives and maids, you know!
Take!”
And the Poet took the necklace
with a trembling hand.
“This is my present to you and
your wife.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
And after a pause, Hassan
resumed:
“It’s very hot, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it is,” replied the
Poet, almost absent-mindedly.
“Sufyan?”
“Yes, Father?”
“Will you go back with me or
you’ll stay with Our Poet?”
“I’ll stay here, Father.”
“Alright! You can stay. As to
me, I will go! See you.”
Hassan stood up, glanced round
and set off at a brisk trot. The Poet gazed at him as he went farther away, and
he thought…
On his way back from the woods
at sunset, the Poet wondered what to do with the necklace. He was in two minds
about it. One mind told him to give it to Sawsan, the other warned him not to.
A startling idea suddenly struck him and he seized upon it. Right after the
Evening Prayer, he sat on the carpet and opened a book. Sawsan was lying on her
side on the mattress, and she now and then stole a glance at the Poet. Now the
Poet took the necklace from within his gown and slung it round his neck,
without looking at his wife. But as soon as he had done this he sensed that
Sawsan was trying her best to stifle a laugh. At last she let it out. The Poet
raised his eyes unhurriedly and gave his wife a straight look, which only made
her laugh even more.
“Why are you laughing?” the
Poet said suddenly.
“What’s that you’ve put round
your neck?”
“Hassan gave me this as a
present.”
“He gave it to you? Aha! He
wasn’t wrong there! I swear he wasn’t wrong!”
“What’s this wrong you’re
talking about? What are you driveling about? Have you gone bananas?”
Sawsan laughed until she cried,
then she gathered herself up and sat upright. The Poet looked lovingly at her.
Then he rose to his knees and crawled cautiously toward her. He took the
necklace off his neck and bent over to fasten it to Sawsan’s. To his surprise,
she inclined her head while he fastened the necklace. She then raised her eyes
and met his.
“Why don’t you want me,
sweetheart?” the Poet said, his eyes glistening with excitement.
“I don’t like you.” Sawsan
smiled awkwardly.
“Why? What don’t you like in
me?”
“Well, I’ve appreciated nothing
in you. I admit you’re quite a pretty sexy boy. That’s probably the only thing good
about you!”
The Poet blushed for her. His
smile faded away. He turned round and arranged his books and put out the light.
Then he made himself a place beside Sawsan and lay on his back… His mind soon
flew back to Sultana…
Right from the next morning
Sawsan began to change…for the better. Her indifference turned to loving
kindness. Her smiles were unfettered. When she talked to the Poet her eyes
would sparkle with joy. Her words were sweeter than honey. But…she still spent
much of her daytime in the compound. Worse, she now overtly referred to Hassan
as ‘the lucky man’, ‘the nice guy’ or ‘the handsome boy’. The Poet’s heart
burnt within him. He now felt the woods like a prison or a land of banishment.
His days became too long, and so were his nights. Sawsan could easily discern
anxiety in his tone and words, and yet she went on lauding what to the Poet’s
mind was ‘her beloved’. He pondered deeply over this and finally decided to
make an ass of himself and wait.
He waited a few more days. One
day he was in the woods when Hassan came straight at him. This time Sufyan was
not there. The Poet’s blood ran cold. Hassan avoided the Poet’s eyes until he
greeted him and squatted by his side.
“Happy to see you again, Our
Poet!” said he joyfully. “Peace be with you, first. Ah! I forgot to say ‘Peace
be with you’!”
“Peace be with you too, Sir
Hassan,” replied the Poet in an unsteady voice.
“How are you and how is your
wife?”
“Fine. Thanks. And you?”
“See? Sawsan must have
treasured your gift, hasn’t she?”
“It was your gift, sir.”
“You are a perfect gentleman. I
really like you, Our Poet! You walk?”
“Yes, yes.”
And both stood up and began to
walk about amidst the herd.
“Tell me, Our Poet. Last time
you told me that you were your amir’s favourite poet, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was,” said the Poet.
“Splendid!”
“What is splendid, sir?”
“I mean that’s a good job.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Do I make myself quite clear?
I’ve just found a job for you, a good one– I assure you!”
The Poet’s heart leapt for joy.
“I am much obliged to you,
sir,” he said with a smile.
“Then you will accept the job?”
“Yes, but tell me about it
first.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. You know
my business sometimes leads me into the high society. I have many friends who
are rich or of noble birth. Well, one of these men has just become amir. He’s a
close friend of mine. And I like him very much. And on this happy occasion I
would like to make him a present of something special. And I can’t find
anything better for a present than a good poem lauding his qualities. This is
why I’ve come to you now. I’m sure you’re a great poet and you can write a good
epic poem describing my friend. I’ll tell you in great detail everything you’d
need to know about him. You just have to put this into rhyme. This will be your
surest way to freedom and wealth and fame and happiness. Believe me!”
