A Short Story
I woke suddenly in the middle of the night.
The images from that extraordinary dream were still moving through my mind. Without getting out of bed, I stretched out my hand, searching for my wife. My fingers touched Shiamala’s hand within easy reach. I could hear her gentle snoring.
So, it had only been a dream.
But why had I never experienced a dream like this before?
My usual dreams were populated by childhood memories, old friends, and girls I had admired from a distance in my youth, often with a longing sigh. Sometimes people and incidents from my working life would appear briefly, like shadows, before disappearing.
But this dream was different.
A strange place. An unfamiliar incident. A young woman I had never met.
And all this while I was holidaying with my wife in a mountainous region of Georgia, in the Caucasus, a country I had never visited before, staying at a star-rated hotel!
But then, must dreams obey the rules of place, time and circumstance?
That particular night had not begun peacefully.
Two dogs had been barking continuously from the foothills behind the hotel. Perhaps they, too, were conscious of the long summer night stretching endlessly before them.
I telephoned the hotel reception.
“They are mountain dogs, protected by the government. All we can do is chase them away from the hotel grounds. There is nothing else we can do at present.”
The receptionist’s voice sounded like a recorded message from a machine. She must have heard the same complaint from many guests before me.
I knew that even if the dogs were chased away, they would return in search of food.
“Could you give us another room on the opposite side of the hotel? I’m prepared to pay extra,” I asked.
“Unfortunately, we have no vacant rooms tonight.”
There was nothing more I could do.
I put on my earphones and lay listening to YouTube.
I had no idea when I fell asleep.
The dream did not unfold as a continuous story. Instead, it came in disconnected scenes.
A young woman stood before me.
She was dressed as though she belonged to another century. She was arguing with me, repeatedly pointing her finger at my face, as though I were a criminal standing in the dock of a courtroom.
There was nobody else around.
She could hardly have been sixteen.
A black dress decorated with glittering embroidery covered her body down to her feet. A cloth of the same colour concealed her hair, leaving only her face exposed.
A face like the full moon.
A blue gemstone set in her long nose glittered like a star.
A star upon the moon?
Her cheeks carried the delicate pink of rose petals. She could not have been even five feet tall. Rather than appearing as a mature beauty, she looked like a girl who had only recently stepped out of childhood.
But her words were certainly not those of a child.
They flew towards me like sparks scattering from red-hot iron under a blacksmith’s hammer.
Unable to answer her questions, I lowered my head.
Only then did I look around.
We were standing in an ancient burial ground.
Graves barely knee-high rose among the overgrown grass like stones emerging from the earth. There were no names, no inscriptions, not even a sign that anyone had recently visited to leave flowers.
A world of nameless dead.
And in the middle of it stood I, the only living human being.
In the distance lay a valley, beyond which rose several hills. Near them was a cave carved into the rock.
Stunted trees, barely waist-high, struggled against the wind. The fierce gusts carried a salty taste.
Suddenly, I remembered something that had happened two days earlier.
We had visited a cave near the Georgia–Azerbaijan border, where a Sufi mystic was said to have lived centuries ago.
After exploring the cave, Shiamala and the others had returned to our vehicle. As usual, I lingered behind, examining each chamber at my leisure.
Finally, after looking at a copy of the Quran written in Persian, I emerged from the cave.
There was nobody around.
I descended from the cave, climbed another series of steps, and began walking across the grassy slope when one of my shoelaces came undone.
I bent down to tie it.
My back refused to cooperate.
I would have to sit somewhere.
That was when I noticed the old cemetery.
Our guide had told us that the burial ground dated back several centuries.
“People believed that if they were buried near the cave of this Sufi saint, they would enter paradise. That is why so many people were buried here.”
There was nowhere else to sit.
So I sat on a low gravestone, barely knee-high, and tied my shoelace.
Before standing up, I looked around.
Nobody was watching me.
That incident had really happened.
But why had this young woman appeared in my dream?
She stood before me, her face burning with anger.
I imagined that Kannagi, the legendary Tamil heroine who set out to burn the city of Madurai, must have looked much the same.
She pointed an accusing finger at me.
“Who are you? Why did you desecrate my grave?”
“How was I supposed to know it was your grave? Look at me. I walk with a stick. I cannot bend down and tie my shoelaces. That is why I sat there for a minute. What is so terrible about that?”
“Don’t you know that the dead must be respected? And you, a man, dared to sit upon the grave of an unmarried young woman! It is a terrible insult to me.”
“Mother, surely there must be forgiveness for every sin?”
Her eyes widened.
“Who are you calling Mother? My name is Mumtaz!”
“All right, Mumtaz. What do you want me to do now?”
