The Merchant of Kashan
What can I tell you of Sarmad Kashani my friend?
A man like Sarmad is yet to walk this earth again, and a
love like his is yet to inspire poetry like the kind only he could pen down, a
dance like his is yet to cause all of Delhi to sway and a manner like his is
yet to cause bearded clergy men to cringe with disapproval and fear.
No, there has not been a man quite like Sarmad since he
passed from this world; but there has been at least one man who walked this
path before Sarmad did. That man’s name was Mansur.
This may be Sarmad’s story, but it would be incomplete,
I think, without at least a mention of Mansur. You see, like Sarmad, Mansur was born in
Iran. Like Sarmad, Mansur would share his mysticism with the masses, and like
Sarmad, Mansur too would be martyred in the never ending battle between the fundamentalists and the defiant.
As was true with many of the Sufi mystics before him, Mansur had his
share of meditative experiences. So powerful were these that often they made him
cry out words of great meaning, words that could give birth to nightmares in
the sleep of tyrants and fanatics.
“An-al haq” were these words, “I am the truth”.
Mansur did not stop there. In the ecstasy of his trance, he
would take to the city streets, “I am the truth” he would cry again and again.
Then, standing out onto rooftops he would call so that all could hear.
“Underneath my turban, there lies the truth. Within my cloak
there lies the truth!” Crowds would begin to gather. He would throw his hands
into the air and tell them what he wanted them to hear.
“And the truth lies within each and every one of you!” His
words were met with gasps; they only encouraged him. “Underneath your turban
brother, there lies the truth! And your garment sister, there the truth is!”
His hand gestures were frantic and eager. “All you must do is look within
yourselves, and you too shall cry, An-al haq!”
His words were on the tongue of every man woman and child of
the city. “An-al haq says the Sufi Mansur,” they would whisper amongst
themselves, “They say he has seen through the illusion of the world, they say
he has realized the truth. They say he has met the one! He tells us we can do
it too.”
Words reached the ears of clergymen as well. Their hands
trembled with anger as they stroked their beards. There were many cries of
outrage heard in the night, “Heretic!” the voices cried, “Heretic!” again and
again.
“He teaches the people that there is no heaven above us,
that heaven is found within!”
“God forbid it, he must die!” came the reply.
“He teaches us that the sacred pilgrimages are useless, it is the inner pilgrimage which is true!”
“God forbid, he must die!” the voices called back again more
stridently.
“It is worse, brothers. The devil child says he is the
truth… the truth! Is this, in our scripture, is this not also the name accorded
only to God? Is not the name of God? Surely… Surely Mansur is claiming to be God!
He must die!”
“Forbid it! Blasphemy! Outrage!” The voices went wild, and
Mansur’s fate was sealed.
So they summoned Mansur to the city square. They planned a
most horrific end for their guest, so as to put an end to the whispers that rippled
from his every step. Tears were on the eyes of many, yet others cried with a terrible
rage, “Heretic! He says he is the truth, he means to say he is God!”
When the protests died down, Mansur’s reply came forth. It
was calm and dignified. Some say there was happiness in his tone; “I have met
the beloved” was his reply “and I have merged with the beloved. The beloved and
I are one. An-al haq, I am the truth.” The crowd did not seem to have words to
counter his, indeed their reply was only a roar; there were yet more calls of “Heretic!”
It is said that when they cut off his hands and legs, he
only laughed. They hung him from the gallows, but not before he could cry out
once again. “An-al haq” was his final cry, and that cry echoed on for a long,
long time.
Mansur being prepared for the gallows. Source: Warren Hastings Album, Asian Art Collection, Brooklyn Museum.
How could the crowd, blinded in its rage, know of the
mysteries the mystic Mansur spoke of? He did not preach religion (such simple
labels and divisions are beyond the enlightened), he did not preach proper ways
and manners as did the clergy; he only invited others to testify for themselves
the falseness of this world, and the absoluteness of the truth. He peered deep
within himself, severed his ego and cast it aside. Having rid himself of his
most base sense of ‘self and other’, Mansur had heard the primordial vibration
which resounds within everything. Now, escaping from all the bonds of illusion, Mansur
saw the truth; that differentiation does not exist, and that everything is one. Nothing exists outside of this.
Oh shut up Beheroopia you fool, how can you speak of things you have little to no understanding of? You see reader, I am no mystic; I'm only a story teller. So I
shall only tell you that what Mansur experienced, he decided to call ‘Al haq’.
