The world is made for good people, and the bad people will perish…
Zainedin — Ibn Abdul Sayyid
Title: The Biography of Nasser al-Din Affandi
(Former Soviet Union) Soloviev Leonid Vasilyevich
Translated by Qiu Xiaolun and Yang Binghao
Published by Xinjiang Youth Publishing House in May 2006
(This excerpt is authorized by the publisher, please do not reprint)
Part 2, Part 3, Chapter 33
Part 1: Afanti’s Life
There is a river in Arabistan whose middle part is visible, while its source and lower reaches are hidden underground. Nasser al-Din Effendi’s life was like this river: all we know about him is from his middle age, from the age of twenty to fifty. His childhood, like his old age, was spent in secrecy.
In some remote corners of the world, there are eight places that are claimed to be his burial place and share his great name; which of these is his true tomb? Yes, perhaps he is not buried in any of the eight cemeteries; perhaps he sleeps in a comfortable tomb, but this tomb may be by the sea or in a misty valley, above which the sea breeze blows or the rumble of thunder hovers, unwilling to leave, mourning for him…
Everyone knows the source of his life. He was born and raised in Bukhara, but no one knows how he spent his childhood, which strong blacksmith forged his heart, which master craftsmen shaped his wise mind, and which saints and wise men revealed the mysteries of nature to him.
But the book says, “What is considered a mystery today will be revealed tomorrow.” Seeing the footprints left by Nasser al-Din Avanti during his wanderings, we are convinced of the absolute truth of this statement. The “legends” we have collected contain only a few details about the source of his life. While this is insufficient for a mere biography of his childhood, it is sufficient, even more than sufficient, for our discussion of this topic. We have already dedicated a section to the stories of his childhood, and let them open the third part of our book.
Some might laugh and say, “You’ve strayed from your original purpose and taken the topic astray.” But in this case, we should answer with a poet’s words: “He who passes by a roadside gold without picking it up is a fool.” Some might even say this story is pure fabrication and that a more appropriate subject should be found. We don’t need to argue with them; for now, let’s answer with the proverb: “A silver dollar doesn’t turn into gold simply by taking it out of your right pocket and putting it into your left.”
Now let’s talk about his childhood story.
First, we should refute the widely held belief that Naser al-Din Avanti was born into the family of Shermaemat, a poor saddle maker in Bukhara. This claim contains two errors: First, Shermaemat was not a saddle maker, but a can maker; second, Naser al-Din Avanti was not born in his family, but rather raised there. The problem is that Shermaemat, who is still considered Naser al-Din Avanti’s biological father, was actually his adoptive father.
Let’s use this situation as the basis for our story. The potter Shermaemat was a master craftsman, particularly skilled in firing large earthenware jars as tall as a man to hold water. His remarkable skill lay in the fact that the water in his jars remained consistently cool and clear; the hotter the weather, the cooler the water remained. Shermaemat often mixed a measured amount of sand, pulverized stone, and green vitriol with the clay, and he mastered the art of cooling the jars after firing them in the kiln. The jars that emerged from his kiln each made a resounding sound when struck, their circumference etched with curved ripples. In the summer, the jars “sweat” along the ripples, as if wrapped in lead-colored silk threads. Jar making brought Shermaemat considerable income, allowing him to live comfortably and even leaving behind a small savings for his later years: a house, a garden, a grape trellis, and two chests full of belongings. Despite this, he often felt unfortunate and miserable, as he had no children.
Shermahmat prayed every time he went to prayer, gave alms to the mosque for years, and paid for mantras and prayers to be chanted. He tried everything, but nothing worked—his wife could never conceive. Thus they both entered old age. Their home was always perfectly tidy and quiet. The dishes were always stored in the altar; no new ones were needed year-round, as they were never broken. The atilas silk mattress always looked as if it had been bought yesterday. This kind of silence could only be appreciated by a heartless person who loved no one but themselves, but Shermahmat was not that kind. If a mischievous child were to break all his dishes and bowls, soil his atilas silk mattress, or burn it with fire, how delighted they would be.