“In our Shia tradition, there is punishment for such an offence.”
“Are you going to cut off my head?”
She did not answer.
“Very well. I accept whatever punishment you have in mind. But before that, tell me something. You cannot have been more than fifteen or sixteen. Why did you die so young?”
“Why should I tell you? What would I gain by telling you?”
“I am a writer. I am interested in people and their stories.”
“A writer?”
The anger that had reddened her face began to fade.
A faint smile appeared at the corners of her lips.
“In that case, listen.
“My father was a wealthy Albanian carpet merchant. I fell in love with Arash, a young man who worked for him.
“One day, before leaving for a neighbouring town, Arash came to tell me he was going away. Unfortunately, my grandmother saw us together.
“She immediately told my father to dismiss him.
“My father never disobeyed my grandmother.
“Arash was sent away.
“And I was confined to the house.
“Unable to see me, he wandered about like a madman. I, too, was almost driven insane by my longing for him.
“My family decided that marriage would cure me of my foolishness.
“They arranged a match with another wealthy carpet-trading family.
“The wedding was celebrated with great extravagance. Expensive carpets, weaving looms and other valuable gifts arrived in abundance.
“My grandmother was the happiest person of all.
“For decades she had been giving monetary gifts at the weddings of relatives and friends. Now, through my marriage, all those contributions were coming back to her.”
Mumtaz paused, then continued.
“But I sat there as a bride, like a wooden doll.
“Nothing happened between my husband and me.
“A few days after the wedding, my husband went away on business.
“That was when the news arrived.
“Arash was dead.
“I could not bear it.
“I crushed oleander seeds and swallowed the poison.”
She fell silent for a while.
“My family feared that if people discovered I had taken my own life, it would bring disgrace upon them.
“So they invented a story that a snake had bitten me while I was walking in a nearby garden.”
“How do you know what they told people after your death?” I asked.
She laughed.
“Do you know how many women like me have died and come here? Don’t you think they talk to one another? They told me everything.”
“Your story sounds rather like that of Layla and Majnun.”
Her expression became serious again.
“The story of Layla and Majnun began as an Arabian oral tradition. It was the Persian poet Nizami Ganjavi who transformed it into a great literary romance.
“Because of him, Layla’s love became known throughout the world.
“Why should my love remain buried in a nameless grave?”
I had no answer.
“But you seem to blame your grandmother for everything,” I said.
“Who else should I blame? She kept a diary. For nearly half a century, she recorded how much money she had given at the weddings of relatives, neighbours and friends.
“She turned me into a bride simply to recover all those contributions!
“My grandmother was a master schemer!”
I could not help laughing.
“Mumtaz, have you now placed me in the same category as your grandmother?”
“No. You said you were a writer, didn’t you? Do me one favour, and I will forgive you.”
“What favour? If it will save me from your punishment, I am prepared to do anything.”
She looked directly into my eyes.
“Write my story.
“I, too, am a Layla who died for love. Like her, I want to live forever through a story.
“But there is something more important.
“I don’t want grandmothers like mine to create another Mumtaz.
“That is why you must write my story.”
For a moment, I looked at her in silence.
“Think of yourself as my daughter,” I said. “I give you my word. I will certainly write it.”
I said goodbye and began walking towards our vehicle.
After a few steps, I sensed someone walking beside me.
I turned around.
A young woman in modern clothes.
Blue jeans. A white top.
I looked closely.
Mumtaz!
“Thank you,” she said.
“What is this? A moment ago you were dressed in ancient clothes. Now you’ve changed into jeans!”
She laughed.
“Just because we are ancient spirits, must we always wear ancient clothes? Aren’t we allowed to keep up with fashion?”
As she spoke, she tugged her jeans slightly downwards and lifted her top a little.
Her small navel became visible.
Like every woman born after Eve, she too had a navel.
But do spirits have navels?
What a ridiculous question!
I was lying awake in bed.
If we fail to keep promises made to living people, we can always invent an excuse and escape the consequences.
But a promise made to a spirit?
Especially to a young woman who had risen from a nameless grave at midnight to tell me her story?
I slowly got out of bed.
Taking care not to disturb Shiamala’s sleep, I switched on my computer.
I began to write.
My fingers moved across the keyboard faster than usual.
Was I really writing?
Or was Mumtaz standing behind me, guiding my fingers?
“What’s this? Why are you sitting at the computer instead of sleeping?”
It was Shiamala’s voice.
I did not answer.
Words continued to appear on the screen.
Before dawn, I had finished the story.
Only the title remained.
I sat thinking for a while.
Then I typed two words:
Layla and Majnun.
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