illustrations they saw weren’t nearly as spectacular as those they’d anticipated
from the stories they’d heard； but instead appeared； much like all the pictures
they’d seen in recent years； rather ordinary； pale and hazy。 The two great
masters didn’t then realize that the reason for this haziness was the blindness
that had begun to descend upon them； nor did they realize it after both had
gone pletely blind； rather they attributed the haziness to having been
duped by the Khan； and hence they died believing dreams were more beautiful
than pictures。
In the dead of night in the cold Treasury room； as I turned pages with
frozen fingers and gazed upon the pictures in books that I’d dreamed of for
forty years； I knew I was much happier than the artists in this pitiless story
from Bukhara。 It gave me such a thrill to know； before going blind and passing
into the Hereafter； that I was handling the very books whose legends I’d heard
336
about my whole life； and at times I would murmur； “Thank you； God； thank
you” when I saw that one of pages I was turning was even more marvelous
than its legend。
For instance； eighty years ago Shah Ismail crossed the river and by the
sword reconquered Herat and all of Khorasan from the Uzbeks； whereupon he
appointed his brother Sam Mirza governor of Herat； to celebrate this joyous
occasion； his brother； in turn； had a manuscript prepared； an illuminated
version of a book entitled The Convergence of the Stars； which recounted a story
as witnessed by Emir Hüsrev in the palace of Delhi。 According to legend； one
illustration in this book showed the two rulers meeting on the banks of a river
where they celebrated their victory。 Their faces resembled the Sultan of Delhi；
Keykubad； and his father； Bughra Khan； the Ruler of Bengal； who were the
subjects of the book； but they also resembled the faces of Shah Ismail and his
brother Sam Mirza； the men responsible for the book’s creation。 I was
absolutely certain that the heroes of whichever story I conjured while looking
at the page would appear there in the sultan’s tent； and I thanked God for
giving me the chance to see this miraculous page。
In an illustration by Sheikh Muhammad； one of the great masters of the
same legendary era； a poor subject whose awe and affection for his sultan had
reached the level of pure love was desperately hoping； as he watched the sultan
play polo； that the ball would roll toward him so he could grab it and present
it to his sovereign。 After he’d waited long and patiently； the ball did indeed
e to him； and he was depicted handing it to the sultan。 As had been
described to me thousands of times； the love； awe and submission that a poor
subject aptly feels toward a great khan or an exalted monarch； or that a
handsome young apprentice feels toward his master； was rendered here with
such delicacy and deep passion； from the extension of the subject’s fingers
holding the ball to his inability to summon the courage to look at the
sovereign’s face； that while looking at this page； I knew there was no greater
joy in the world than to be apprentice to a great master； and that such
submissiveness verging on servility was no less a pleasure than being master to
a young； pretty and intelligent apprentice—and I grieved for those who would
never know this truth。
I turned the pages； gazing hurriedly but with rapt attention upon
thousands of birds； horses； soldiers； lovers； camels； trees and clouds； while the
Treasury’s happy dwarf； like a shah of elder days given the opportunity to
exhibit his riches and wealth； proudly and undauntedly removed volume after
volume from chests and placed them before me。 From two separate corners of
337
an iron chest stuffed with amazing tomes； mon books and disorderly
albums； there emerged two extraordinary volumes—one bound in the Shiraz
style with a burgundy cover； the other bound in Herat and finished with a
dark lacquer in the Chinese fashion—which contained pages so resembling
each other that at first I thought they were copies。 While I was trying to
determine which book was the original and which the copy； I examined the
names of the calligraphers on the colophons； looked for hidden signatures； and
finally came to the realization； with a shudder； that these two volumes of
Nizami were the legendary books that Master Sheikh Ali of Tabriz had made；
one for the Khan of the Blacksheep； Jihan Shah； and the other for the Khan of
the Whitesheep； Tall Hasan。 After he was blinded by the Blacksheep shah to
prevent him from making another version of the first volume； the great master
artist took refuge with the Whitesheep khan and created a superior copy from
memory。 To see that the pictures in the second of the legendary books； made
