(Continued from the previous chapter)
Part 3: Challenging the Bukhara Giant
He started walking towards the Han market where junk was sold, where things were cheaper. He spent half a silver dollar to buy a large, though somewhat battered, cage, which teahouse owners often used to feed their croaking rock partridges.
The boy went to the woodwork market again and found the cage maker. He spent another half a silver dollar there. The remaining half was paid to the painter, who painted the cage beautifully with all the dyes in his shop: green, sky blue, red, yellow, and white. Finally, the painter generously painted a wide gold border around the cage with gold paint and said:
“Now, my child, you can catch a Man-Speaking Bird and raise it!”
“I caught it a long time ago,” the young man Nasereddin replied. “It’s a four-legged black-feathered bird that has never been seen in Bukhara.”
…After handing the cage to the old woman (whose eyes widened in amazement at the sight of such a beautiful thing), the young man Nasser al-Din walked towards the market again.
This time he came back at noon. He said to the old woman:
“Come on, old woman, everything is ready.”
The old woman groaned and stood up, forced her yellow eyes open, and picked up the half-asleep cat. The boy carried the cage and walked away with her.
They stopped near the Han market at a three-way intersection. The place was crowded with people: small vendors, cloth merchants, shoemakers, and tinsmiths. A little further from the intersection, the old woman spotted a small tent. It was supported by four rafters, its roof covered with reeds and straw. It had two doors facing each other, each hung with two simple cloth curtains. Sitting at one side of the tent was the tenter, an old man from the market. He received two silver coins from the young Nasser al-Din, said “thank you,” and left.
The young man led the old woman into the tent. Inside, there was a short pole on the ground with a wide board nailed flat on it. This was prepared to hold the birdcage. There was nothing else in the tent, and light shone through the hole in the roof above.
“Please sit here, old lady,” said the young man. “I have one more thing to do, one last thing.”
He asked the old woman to stay and went to the row of shoe shops again. Then he came to the old lake where writers who made a living by copying various lawsuits and applications, especially various secret letters, gathered.
This place was the hive of gossip, rumors, and rumors in the town. Disputes arose constantly here, with people exposing each other’s shortcomings, cursing each other, scheming against each other, and flattering each other. It was a place rife with temptation and deception. The writers here had all previously served as servants to officials at the court somewhere, in Istanbul, Tehran, or Khorezm, offering their ill-gotten advice to the king, the vizier, and corrupt officials. At the very least, they had all been awarded the Lion Award or higher…
Normally, believers wouldn’t start arriving at the lake until the afternoon. Then the noise would die down, as the scribes would be working with their brains. But young Nasser al-Din arrived at noon, when the commotion was at its most intense. Arguments and insults raged, the noise was incomprehensible, one voice drowning out the others, the next drowning them out. The clamor was so intense that it was surprising that the lake remained calm under this storm of slander, insults, and abuse.
“Ah, you scabby wolf cub!” a skinny old man, bent over like the letter “ζ,” yelled at his neighbor. “Ah, you fool who can’t even write ‘take’! Everyone knows the petition you wrote me last winter: it should have said ‘our honorable and pious chief,’ but you wrote ‘your paralyzed lord, our chief!’ ”
“Who wrote ‘Your Excellency the Paralyzed’? Did I make a mistake like ‘Nakwadar-Messinel’?” his neighbor was so angry that he was shouting at the one who looked like the letter “ζ”. It was difficult to explain what this letter looked like, because Arabic letters are very similar, always hiding their shapes. Every tiny part of the body — head, feet, hands, fingers, and even the spine — was trembling, even its internal organs were moving around, and its stomach was constantly churning. “You yourself wrote ‘Your Excellency’ instead of ‘Beauty’ in the memorial you copied for your most trusted person to submit to Emir last year, and you almost caused a disaster. Think about it! Think about it!”
Everyone around them burst into laughter, “Hehe,” “Haha,” and “Chichi,” all blending into one. The writer, bent into the shape of the letter “ζ,” glared angrily, gnashing his teeth and preparing to retaliate.
The young boy Nassereddin walked past him without waiting for him to retaliate.
