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I stared at thenightof the city
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it, exercised his black arts
and infused it with his
magic; the other engraved
by Almighty God. He toiled
over it, imbued it with his
mystery and made it pure.
All loves in the world are
so. God does not abandon
even an iota of love. Nor
does the Devil back down.
God is the owner of one
half of every drop of love.
The Devil owns the other.
And when they drink that
drop, poor human beings
cannot tell whether they
have taken poison or
drunk of divine nectar. Do
not look at me as if I were
a disgraceful old man with
trembling hands and a soul
still full of worldly greed. I
never was the slave of my
soul, but if a person keeps
the door of the soul too
tightly closed, something
else, some other secret,
will come his way. The soul
has its own way, its own
creatures and creations.
What I had endeavoured
all my life to slay crept
from its dark cellar in the
form of a human being, a
young magician; a person
who was both truth and
imagination. It was myself
and yet, at the same time,
not myself. Yes, my son,
you. You were born of him
and yet, at the same time,
not of him.’
In a great many long and
jumbled passages, Mullah
Hajar sought to interpret
theemergenceoftheyoung
poet and ghazal writer
from his soul and, with
great hesitation, wrote
many pages about the
strange, erotic experience
connecting a fantasised
version of Baharbanu
with the fantasised half
of himself. With a desire
that should not have
existed in an old man as
he neared death, and with