Others speak of similar experiences; the Neo-Platonists of Hellenic Egypt
called it ‘the one’, the atheist Shramana monks of India called it “nirvana”.
Others gave the oneness a form and name; Vaishnav mystics called it Vishnu,
Shaitive ascetics called it Shiva and the sages of the Vedas called it
“Brahaman”. The metaphorical poetry of the Sufis say that they ascended the
seven heavens and met with an infinitely beautiful youth they called Allah. By merging with this
all-spirit, they had attained that oneness. Such description was the one Mansur
chose.
Though the names and forms they prescribed varied, as did
their methods, the mystics understood their experience to be a shared one; it
is thus no wonder that at least in the land of my birth, Hindu Bhakts, Muslim
Sufis and Sikh Gurus all joined together and shared their music, called each
other family and broke bread side by side.
Meanwhile, violent and manipulative fools, understanding
nothing of the great mystery, made what should have been one into many. Wars
were waged between brothers, messages were defiled and the vulture-like men squabbled
over whose God was better and truer. When those who knew the truth spoke out
against this injustice, wicked kings silenced their dangerous words. I have
often thought that perhaps there is no greater evil than to seek a
justification or excuse for the wickedest acts.
So, the stage was set; the battle lines were drawn- and in
the 17th century, Sarmad Kashani would take command in this never
ending ideological struggle. 739 years after Mansur’s murder, Sarmad would walk
the same path.
Sarmad’s story did not begin in Delhi, for Delhi, in those
days, was the place where good things came to a close. Well, perhaps it would
be better to say this is where great stories came to climax. Even more
eloquently, if I may say, friend; Delhi is where great people, like candles,
came to flicker gloriously before their passing. It would be in Delhi that Sarmad
was to one day hold his great showdown.
As for his birth, Sarmad’s native land was Iran; his blood
was Armenian, his faith was Jewish and his tongue was Farsi. Like his
forefathers before him (for the Armenians had a reputation of being the best merchants in Asia) a young Sarmad left his home city of Kashan and joined a caravan on its
way to India. Sarmad carried with him Persian artworks of great precision and
beauty. There, he hoped to sell these for a hefty price and with his profits
bring back famed Indian jewelry to sell in the marketplaces of Kashan.
Sarmad, however, would not return to see his homeland again.
Sarmad could feel the air become heavier as his ship drew
closer to Hind: that is what his people called India. When he could see a
thousand orange lamp lights flicker on the distant shore, I like to think
Sarmad felt a great chill run down his spine. I also like to think Sarmad spent
that night unable to sleep, and unable to know why. He might not have known it then, but he had
just entered the pages of history.
The Shahjahan Mosque of Thatta, a gift from Emperor Shah Jahan to the people of Sindh for their hospitality. Source: Beautiful Mosques
It must have been a busy day of trading in Thatta, a border
town on the coast of the land of Sindh. It would have been Sarmad’s first
experience in India, a foreign, strange and yet somewhat familiar land. We do
know that he spent that evening relaxing at a Mehfil, a musical concert where men would come to share poetry and song
after a hard day’s work. This concert would be no ordinary one, however.
A young man took the platform that night. Sarmad could tell
by the way he dressed that he was a Hindu, a native of this land and a
practitioner of its most ancient ways. His eyes were darkened with kohl and his face fresh from any
mustache or beard that was a full grown man’s right. His arms were decked with
beautiful jewelry and his turban was the brightest scarlet, complemented by a
vivid gold-saffron sash.
When he opened his mouth and let his alap explode forth, however, it was as if all time stopped for
Sarmad. In that moment, it was as if only two sounds existed in all the
universe; there was the youth’s elegant alap, gliding effortlessly through
the parameters of Raag Bhoopali, and
then there was Sarmad’s wild beating heart, unrestrained, free and quivering
with passion. Then, melody and rhythm joined together, and they made wondrous
music. Perhaps the youth heard Sarmad’s wild heart; for in that instance he
turned his head ever so slightly and let his darkened eyes meet Sarmad’s gaze.
It might have been for a second, but it was enough to set Sarmad on fire; his body trembled like leaves in a storm and his eyes forced themselves shut in
a feeble attempt to silence the world for just a few moments.
Sarmad thought then of his coming ruin, and he could only
smile. The merchant of Kashan had fallen in love.
To be continued.
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