In the early years, whenever he and his wife talked about children, they were both filled with worry. As they grew older, with no hope of having children, they stopped talking about them, feeling guilty in front of each other and silently blaming themselves. One late April day, after the peach, apricot, and apple blossoms had bloomed in their small garden, their petals scattered across the ground, leaving only the delicate, tender green leaves clinging to the branches, accompaniment of the sparse but still beautiful blossoms. That evening, Shermameti woke from a dream and broke his gentleman’s agreement not to talk about having children.
“You know what I dreamed?” he said. “I dreamed we had a son—a fat, crying boy!“
The old woman, with her back hunched and her waist bent, looked at her husband as if begging him to forgive her. Shermameti took a deep breath and turned away—perhaps he was the one who should be asked for forgiveness.
No one spoke the entire evening, both of them spent the night in deep thought.
The old woman began to prepare dinner, while Shermaemat checked the six clay pots lined up against the fence for sale the next day. These pots were much larger than ordinary pots. “Maybe a cart won’t hold three, but two would be fine,” he thought, thinking how much it would cost to transport them to the market.
After dinner they went to bed.
Shermahmat woke in the middle of the night to find her husband kneeling by the open window. The bright moonlight illuminated every wrinkle on her face. She was praying. Shermahmat listened carefully to her prayers. She was actually begging Allah to grant her a child! How foolish! She was already sixty years old, alas! … That was why her words sounded so irrational. Unable to control her emotions, she pleaded with Allah with a touch of resentment. She whispered the pain she had endured for years—a mother’s longing for a child, her loneliness, the repeated cruelty of hope turned to disappointment, and one thing after another. But she was desperate, ignoring reason and obvious reality, and her words radiated confidence. She cried out, “O, the Incomparably Powerful…” while pulling at the strands of her dry, pale hair. As she bowed her forehead to the ground, her emaciated body and protruding sacrum were revealed beneath her white robe. Then she sobbed, then fell into a speechless daze. Shermameti felt a pang of pain in his heart, feeling deeply guilty towards his wife. To stifle his tears, he bit his pillowcase, holding back his tears, and lay motionless in bed.
The old woman soon returned to her own bed, lying beside her husband. Shermamaiti didn’t stir, and neither did the old woman. Although they both knew the other was awake, they each pretended to be asleep to avoid disturbing the other, deceiving each other and themselves. Their silence lasted until dawn. Though they said nothing to each other, they each poured out everything in their hearts. Their shared destiny led to a mutual understanding: he lived for his wife, and she lived for him. This had been the way the old couple had been for years; neither lived for themselves.
This was a heavy night for Shermamati, but he hid his difficulties in his heart, put aside all the trivial worries, and slept well.
The next morning, the hazy sky still hadn’t yet cleared the deep blue sky, and the morning glow had just begun to peek through. With more than two hours left before market time, Shermamat began knocking on the clay jar again, listening to the sound. Each gentle tap with his small stick produced a crisp, resonant twang, a sign that the jar was free of cracks and flaws. He had already checked five jars and was now ready to examine the sixth one, at the edge.
What was going on? When he knocked on the sixth jar, instead of a buzzing sound, a “yayah” sound rang out. Shocked, Shermamati struck again with his stick, and again, the “yayah” sound was heard. This wasn’t the sound of the jar itself, but something else—clearly, the sound of a small, living being inside.
What could have fallen in here? A kitten? A puppy? A baby bird? How could it be possible? But there it was, crying!
Shermae looked into the vat and saw only pitch blackness. He needed to reach in and feel around. Because the vat was deep, Shermae leaned over the edge to reach out—otherwise, his hand wouldn’t reach the bottom. The old man’s hand touched something like cotton, and then… He shuddered, pulled his hand back, and examined his fingers.
It was a bite mark! The thing in the clay pot had bitten the old man’s finger. This thing not only cried, but also bit people!
Now it was clear what was inside the jar. But Shermaemat still couldn’t believe himself. Terrified and bewildered, he fetched a chisel and a mallet and began to drill a hole in the jar to free it. The old man’s hands trembled, unable to even grasp the chisel, which he occasionally dropped, and the hammer missed the target. The creature inside lay silent and motionless. But as the rim of the jar was broken open, the fragments fell into the jar, and fresh air and light suddenly flooded in, a loud and strange cry erupted from within. Shermaemat pulled a long, tiny creature wrapped in coarse cloth from the jar. The creature stirred in his hands, kicking, raging, and crying loudly.