At this moment, young Naser al-Din noticed an old scribe who stood out from the crowd. He hadn’t joined in the furious tirade. But it wasn’t because he was superior to the others or disdained slander, but for some other reason: he simply listened. Craning his neck, his bald head tilted to one side by the weight of the weight gleaming in the sunlight, he listened intently to the filthy words, slander, and taunts that were spewing out. To hide his words from the others, he occasionally wrote down the secrets he’d heard in foreign characters. As he wrote these words, young Naser al-Din approached him. He was muttering the word “beauty” and writing it down with a reed pen. A sinister smile played on his thin lips, perhaps anticipating the sweet rewards he’d soon reap from “beauty.”
He raised his head, looked at the young Nasser al-Din, and asked:
“What do you need, kid?”
“I want someone to write something very short, using black ink on Chinese paper. Very short.”
“You said something very short!” The scribe said happily to the young child in front of him, who might have lied to adults. “Thank Allah, my child, it was fate that brought you to me, because no one in Bukhara can write with a brush dipped in ink on Chinese paper better than me. When I was a secretary in the Baghdad Palace, my brocade coat was covered with diamond-studded lion medals, which were awarded to me by the Caliph himself…”
Young Naser al-Din had to listen to these lies from beginning to end. We didn’t need to listen to them. We’ve all heard many similar stories. What’s the point of someone who’s already reached the lowest point in life boasting about their past? These boasts won’t change their situation; they’ll just be passed down from generation to generation. Speaking of bad luck and the cunning of the enemy, the writer paused and said:
“What do I need to write to you, my child? Tell me, and I will satisfy you.”
“There are only three words,” said young Nasereddin. “Write them in large letters: ‘A beast called a cat.’ ”
“What? Say that again… a beast called a cat? Hmm…”
The writer kept his lips tightly closed, his sharp eyes fixed on the young Nasserdin.
“What use are words like these to you? Tell me about them,” he said.
“The one who pays you must have a purpose.” Nasserdin, the young man, avoided his question. “How much does it cost?”
“One and a half silver dollars,” was the reply.
“Why is it so expensive? It’s just three words!”
“Why don’t you take a look at the words?” the scribe replied. “Cat!” He made a face like a mysterious, angry cat. “It’s called!” He said this with a guilty look. “Beast!” He pretended to be frightened, as if he had been bitten by a snake, and leaned back with his whole body. “Who would be willing to write words like that for you at a cheap price?”
Although the young Nasser al-Din did not understand the dangers that the writer described, he agreed to pay one and a half silver dollars.
The calligrapher took out a piece of Chinese yellow paper from under the carpet, cut it with a knife, picked up the brush, and thought that writing those three words did not show his talent at all, so he began to write unhappily.
On his way back, young Nasserdin stopped at a shoe stall and used shoe glue to stick the words on a planed wooden board.
A very eye-catching plaque was hung on the door frame of the tent.
“You can take the money now, old woman,” said the young man Nasereddin.
A cage with a cat in it was placed in the tent, and from it came the sound of the cat crying out “Meow, Meow” because of loneliness.
The old woman sat in front of the tent door holding her bowl.
The young man Nasereddin stood by the road three steps away from her and shouted loudly. His voice was so loud that even the old woman’s ears were almost deafened.
“It’s a beast called a cat!” Naserdin’s face flushed red as he shouted. “It’s in the cage. It has four claws! Each claw has a nail as sharp as a needle! Its tail can do all kinds of things—it can be hooked, curled into a coil, bent left, right, up, down! It’s a beast called a cat! It can bend its back and move its whiskers! Its fur is jet black! Its eyes can glow like fire in the dark! It barks loudly when it’s hungry and meows sweetly when it’s full! It’s a beast called a cat! It’s in a sturdy cage! You can see it for two cents. Don’t be afraid, come and see it! The cage is very sturdy and reliable! It’s a beast called a cat!”
Within three minutes, his actions were rewarded. A dull-looking man emerged from the line of ironmongers, paused, and, following the shouts, headed toward the tent. He resembled one of those “Bukhara giants,” only shorter—a “little brother” of the Bukhara giants. He was chubby, with red cheeks, and a lazy, listless demeanor. He approached young Nasereddin, his hands hanging down like a Buddha statue. A dull, foolish smile graced his chubby face, his eyes fixed on him.
