The House of the Mosque

He Is Light. Light Upon Light

The story of the house of the mosque is far from over, and yet it resembles real life in one respect: we must all bid it farewell.

There’s a phrase that often crops up at the end of Persian tales: ‘Our story is over, but the crow still hasn’t reached its nest.’

One day, when Aqa Jaan was at his office in the bazaar, he received an unusual letter. It had a foreign postmark. He was surprised. It had been a while since he’d received business letters from abroad. But this letter was different: he didn’t recognise the stamp. German stamps were always very grand, with portraits of musicians or philosophers or drawings of historical monuments, but this stamp featured a bouquet of bright red tulips.

Aqa Jaan took a magnifying glass out of his drawer and examined the stamp. Maybe it was from Switzerland. He recalled sending a consignment of carpets there years ago.

The envelope filled him with hope. Still, you could never be sure, for bad news was always lying in wait, ready to pounce at any moment. He put the letter aside and asked the office boy to bring him some tea.

When he had finished his tea, he took out his letter-opener and carefully slit open the envelope. Inside was a letter written in Persian with a fountain pen:

Dear Aqa Jaan,

Salaam!Salaam from the bottom of my heart. Salaam with a hint of longing for home.

My dear Aqa Jaan, I’m writing to you from a country I never expected to live in. If I were you, I’d say that it was God’s will that led me here. But I’m not you, so I chalk it up to a series of coincidences. Anyway, what’s done is done, and you taught me to accept things as they are.

I must confess that I carry your words of wisdom around with me always, like a beloved set of beads.

Your words have given me hope and helped me to survive so that I could build a new life, make something of myself and be a true son of the house of the mosque.

My dearest Aqa Jaan, I long for the day when I can open the door to our house and walk inside. I still have the key, which I carry with me always.

You taught me to face up to my problems, and to work hard and be patient. I have followed your advice.

I left our house, but I haven’t turned my back on it. I live in Holland now, and I dream of the day when you and I can walk along the canal in front of my apartment. That day is bound to come. It must!

You always told me to dream and to make my dreams come true. I intend to do just that. There are secrets I can share with you only in the freedom of this city.

One night you will be here, and I will invite my friends over to meet you. I’ve talked about you so much they feel they know you already.

My dear uncle, I’m still writing. For the last few years, I’ve spent all of my time committing my stories to paper. I have done this for you and for our country.

I write in another language now, and I don’t know whether I should apologise or jump for joy. It just happened, it wasn’t in my power to do otherwise. Actually, writing has been my salvation. It was the only way I could express the suffering and pain that you and our country have undergone. Even though I write in a new language, I still try to imbue my stories with the poetic spirit of our ancient and beautiful language.

Forgive me.

My dearest uncle, I dream so often of the house and of all of you that I seem to be living there more than here.

You won’t die. You will stay until they’ve all gone and come back again.

Shahbal

That night Aqa Jaan put on his coat and hat, picked up his walking stick, left his study and went out into the courtyard.

It was cold. The hauz was frozen and the tree branches were encased in a thin layer of ice.

The dark-blue sky was studded with stars stretching all the way to Mecca. Aqa Jaan walked across the courtyard and gingerly mounted the stairs to the roof.

The old crow recognised his footsteps and cawed, but stayed in its nest, watching his every move.

‘Thank you, crow! I’ll be careful,’ Aqa Jaan said as he passed the dome on his way to the mosque.

The crow cawed again.

‘Thank you, crow. It’s good of you to remind me. No, I won’t switch on the light. The treasure room is our secret.’

Clutching the wooden rail, he went down the steps and into the mosque. Then he tiptoed through the darkness until he came to the vault and cautiously opened the door. He couldn’t see a thing. For a moment he wondered whether to turn on the light, but decided against it. He crept down the stairs and groped his way to the door of the treasure room.

It was eerily silent. The only sound was that of his footsteps and the tapping of his stick.

Finally, he stopped walking. He fumbled with the lock, and a moment later the hinges creaked and the heavy, ancient door opened.

His silhouette was dimly visible in the inky blackness. Then he stepped into the treasure room and was swallowed up in the darkness.

He walked across the red carpet and stopped beside the last coat-hook in the long row. Taking Shahbal’s letter out of his pocket, he knelt down and slipped it into the chest. Then, breaking the silence, he chanted:

He is light.

His light is like a niche with a lantern.

The glass is like a shining star,

Lit by the oil of a blessed olive tree.

Its oil is almost aglow.

Light upon light!