Death is not always a bandit. Death can also be a saviour.
And there are a few…very few, whom Death honours. This man was one those very few.
Death was the sword he held aloft. Death was the power he wielded. As and when he chose, Death wreaked havoc and devastation on his behalf. This harbinger of sorrow was endowed with a special title…Very aptly, he was called Death Incarnate.
But…as it turned out, his destiny was capricious.
As long as he ruled Death, fame and glory illuminated his way.
As soon as Death began to rule him, chaos and darkness descended.
Today, the man, who had stilled innumerable hearts with hardly a twinge, felt his own heart slowing to a pause. Standing in the shadowy doorway, his eyes darted into the gloom surrounding a small flickering earthen lamp. A figure was framed in the narrow window slit…head tilted at a proud angle, the broad back stiff with anger. In one corner of this small room, buried in the bowels of the stone house, a woman draped in black wept softly, inconsolably.
The man, not used to people turning their backs to him, wondered petulantly, what is so interesting outside the window that he cannot turn towards me? The thin slice of sky visible through the iron bars was nothing but black night made denser by heavy rain clouds. What can he see there?
See! Instantly, the man’s heart plummeted down to hell. He cannot see anything, wailed the emptiness inside him, for I have cut out his eyes….
Yes. Yes. I did it! I did it! What made me do such a horrific thing?
I am Nader Qoli Afshar, the Shah of Persia, Hindustan, Turkestan, Afghanistan, Khwarezm. I am the Nader who flung Ottoman Turks out of Persia. I am the Nader who cleansed Persia of wild Afghans. I am the Nader, who kept Russians at bay on Persia’s borders. I am the Nader before whom rebels cringe. I am the Nader who commands the dreaded war machine of Persia. Yet… I am the Nader whose son turned against him. I am the Nader whose son charged him with vile deeds.
My son, I had no choice. To prevent treason, I ordered your arrest. You are my eldest, my precious boy, my heir! It was for you that I have fought, conquered and carved this empire with my sword. Yet, it was I, a wretched father, who gave orders…to cut out your eyes…your two beautiful eyes…and…and bring them to me!
Oh, my son! Oh, my son! When they brought your eyes to me on a silver tray…cut from their sockets…gleaming red with your blood… I could not see them, my son, I could not see them. Blinded by tears, my eyes were sightless. I am your miserable father! What if I could see? I would not be able to bear the terrible sight. How could I see those eyes that I, your father, had gouged out from your fair face!
Everyone said you were plotting against me. They said you wanted to kill me. They said you could not wait to become the Shah. Did you send the assassin for me? Did you? Did you? I did not want to believe their talk. But the killer named you. He took your name.
Did you want me to die?
No… No, that cannot be…not you, my dearest son…not you….
If only you had owned up to the crime and appealed to my compassion, I would have clasped you to my heart. I know so well how impulsive youth is…blood is hot. After all, it is my blood, too. But you were adamant…you insisted you had done no wrong. You refused my mercy. You raised your voice to me…your Shah. You provoked my rage.
Oh Allah! Was my anger unjust? Did I punish an innocent boy? My golden boy…my dream…my future for Persia?
Pleading with one trembling hand stretched out, he croaked, ‘My son, I did not…’ Even the raw pain quivering in his voice did not make the figure at the window turn around. Broken-hearted, the father stumbled across the uneven stone floor and clasped his arms around his son, frenziedly kissing the back of his neck. Tears coursed through grooves on his cheeks, as Nader whispered indistinctly, ‘My son…my son....’
The man at the window was still. He did not want his father to see his wounds. But now he turned. It was a terrible sight; horrifying empty sockets of raw flesh from which blood was still trickling down his bearded cheeks. Nader flung up an arm to shield his view.
Finally, the Vali Ahd broke his silence. ‘You should know that by taking my eyes out, you have blinded yourself and destroyed your own life. It is not my eyes that you have gouged out, but that of Persia.’
Acid syllables dribbled into the festering abrasion of his core making Nader flinch. It was at that moment that something died inside the indomitable conqueror.
His son, Reza Qoli Mirza’s bitter rancour snuffed out what little life still existed in the afflicted man. Death, his faithful slave, now became the master. It clutched at Nader’s heart although breath still passed through his body. This curse…this loss…this dousing of the desire to live, was much greater than all the deaths his sword had wielded. Only the husk of his living body remained, its flame extinguished as the legendary Nader Qoli Shah of Persia, cried out in despair, ‘What is a father? And what is a son?’
Lightning is only a soundless flash until it strikes. This time, it struck steel and thus, commenced the rusting of the Sword of Persia.
Here I was... thinking how to reach out
to you...wondering what would connect us...
And then my eyes fell on these words by Rumi...
Why struggle to open a door between us
when the whole wall is an illusion?
Check out my latest book on
Amazon, Flipkart & bookstores
