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Bakhtiyar Ali
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secret deeper than the
secret of death and more
infinite than the mystery
of life. It is something
that you may choose to
believe in or to regard as
the hallucination of an old
man, breathing his last in a
hospital in a foreign land. I
have borne the pain of it
throughout my life. Now
that you are grown, you
will understand that had
I opened my mouth any
earlier than this, I would
havedone so in vain, andall
I have written would have
been without meaning.
The only living being able
to understand this tale is
he who understands love,
that is, he who is able to
reason. Only God knows
whether you are indeed
such a person. Only God,
and He alone. Do I, who
impose this difficult task,
this strange duty on your
newly awakened heart, do
I myself understand love?
Is there any human being
who does? Or is love too
divine amystery, a holiness
of so high an order it is far
beyond the grasp of you
or me?
OurdearBahman.Eighteen
years ago ... eighteen years
ago, on a clear night, I was
lost in contemplation of
the sea of stars when all
of a sudden into my room
came a young man, his
face and figure like the
pictures drawn by ancient
miniaturists on the covers
of books kept by the
kings and princesses. He
was a strange young man
who knew by heart every
ghazal I knew, who could
recite any poem I had
written better than I could
myself. His knowledge of
metre was impeccable. He
introduced himself as a
part of me. He portrayed
himself as my shadow,