The frightened old lady ran out and asked:
“What is that? Where did it come from? Oh my Allah, look how he holds it! Bring it to me!“
The old lady took the long object wrapped in coarse cloth from Shermamati’s hand, and the thing immediately became quiet as if it were cast by magic.
“Where did you get it from? Why don’t you tell me? From where?…“
Shermamati’s face turned pale and he was speechless because of this incident. He just pointed at the clay jar.
The neighbors were awakened by the crying. On one side, they looked into the yard through the low wall. On the other side, people sleeping on the rooftop stood high up and asked in sleepy voices:
“What’s going on there? Is there a thief? Or is there a fire?“
The old lady frowned, looked around cautiously, hugged the little life she had picked up tightly in her skinny arms, and walked quickly into the house.
Curious neighbors began to gather, and two people even peeked in from the other side of the courtyard wall, asking, “What’s going on?”
“I found this in a clay jar!” Shermameti repeated. “It was in the jar, so I had to chisel it open…“
Beyond that, he said nothing more, for he was not good with words. Things like this happened all the time, and they needed to be explained quickly and given the reasons. He had been restless all morning, explaining things to people.
Less than a minute later, two more neighbors came to watch the fun. They knocked on the door, saying they couldn’t wait any longer. Then two or three more neighbors came…
The small courtyard was full of people, and they thought there must be footprints or something, so they checked on the jar, on the ground, and by the door, but there was no trace! … It was as if the baby had fallen into the jar from the sky.
The old lady’s voice came from the house, and she called Shermati. In order to get rid of the neighbors’ endless and curious questions, he hurried into the house.
In the room, he saw the child lying on a mattress and pillow made of Etile silk on a box, and recognized at a glance that this was the boy he had seen in his dream.
“Look!” the old lady said kindly, “Come and see, look, he’s got teeth!“
Shermae arrived at the box. Seeing him approach, the child kicked up its feet, waggled its hands, blinked its eyes, and opened its mouth wide. Bewildered, Shermae saw a row of tiny teeth, white as pearls, sharp and strong, in its mouth… It was truly astonishing: this baby, still nursing, already had a row of teeth! Shermae remembered the toothed baby he had seen in his dream. His legs felt weak, and his heart nearly stopped.
A miracle had happened at home. Shermae and the old lady were both aware of this. The old lady put her face on Shermae’s shoulder, weeping and whispering:
“I’ve always believed that this day would come… I knew it would happen, I just didn’t know when or how it would happen.“
At that time, the law in Bukhara stipulated that if the biological parents of a child who was picked up did not come to claim the child within three months, the person who picked up the child had the right to treat the child as his or her own.
For three consecutive months, the heralds crisscrossed the city’s streets and outlying areas, announcing that a five-month-old baby had been found in a jar owned by Shermameti, a potter on Pottery Street. The baby’s distinctive feature was that it had already grown a full set of teeth at just five months old. The heralds announced this news three times daily: morning, noon, and evening. Truly, no human birth had ever been celebrated with such fanfare. This spectacular scene seemed to foreshadow the future of young Nasser al-Din.
For three seemingly endless months, each day felt like a year to Shermameti, who had become almost completely hunched over. She muttered constantly, “Someone’s going to come and claim the child soon…” Every time the door creaked open, her blood boiled, like a she-wolf desperate to protect her cubs. Following the advice of her neighbors, the grandmother took the gold earrings her husband had given her on their wedding day to a scribe in the market, asking him to create a talisman to protect little Naserdin from those cunning men whom she hated and despised. The scribe, with his face protruding like a fox’s, yellow skin, pockmarked face, and wrinkled, quarrelsome features, was a master of his craft. He had created a talisman consisting of eighty-six incredibly tricky questions. If asked repeatedly, these questions would transform anyone into a bandit worse than a highway robber, a murderer of a child, and a perpetrator of all sorts of crimes.
These worries were unnecessary. The last day — the ninetieth day — had passed, and no one came to claim the baby. On the ninetieth day, the mullah, in front of several witnesses, held a ceremony in the mosque to hand the child over to the old couple.