“The beast called a cat!” Nasserdin the young man shouted in his face. “It’s in the cage! It’s two cents a view!”
The little Bukharan stood there for a long time as if fascinated by the cry, then walked towards the old woman, put his fat fingers into his belt, fished something out, and threw two cents into her bowl.
The money jingled as it fell into the bowl, and the boy Nasserdin’s shouts paused in surprise. This was a victory.
The little Bukharian opened the door curtain and walked into the tent.
The young boy Nasserdin was quietly waiting for him to come out.
The young Bukharan stayed in the tent for a long time. It was unclear what he was doing there, perhaps admiring the scene. When he emerged, his face was visibly unhappy, as if he had been tricked. He approached the shouting young man, Nasereddin, his hands still drooping at his sides, and he stood there like a clay Buddha. His once silly smile now betrayed an expression of anger. He knew he had been tricked, but he didn’t know how.
And so the little Bukharian left. Now three more people came to the tent, vying to get in first to see it.
They were still some people with some discernment, and the last person to enter couldn’t help laughing after coming out of the tent. Because no fool wants others to be smarter than themselves, so after these three people came out, they looked at the other two people waiting outside the tent door and said nothing.
The game of watching wild animals lasted all day. Merchants, artisans, peasants from the countryside, and even learned Muslims wearing snow-white turbans came to watch. They admired the cat’s roar of hunger and its quiet scratching and flea-catching game after eating lamb liver.
The tent was not closed until the drums sounded. The old woman counted the money she had earned that day, a total of nineteen silver dollars! On the first day alone, she earned much more than she spent, which indicated that there would be good income on the second day.
The old woman’s life had changed dramatically. She now had her own “nest,” for the tent was undoubtedly her property. She would live there forever. The cat, released from its cage, raised its tail and sniffed the new house, running back and forth.
Naser al-Din shouted in front of the tent for three days straight. Then he told his grandmother he needed someone else, as he had other things to do at home. He found an old man who had once been a muezzin at the mosque and agreed to pay him three silver dollars a day. Although this man shouted loudly, he still used a long tune, like a call to prayer. To attract more people, he needed to buy a nagra drum to accompany his shouting.
Young Naser al-Din did not forget the old woman and visited her every week. These visits brought joy to both of them. The old woman told him that her money was growing and she insisted that he share half. Young Naser al-Din refused and, to avoid angering the old woman, accepted only a silver dollar as a reward.
Whenever he said goodbye, young Naserdin would survey the tent and admire it. The cat, fed daily with goat liver, gradually recovered, eventually becoming lazy and sleeping all day on the pillows provided for it. Young Naserdin opened the cage and fondly stroked the cat’s silky, shiny fur. The black cat would slightly open one eye, twitch its tail slightly, and then go back to sleep.
As winter approached, young Naserdin said goodbye to his old woman. She was moving to live with her Gypsies relatives in Namangan. She was leaving in a covered carriage—she already had quite a bit of money! Before she left, she hugged young Naserdin and cried bitterly. For the last time, the young man gazed with his shining eyes at the “beast” sleeping on the pillow in the cage, as the carriage slowly drove away…
One day, Naser al-Din Avanti (people began to respectfully address him as Naser al-Din Avanti!) arrived in Shiraz, the homeland of the great Saadi, and overheard a caller shouting, “The beast called a cat! The beast is in a cage!” Excited, he headed toward the sound and saw a tent in the field. Sitting in front of the tent was a beautiful, beaming gypsy girl, wearing earrings in her ears and a beaded necklace around her neck. Before her sat a shiny copper tray for receiving money. Opposite her, in front of the door, sat an old woman, so exhausted she couldn’t even tell if she was dreaming. Naser al-Din Avanti tossed a large silver rupee into the tray. He did this so the pretty gypsy girl could find change and stay with her a little longer. Of course, the girl noticed immediately and deliberately picked up the money, her eyes widened with thick, velvety black lashes, a smile playing on her red lips. Nasser al-Din Avanti walked into the tent and saw the cat. Strangely enough, the cat, like the old woman, was near death. Nasser al-Din Avanti called to the cat. It didn’t meow, and it didn’t hear anything. Yes, it had become deaf from its age.