“Well, I will start from the
end, if you wouldn’t mind, sir. For me, the best thing in life is not fame or
wealth, but to love and be loved. And the best lover one can have is none but
God.”
“Oh, Salman!” Hassan
interrupted. “You’re speaking to me as if I were an infidel. Let’s forget all
about this and come straight to the point. Eh? What do you say? Surely you’ll
write the poem, won’t you?”
The Poet reflected. Then he
said:
“Well, let me think. Tomorrow
I’ll tell you. Tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, Salman! Come on! What is
there to think about? Don’t you want to be free? Don’t you wish to be rich? And
if you personally don’t want that, think of your wife. Wouldn’t she be happier
if she were free? Oh, Salman, you are a wise man. Don’t let your wisdom fail
you. Eh? Tell me now, when will the poem be ready?”
“I don’t know. Sir Hassan, why
don’t you give me a chance to think about it? Tomorrow morning I’ll tell you.
Is tomorrow far away?”
“Well, you can think. And think
well! So I’ll leave you right now. Next morning I’ll see you. Peace be with
you!”
The Poet spent that night
thinking. Hassan had asked him to choose between two things: freedom or
something else he could hardly imagine now. What could he do? Compose the poem
and thus pull himself out of the affair? Or keep true to his own principles at
any cost? And how could he write a poem about somebody he did not know? How
could he write something that he did not feel? He could, for his own safety’s
sake. But what would he say to God on Judgment Day?… Tears welled up in his
eyes. He strove not to sob lest he should waken his wife, who was sleeping by
his side. Or should he wake her up and tell her about his torments? What would
she say if he told her? Would she hold out against ‘the handsome boy’ for the
mere sake of her husband’s principles?… The Poet did not awaken her. He kept on
thinking alone…
Early in the morning Hassan was
in the woods.
“Good morning, Our Poet,” said
he as he squatted down.
“Good morning, sir,” replied
the Poet in a hushed voice, looking at the ground.
“Did you think about what I
told you yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“You know it is not always easy
to compose a poem. One should feel first, then think and–”
“And what?”
“I don’t think I can write the
poem you’ve asked me for, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I don’t know your friend
in person. And even if you tried your best to describe him to me in detail I
would still be unable to feel anything toward him. And if I can’t feel
something, then I can’t say a poem about it. I need inspiration. See what I
mean?” The Poet paused and gasped for breath. Then he said, “Well, what if we
sat with Sir Assem and put the matter to him and see what he says? Perhaps his
words would help me release the poetry obstructed deep within myself?”
“No, no! Don’t mention my
father! I know him. He has nothing to do with this. I suppose you’re only
trying to fool me!”
“Oh, no, sir! I’ve had no
thought of that. Only I feel I can’t please you this time.”
“Shall I wait? One week? Two
weeks?”
“Well, I don’t know. Please,
Sir Hassan, just exempt me from this I beseech you. For God’s sake please do! I
now hate all poets and poetry. It’s too long a time since I last said a verse.”
Hassan stood up. He looked down
at the Poet and thundered:
“You know, you nuts, even
Father daren’t displease me. I was wrong to come to you. But you will see!
Tonight I want my necklace back!”
And he turned to go, foaming
with rage.
At lunchtime the Poet told Assem about the affair. Assem smiled and
said:
“And what do you want of me
now?”
“Well, I can’t ask Sawsan to
return the necklace. I’m sure if you talked to her she would give it to you.”
“Right. I will try. Now, lunch
and go back to your work.”
That afternoon the Poet had a
terrible headache. Back from the woods, he went straight to his tent. Sawsan
was there. As he entered, she looked up at him in disgust. She did not answer
his greeting. She covered her face with her hands and sighed deeply. The Poet
sat on the carpet. He too let out a heavy sigh. He could feel what Sawsan was
thinking and feeling just now. He too wanted to be free. He too wanted to have
money. He wanted to please his wife, to make her happy, to take her somewhere
else and live with her in peace and love. But not by any means. It would be a
heinous sin to make a lot of money from praising a person towards whom he had
no feelings. And if –God forbid!– he had to do so, he would never get rid of
that sin. All his resulting life would have been built upon illicit
acquisitions. This he would simply not do, even if he had to stay a slave all
his life…
“Do you blame me for what’s
happened?” he said suddenly to his wife.
She did not answer a word. She
was as deaf as the mattress she was lying on.
“Why don’t you speak? Answer my
question.”
Sawsan remained dumb. The Poet
went out to perform his ablutions and returned to the tent, without uttering a
word. After the Dusk Prayer, he read the Quran until it was time for the
Evening Prayer. He prayed and then lay beside his wife on the bed, and waited
for her to go to the compound and bring him his dinner. She did not. She only
moved to put out the light and went back to her place…to sleep. The Poet did
not touch her. He did not speak to her. He could not. He only gave free rein to
his thoughts and waited for sleep to come and take him away for a while.