This is how Naser al-Din Afanti came to the home of potter Shermameti. Later generations reported that every mother with an infant in Pottery Pot Street fed little Naser al-Din. While we don’t know how many siblings he had, he certainly had many who shared the same mother’s milk. Let’s revisit his unique qualities: from his cradle, he became a fellow citizen, a family member, with the people of Pottery Pot Street, and later with people all over the world… It’s said that as a child, he suffered from bruxism, gnawing at everything he encountered, but he never bit the nipples of his breastfeeding mothers.
He grew rapidly, looking five at the age of three. He was remarkably intelligent. By the age of three, he understood many words and could string together long, well-formed sentences. He amazed adults with the accuracy of his words. He was clever, instantly understanding the characteristics and uses of objects around him: spinning wheels, axes, saws, pliers, garden shears, drills, irons, and other items. At the age of four, when he first sat at a potter’s wheel, he astonished Shermameti by showing him how he had made a pot that was perfectly suitable for sale at market. No mystery could stump him; he seemed not a person learning everything, but rather someone demonstrating what he knew. Everything seemed familiar and familiar to him, with only a few forgotten moments, like someone returning home after years of wandering and reacquainting himself with the world.
People say his childhood was marked by a penchant for contemplation, often spent evenings alone in deep thought. At these moments, he seemed absorbed in his gaze, fixed on the Big Dipper, his gaze remarkably bright. Legend also says he loved the sun, even to the point of worship. Even as a baby, he could gaze directly at it without squinting, his vision unblurred. This ability is unique to mountain eagles.
He was a close friend to all creatures in the world—beasts, birds, and insects. Young Naser al-Din could fearlessly pick up any stinging bee from a flower petal and examine it closely. Even a large, furry wild bee wouldn’t defend itself with its ferocious sting, but would quietly wait for him to release it. Shermahmat was always amazed to see this. The birds weren’t afraid of this child either. One day at noon, he leaned a ladder against the wall and climbed up to help the swallows build their nest. The lively swallows gladly accepted his help. Anyone who witnessed how much the birds loved this nest was filled with praise. The birds hatched in this nest, and when the chicks grew up, little Naser al-Din skillfully helped the father and mother bird teach them to fly. He would toss any chicks that fell to the ground because they couldn’t fly high enough, letting them soar high. Beneath the old apricot tree in the corner of the garden lived his old friend, the hedgehog. Every morning he brought it milk from small pieces of gourd shell. He also knew some of the mice. One day, little Naserdin and Shermahmet were walking along the path beside the cemetery. At the bend near the wormwood field, the barefoot Naserdin accidentally stepped on a snake. The snake hissed and quickly wrapped itself around his calf. Shermahmet was petrified, but the child calmly lifted his leg. The snake released its gleaming body and, instead of biting him, hissed angrily before moving away, hurt by the step on its tail. He shared a familiar bond with almost all four-legged creatures, reptiles, and birds. He only felt disgust for the mosquitoes and flies that thrived in puddles and foul-smelling places, and he tormented them mercilessly.
He seemed to understand that everything in the world was made up of tiny particles, connected and constantly merging into a whole, and that no part of them could ever belong to anyone forever. These particles transitioned from the sun to the wasp, from the wasp to the cloud, from the cloud to the wind or water, from the water to the bird, and then from the bird to the human, to continue their eternal movement from man. He understood that he was an inseparable part of this universe, sharing a common bond with all its creatures like a family. This was why little Nasser al-Din easily connected with the bee, the sun, the wind, the swallow, and so on. For he himself was composed of small parts of all these things. This great state of being one with the world—how many saints and wise men, after years of hard work and exploration, could only grasp it in old age; yet this miraculously born young boy understood it all the moment he entered the world.
As he interacted with his peers, the children of Pottery Street, who had shared his mother’s milk, he recognized early on that human nature was not perfect, yet he remained kind to them. While he could be self-righteous, he did not demand that everyone become angels, knowing that was impossible. Years later, as an adult, he came across a passage in the book of the great sage Ibrahim ibn Khatap: “Humanity undoubtedly holds the highest position among all living things, but the reason human nature is imperfect is that all living things only allow it the possibility of perfection; its very imperfection is a recognition of its inherent capacity for improvement…” Little Nasser al-Din applauded after reading this, saying, “That’s so true! I’ve often thought so!”