Nasser al-Din Avanti walked out of the other door of the tent and reached the entrance again. The young gypsy girl thought he had come for her, so she showed her bright teeth and laughed freely. But Nasser al-Din Avanti ignored her anger, surprise, and even rage and still tried to speak to the old woman. He leaned forward and said softly:
“Hello, old woman! Think of Bukhara, think of that little street boy named Nasser al-Din…”
The old woman, startled awake by these words, a brief flash of light crossed her face, but she remained breathless for a long time. She uttered a faint cry in her throat, waved her trembling hands in the air a few times, and then fell forward. But Naser al-Din Avanti thought to himself, “Then let this memory become a fleeting dream that will pass by her—a memory in the long sleep that will soon bring her to rest!” He took a few steps forward, then turned and looked at the old woman. She still hadn’t regained consciousness, her trembling hands still wavering in the air in panic. The young gypsy girl was filled with surprise and anxiety, alternately glancing at the old woman and then searching for the boy who had suddenly appeared and then disappeared into the crowd.
Nasser al-Din Afanti did not look back. The market swallowed him up with a boiling roar composed of thousands of voices…
During his childhood, an incident occurred in the streets of Bukhara.
Once, while wandering through the rows of shops, the unbearable heat drove him toward the lake. A woman draped in white veil followed him. Nasser al-Din Afanti heard footsteps behind him and glanced back.
“Wait a moment!” the woman said in an unusual tone. She came up to him, lifted her veil, revealing her face, and bowed to him. Then, with her thin but warm hand, she touched his face. She pressed her wrinkled, sorrowful face against his, as if she wanted to place something in the child’s heart, or to confess something to him. She looked into his eyes. The woman had large, dark eyes, brimming with tears. Nasser al-Din Afanti felt embarrassed. What did this woman need?
“Go!” the woman said, gently nudging him. “May the Allah, the All-Mighty, protect you from disasters at all times and in all places! Go!”
The woman dropped her veil and walked quickly down a side street, as if someone was chasing her. Nasser al-Din Afanti was surprised and didn’t understand anything. He watched her back. An hour later, in the hustle and bustle of the market, he had completely forgotten about the woman and never thought about it again.
Years later, when he was a grown-up, he once dreamed of the woman while staying at a caravanserai somewhere on the road from Beirut to Basra. He saw her face, her eyes, and heard her words, “May Allah, the All-Mighty, protect you from disasters at all times…”
Suddenly, a chill ran through his body, his heart icy, and he jolted awake. Only then did he realize that she was his biological mother. This realization wasn’t some groundless, unfounded imaginary thing; it was something undeniably real and clear, coming to him from an unknown source. He thought of how he had never spoken a single word to his own mother in this lifetime, and it was as if the door to his lost childhood had been opened anew. His heart was suddenly filled with immense guilt and love for his loving mother. He called out and cried out, over and over, using the words that all children in the world love most and the most affectionate words to their mothers. These words burst forth from his lips uncontrollably. He was convinced that his loving mother, breathing the same night air as him, would sense his son’s longing and would respond to his call from afar with a motherly heart.
He saw his mother in his dream, but he could not learn her name, let alone visit her grave. Where could he find this nameless grave? Moreover, if his mother was eternal to him, why would he even bother looking for her grave?
The story of Naser al-Din Affendi’s childhood ends. Of course, our story is too short, and the fragments we have collected are not exhaustive. But the path we have traversed will be traversed by others, and each person who traverses this path will gather new fragments, which will in turn be added to the treasure trove of this story. Ultimately, from all these fragments and the efforts of all who have gathered them, a new book about Naser al-Din Affendi—about his childhood—will emerge. Our contribution to that book, though modest, will serve as a catalyst for further development. When the great writer of the future, who may yet write that book but has yet to be born, puts his final stamp on his work, he will surely mention our labors—this is the reward we await, our hope, and our source of comfort.
(End of this chapter)
