Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) Read Free Page A

that) and my gait did not betray any agitation. My body attended to my disguise by itself, leaving me free to be as I wanted in the unseen darkness of my thoughts. I would have gladly left the kasaba in that quiet, late afternoon hour, so that night might find me alone, but my duties led me in the opposite direction, among people. I was taking the place of the ill Hafiz* -Muhammed, who had been summoned by Janich, our aging benefactor. I knew that Janich had lain sick for months, and that maybe he would ask one of us to come to him before his death. I also knew that his son-in-law was the kadi* Aini- effendi,* who had signed the order for my brother’s arrest. For that reason I had gladly agreed to go, filled with a vague sense of hope.
    As I was led through the courtyard and house I walked as always, used to not seeing what did not concern me—I keptcloser to myself that way. Then I was left alone in a long corridor, where I waited for the news of my arrival to reach wherever necessary, and I listened to the silence. It was absolute, as if no one lived in that great edifice, as if no one moved through its corridors and rooms. In the quiet of that muffled life, beside the dying man who still breathed there somewhere, in the silence of steps fading on the carpets and in soft, whispered conversations, the old wood of the ceilings and window frames split with a faint, creaking noise. As I watched evening surround the house with silken shadows and the last reflections of daylight quiver on the window-panes, I thought about the old man and what I would say to him at this last meeting. I had spoken with the sick more than once; I had sent a dying man on that long journey more than once. Experience had taught me, if any experience were necessary, that every man feels fear at what awaits him, at the unknown that already knocks, unrevealed, in a terror-stricken heart.
    To comfort them I would often say:
    Death is a certainty, an inevitable realization, the only thing that we know will befall us. There are no exceptions, no surprises: all paths lead to it. Everything we do is a preparation for it, a preparation that we begin at birth, whimpering with our foreheads against the ground. We never move farther away from death, only closer. But if it is a certainty, then why are we surprised when it comes? If this life is a short passage that lasts only an hour or a day, then why do we fight to prolong it one more day or hour? Worldly life is treacherous, eternity is better. 3
    I would often say:
    Why do your hearts tremble with fear when in your death-agony your legs twitch and squirm? Death is a move from one house to another. It is not a disappearance, but a rebirth. Just as an eggshell bursts when the chick inside is fully developed, there comes a time for the soul and body topart. Death is a necessity in the inevitable passage to the other world, where man makes his full ascent.
    I would often say:
    Death is the decay of matter, but not of the soul.
    I would often say:
    Death is a change of state. The soul begins to live by itself.
    Until it parted from the body, it held with hands, saw with
    eyes, heard with ears, but it knew the heart of the matter on its own.
    I would often say:
           On the day of my death, when they carry my coffin,
           do not think that I will feel pain for this world.
           Do not cry and say: it is a great loss!
           When milk sours, the loss is greater.
           I shall not vanish when you see them lay me in the grave.
           Do the sun and moon vanish when they set?
           This seems like a death to you, but it is a birth.
           The grave seems like a prison to you, but the soul has been freed.
           What grain does not sprout when it is put into the ground?
           So why do you not believe in the grain of men?
    I would often say:
    Be thankful, O House of Dawud, 4 and say: the truth has come. The hour has come. Because every man