A Mirrored Life by Rabisankar Bal

Author:Rabisankar Bal
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9788184006780
Publisher: Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
Published: 2014-12-17T16:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

One morning in the library Maulana sent for Sultan. Sultan arrived, kissed Maulana’s feet, and looked askance at him. He had not yet mustered the courage to ask what Maulana wanted to say.

— Sultan . . .

— Yes.

— He’s coming today.

— You’re sure?

— My heart says he is.

— Tell me what I should do.

— Take care of everything, Sultan.

— Very well.

— Where are Hussam and Thereanos?

— They’ll be here soon.

— Did I tell you something, Sultan?

— What, Maulana?

— Die before you die. Do you know who said this?

— No.

— Shaikh Burhanuddin. It’s in the Hadith. Do you understand what it means, Sultan?

— You tell me, Maulana.

— If you do not die, how will you rise again? You will die and be resurrected in different ways all your life. Today is my day to rise again.

I must tell you about Atabeg now. Atabeg Arsalandogmas. No one knew who this boy was. Where did his name spring from in that case? Asking in Konya’s market would have revealed the answer.

Atabeg lived in the market, spending his nights in one shop or another. But who had named him? His parents had abandoned him in the market at birth. Where had his name sprung from, then? Some said there was no reason for surprise, if you’ve been born you’re bound to have a name. Why lose sleep over who named the boy? As long as Konya’s market existed, so would Atabeg. What kind of question was this? When Allah sends someone to the world, he sends a name too. All names are his choice.

Some people said as they wandered around the market, ‘Atabeg, fine. But Arsalandogmas? Who gave such a name to the bastard?’

It was snowing that winter night. Atabeg was roaming around Konya’s silent market alone. He simply couldn’t sleep. Pigeons flew about in the central square all day. Who knew where they were now? Why doesn’t a single pigeon call me to bed, wondered Atabeg? Why don’t they tuck me under their wing and tell me to go to sleep? Walking around the empty market of Konya, Atabeg called out, ‘Ma . . . my mother . . . my Paloma . . .’

— Yes, my darling?

— Why did you abandon me in this huge market, Ma?’

— Idiot!

It was like the roar of a lion. Atabeg whirled around and jumped out of his skin. He had seen the old man who had just spoken wandering around Konya’s market for the past few days. He appeared to be searching for something constantly. Shaggy, unkempt hair, his moustache and beard a forest. Every time Atabeg’s eyes fell on the white-haired, white-bearded man, he looked away in fear. The old man’s eyes were blazing.

The man put his hand on Atabeg’s shoulder. — Whom are you looking for, you idiot? For your mother? Come to me . . .

The old man knelt on the ground, clasping Atabeg to his chest. — You have no parents, and nor do I. We’re both wanderers, aren’t we? Come with me, it’s madness to walk around in this cold.

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