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Bakhtiyar Ali
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experienced moments like
this, where they have slain
their own creaturewithout
hesitation. They have no
regrets. They simply don
their old masks once more
and carry on, even, after a
while, forgetting.
I, Mullah Gharib-i Hajar,
however, with one foot
in the grave, must now
confess the truth and tell
you that I could not kill
as others do. Though the
killing would have been
justified. Failure to kill
him results in guilt and
a multitude of sins. I do
not know what stayed
my hand but I do know
that there were countless
nights when I held a
dagger or a gun and could
have drawn the dagger
or aimed the gun at that
damned
apparition.
I
need not have followed
his debauchery and yet
that is a lie because his
pull was too great for me
ever to think of resistance.
Like an ocean of secrets, it
worked its endless effect
and swept me away; often,
neither my hands nor my
mouth worked, and by
the time I had recovered
consciousness and realised
how dangerous were the
fantasies he harboured,
neithermy lashnormystick
were of any use. Each time
I took the lash to that vile
man, it was my own soul
and body that I whipped.
No matter how much I try
to explain this to you now,
it will avail nothing. But
the history of man is the
history of the apparitions
and ghosts escaped from
man’s
imagination.
I
swear to you that I spared
no effort in punishing
myself constantly. And
still I was enamoured of
your bewitching mother,
and I had to make sure my