“It is said that Solomon had a carpet that would fly,” the voice of Abli Bab floats into my ears at the break of dawn. We stand on the ledge of Haer Parbat. He tries to feed pigeons while I watch over the buds of light that have just started to blossom on the shrinking tendrils of the vanishing night. Beneath us, away from Haer Parbat, the old city is curled up on either bank of the river Jhelum in a deep and obstinate sleep. Tiny, blue-black hands of the nascent morning knock at its ashen doors, but the tired city refuses to wake up.
“A carpet that would take him to any place anytime,” Abli Bab continues as his silhouette and his voice grow sharper. “Now the carpet, it is said, was just one among many that Solomon had. That is to say, it wasn’t different from any other fine carpet of its time. Just blue silk knotted and tied neatly. Pretty to look at, but nothing extraordinary. Nothing to mark it for flight in itself. It was rather the wind that carried it, made it fly. You see, Solomon was a mighty prophet and the Lord Almighty had granted him dominion over wind as He, in His infinite grace and wisdom, had granted Solomon dominion over water and jinns and animals as well. Solomon, with the leave of the Almighty, would command the wind to carry him over and the wind would abide. It would lift the carpet with Solomon on it and take them to wherever Solomon commanded,” Abli Bab finishes as he wipes his hands on his fheran. He is done with the pigeons. Now he turns towards me. His eyes – two simmering, black suns – burn into me, raising questions, asking me: What dominion has been granted to you? Which wind is subjugated to your command? None, my eyes plead back. Absolutely none! But his eyes keep on probing, keep on asking; growing bigger and blacker, choking the dawn all around me.
Just then, the sky cracks open with an ugly thunderous clap. It is the howl of the fort above us. They have fired the cannon to announce the start of the day. Scared, the pigeons fly away. Abli Bab looks at them wistfully, his eyes no longer on me. “But …” he says as he looks up at the pigeons circling around before they fly away, “some say it was the carpet that flew.” The fluttering wings of the fleeing pigeons stifle Abli Bab’s voice. I walk closer to hear him better. “For it wasn’t just any carpet. It was rather a special one. A special gift from the Queen of Sheba to Solomon. The alchemists at the Queen’s court had wrought a miracle. They had created a dye that worked wonders. A dye that didn’t yield to its handler’s command easily but, once it did, it was pure magic. A carpet knotted from the yarn soaked in this dye would be light as a feather and buoyant as a cloud. A carpet that would fly. A carpet that the Queen of Sheba gifted to Solomon.” The last pigeon flies away, leaving behind Abli Bab standing over pigeon droppings and moulted feathers.
Abli Bab turns to me once again. A faint smile upturns the corners of his lips. “Most of them do not believe in Sheba’s gift. It is blasphemy, they say. After all, alchemists supplanting divine dominion is nothing but sacrilege.” The smile is all over Abli Bab’s face now. It has even crept into his eyes. “Sacrilege or submission. The choice is yours.”
But is it? Do I really have a choice in all this? Did I choose to suffer like this? Can I choose anything else but an end to this suffering? Can anyone ever choose anything but an end to their suffering? The choice, if any, is already made; it always is. One look at me and Abli Bab sees that I am way past the illusion that he is calling a choice. “But it seems that your choice is already made,” he says, “Be that as it may. Now then, hear me and hear me good. It is a fact well known to all that Solomon’s sigil was a star. His signet bore it and it carried his royal command. And those who know will tell you this as well that Solomon’s treasures were never truly lost at all. As nothing is ever truly lost. Things tend to scatter themselves around us till time makes their presence oblivious. So oblivious that we no longer see them for what they really are. That is how treasures hide in plain sight. That is how Solomon’s treasures are hiding in plain sight. And whoever seeks them, let him be guided by the Solomon’s star. Find the star and perchance, it may lead you to what you seek,” he says as I walk past him, over to the edge of the ledge.
A shiver passes through the old city spread before me, as if someone had untied the knot that was the night. The pleas of dawn may have failed but the fort’s canonical command is not to be ignored. The old city is waking up. The houses are stretching themselves with yawns. The hearths are lit and blue smoke rises up like sighs. The doors open. Women come out. And the Jhelum finds a way into their houses – in pots and pitchers balanced on hips and heads as they sway down and back up the stairs cut into the banks of the river. As pitchers fill up, lips drooling with the spittle of gossip spill the whispers of the night and rumours of the day before on these steps of the yaarbal. Yaar – friend – and bal – place: a place for friends. A friendly place. A nice place to eavesdrop on this city’s secrets. A nice place to start looking for stars.
“Remember, you can always come back here if need be,” Abli Bab says as he walks up to me from behind. He takes the turban from my head and tears the collar of my fheran. He takes pigeon droppings and moulted feathers from the ground and smears them all over my face and chest and rubs some of it into my hair as he keeps talking. “News from the karkhan says that your absence has already drawn the attention of the fort. The wusteh has been making excuses for you. He has had it declared that you went crazy with the knots and consequently, you are of no use at the loom. But you know them, you very well know those relentless hounds of the fort. If madness were a way out, I believe everyone out here would have gone crazy already. They have made the wusteh pledge his son in your place at the karkhan. That will take care of their loss. But that doesn’t mean they will let you go if they can help it. They will be looking for you everywhere, just to be sure. They trust no one. But since you must go to the old city down there, your only chance at survival is to play along. You are officially mad now, so you must look mad, talk mad, smell mad. That and some luck may get you through. Don’t give them an excuse to tear you apart limb from limb. Believe me, they don’t need much of an excuse anyway. Remember my words and go now. Farewell.”
Excerpted with permission from The Last Knot, Shabir Ahmad Mir, Pan MacMillan India.
