‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’
This sudden invitation caught him by surprise, but he accepted, and joined the imam in his small room on the first floor.
‘Are you new here? I haven’t seen you around earlier,’ the imam asked.
‘I lived here when I was a child. Then I left for the US for further studies. Then . . .’ He couldn’t finish his sentence.
‘Are you the one writing the book on Sheesh Mahal?’ he asked, his voice serene.
The young man became wary.
‘So you have called me to tell me how haraam it is to write about whores?’ he asked.
The old man smiled. ‘No, I have called you to tell you a story. The story of a girl who was born in Sheesh Mahal.’
A puzzled expression crossed Moid’s face, since he’d never seen maulanas mention brothels, especially in masjids.
‘Lover?’ Moid asked.
‘Love.’
‘Who was she?’
‘Will you mention her in your book? I will only tell you if you promise to write her story.’
Moid nodded. The girl had his curiosity piqued.
When the imam got his assurance, his eyes became wet, as if he were waiting for this moment. In a broken voice, he started narrating his tale. Her tale.
‘Behind the stars that hold the light, behind the mirrors that reflect the light, she was hidden in darkness. Darkness from which only light could be seen. She was the only young woman in Sheesh Mahal whose body had never been touched, whose soul had never been corrupted. Other women in Sheesh Mahal kept themselves dressed, ornamented and perfumed for any rendezvous they may have, but Mehr-un-Nisa used to wear dull colours, her messy hair tied up and hands dirty with splotches of blue ink. She smelt like an old book of fairy tales.
‘The girl with deep eyes, curly hair and golden skin was never meant to be born out of wedlock in a brothel, but she was. No girl born in a bordello is meant to wear chastity and dignity with confidence, but her mother was a rebel. She taught her daughter Arabic and Urdu. But she never allowed her to go out in front of any man for her own safety. And Mehr never did . . . Except for one man, nobody had seen her.’
The imam looked at Moid, who was listening intently. ‘Perhaps this peculiar expression crossed over your face because you think I’m judging the women living in brothels. But you are wrong. I’m simply narrating the events as they are.’
He continued.
‘I first saw her when darkness was melting into dawn, probably at this very same hour. Under the deep-blue sky, below the crescent moon burning golden, she stood at the window, staring at the fading stars. I was going to the masjid, unaware of her fragrance. Something seemed to draw my gaze up and my eyes fell upon her. My heart skipped a beat. I stopped for a while and smiled when I spotted black ink on her face radiating the same shine as her hair. But suddenly a beautiful woman with blue eyes dragged her inside and closed the window. It was then that I realized this was Sheesh Mahal. I was smiling at a woman standing at a window of Sheesh Mahal. But it didn’t matter to me . . . It never did.
‘This happened when I was sixteen. After that day, I used to find her standing at the same window every day. Sometimes she would look up at the sky, perhaps counting the stars or talking to the One who had created them, and sometimes she would smile at those fireflies playing in the courtyard. And I would look up at her as I walked towards the masjid.
‘This hide-and-seek between us continued for three years. Every time I looked at her, she looked more beautiful than the previous time. Earlier, I used to ask myself why the longing of Qais for Laila never stopped, even though Laila was a Moor, even though she was married to another person and had left him. But then I started to understand as my heart slowly got pulled towards the girl at the window. But I never dared to linger for more than a few minutes. We never talked to each other. But I knew why she would stand up there; she knew I was not merely walking by to offer tahajjud. We know what our hearts want but we also know that’s impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? That’s what I ask myself every day. Perhaps because she used to live in a brothel and I was raised in a masjid. Huh! You know every heart coming to the masjid is not pure and every heart beating in a brothel is not filthy . . .’
‘Then what happened?’
‘One day she sent me a letter through Husna, confessing her love for me . . .’
‘Husna?’
‘Husna was her maiden and a very dear friend of hers. She was the one with beautiful blues eyes who had dragged her inside the first night our eyes met. She was one of the most elegant ladies I had ever seen.’
‘Continue . . .’
‘I told my father I wanted to marry a girl. He was happy to hear that I had someone in mind. He excitedly asked me her name and address, and I told him. As soon as those words left my lips, the colour drained from his face. He has never been the same with me since. On that day I witnessed love transforming into hatred. I assure you it wasn’t a pleasant sight. I tried to explain to him that I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but he didn’t think so . . .’
‘What he did do?’
‘He locked me up in a room—tortured me and threatened me for days. But I didn’t give up. I believed my love could melt his heart—but I was wrong. He rebuked me in every possible manner. He chanted that I was a sinner. According to him, it was a sin to marry a girl raised in Sheesh Mahal. According to this world, love has always been a heinous crime. Yet I wasn’t suffering because of his rebukes—the real torture was not being able to look at her for so many days. That torment and helplessness reminded me of Qais’s bewilderment and I understood one more mystery of this world.
‘You know, one day, cousins of Qais mocked Laila in front of him saying she was dark. And you know what he said?’
Moid shook his head.
‘He replied in verses comparing Laila’s beauty to musk, which is also black but rare and expensive. I did the same, but differently. But for lovers like us, it is an even greater sin to stop someone from loving, or to accuse somebody of kufr—blasphemy. According to me, marrying her was saving her from a life at Sheesh Mahal. During my imprisonment, Husna came several times to visit me when my father was out. I don’t know how she managed that. But every time, she had a message and a meal for me. After a few weeks, I decided to run away. I discussed my plan with Husna and she agreed; I told her if she helped me, it might cost her her life, but she insisted.
‘As soon as I got the chance, I escaped and went straight to Sheesh Mahal. I asked her mother for her hand. Her mother was hesitant, because she knew how a love like ours ended. She politely told me to forget her daughter. But I was stubborn. Aren’t we all stubborn in love? Nevertheless, Mehr’s mother was far more stubborn—women usually are. For two days, I lived at the brothel trying to convince her. But she was immovable. Finally, Husna came into the picture and begged her to let us marry. I don’t know how Husna convinced her, but she agreed. And I married her immediately. We couldn’t live at Sheesh Mahal after that, so I brought her to my house, thinking that my father would accept her, now that he didn’t have a choice. But I was wrong. Mehr’s mother had warned us about this—she had even tried to stop us—but I hadn’t listened to her. I wish I had now.’