when he was blind； were simpler and purer； while the colors in the first
volume were more lively and invigorating； reminded me that the memory of
the blind exposes the merciless simplicity of life but also deadens its vigor。
Since I myself am a genuine great master； so acknowledged by Almighty
Allah； who sees and knows all； I knew that one day I would go blind； but is this
what I wanted now？ Since His presence could be sensed quite nearby in the
exquisite and terrifying darkness of the cluttered Treasury； like a condemned
man who wishes to look upon the world one last time before he is beheaded； I
asked Him： “Allow me to see all these illustrations and have my fill of them。”
As I turned the pages； by the force of God’s inscrutable wisdom； I
frequently came across legends and matters of blindness。 In the famous scene
showing Shirin on a countryside outing falling in love with Hüsrev after seeing
his picture on the branch of a plane tree； Sheikh Ali R？za from Shiraz had
drawn distinctly all the leaves of the tree one by one so they filled the entire
sky。 In answer to a fool who saw the work and mented that the true
subject of the illustration wasn’t the plane tree； Sheikh Ali replied that the true
subject wasn’t the passion of the beautiful young maiden either； it was the
passion of the artist； and to proudly prove his point he attempted to paint the
same plane tree with all its leaves on a grain of rice。 If the signature hidden
beneath the beautiful feet of Shirin’s darling lady attendants hadn’t misled
me； I was of course seeing the magnificent tree made by the blind master on
paper—not the tree made on a grain of rice； which he left half finished； having
gone blind seven years and three months after he started the task。 On another
page； Rüstem blinding Alexander with his forked arrow was depicted in the
manner of artists who knew the Indian style； so vivaciously and colorfully； that
338
blindness； the ageless sorrow and secret desire of the genuine miniaturist；
appeared to the observer as the prologue to a joyous celebration。
My eyes wandered over these pictures and volumes； no less with the
excitement of one who wanted to behold for himself these legends he’d heard
about for years than with the worry of an old man who sensed he would soon
enough never see anything more。 There； in the cold Treasury room suffused
with a dark red that I’d never seen before—caused by the color of the cloth
and dust within the peculiar light of the candles—I would occasionally cry out
in admiration； whereupon Black and the dwarf would rush to my side and
look over my shoulder at the magnificent page before me。 Unable to restrain
myself； I’d begin to explain：
“This color red belongs to the great master Mirza Baba Imami from Tabriz；
the secret of which he took with him to the grave。 He’s used it for the edges of
the carpet； the red of Alevi allegiance on the Persian Shah’s turban； and look；
it’s here on the belly of the lion on this page and on this pretty boy’s caftan。
Allah never directly revealed this fine red except when He let the blood of his
subjects flow。 So that we might wearily strive to find this variety of red that is
only visible to the naked eye on man…made cloth and in the pictures of the
greatest of masters； God did； however； consign its secret to the rarest of insects
living beneath stones；” I said and added； “Thanks be to Him who has now
revealed it to us。”
“Look at this；” I said much later； once again unable to refrain from showing
them a masterpiece—this one could’ve belonged in any collection of ghazals；
which spoke of love； friendship； spring and happiness。 We looked at the trees
of springtime blooming in an array of color； the cypresses in a garden
reminiscent of Heaven and the elation of the beloveds reclining in that garden
as they drank wine and recited poetry； it was as if we in the moldy； dusty and
icy Treasury could also smell those spring blossoms and the delicately scented
skin of the joyous revelers。 “Notice how the same artist who rendered the
forearms of the lovers； their beautiful naked feet； the elegance of their stances
and the lazy delight of the birds fluttering about them with such sincerity； also
made the crude shape of the cypress in the background！” I said； “This is the
work of Lütfi of Bukhara whose ill…temper and belligerence caused him to leave
each of his illustrations half finished； he fought with every shah and khan
claiming that they understood nothing of painting； and he never remained in
one city for long。 This great master went from one shah’s palace to another；
from city to city； quarreling all the way； never able to find a ruler whose book
was deserving of his talents； until he ended up in the workshop of an
339
inconsequential