این ادبیات یکدست نیست. م.سحر(محمد جلالی‌)

خشونت پرهیزی در تاریخ - رامین جهانبگلو

بحث رامین در باره بازخوانی فرهنگ عدم خشونت و رد یابی آن در ادبیات و شعر فارسی و در میان سخنان عرفای ایرانی برای تقویت اندیشه عدم خشونت در ایران معاصر بد نیست اما دچار اشکالات عدیده ای ست :
اـ اگر سعدی و مولوی نتوانسته اند حوزه های علیمیه روحانیت شیعه را از تولید آدم کش و شکنجه گر و قاتل از نوع خلخالی خمینی پورمحمدی ، فلاحیان ، طائب ، اژه ای موسوی تبریزی و دهها آخوند جنایتکار دیگر مانع شوند این نشان از حضور نیروی بسیار قوی تر و پر زور تری در این جامعه دارد که برای مولوی و سعدی و حافظ تره هم خرد نمی کند.
باید اول آن فرهنگ خشونتگرای دینی را بازخوانی و شناسایی کرد که به پشتوانه انستیتوسیون کهن و ریشه دار و گسترده و هولناکی به نام روحانیت در رواج و باز تولید آن طی قرن های متوالی کوشیده است .
2ـ صرف گفتن این که ما زرتشت را داشته ایم که ضد خشونت و مروج بی آزاری بوده ، نیز مشکلی را حل نمی کند زیرا بیش از هزار و چهارصد سال پیروان این پیامبر ایرانی در این کشور (یعنی در سرزمین خود) یا قتل عام شدند یا به هند گریختند و دربیابانها مردند یا مجبور به پرداخت جزیه و انواع سخت گیری ها و محدودیت های اجتماعی و سیاسیشدند یا محصور انواع فروبستگی های زندگی فردی و اجتماعی و اقتصادی و انواع فشارها یی بودند که آنان را ناگزیر و مجبور به پذیرش دین مهاجمان و میهمانان ناخوانده می کرد .
از همه ایرانیان زرتشتی 30 هزار تن بیشتر باقی نمانده اند آنهم پراکنده در روستاهای دور دست و پرت افتاده کوهستانی یا کویری نواحی مرکزی ایران.
بنا بر این فرهنگ آنها فرهنگ غالب نبوده و زیر تهاجم له شده است و آثار و نوشته ها و متون مقدس آنها بیش از 14 قرن از دسترس مردم دور مانده بوده است.
ایرانیان زرتشتی تا اول مشروطیت یعین تا 1900 میلادی همچنان محکوم به پرداختن جزیه (مالیات بد دینی و مالیات کفر) بودند و این باج ننگ آور همین در اوائل قرن بیستم برافتاد.
3ـ عرفا و سخن عرفا به جای خود ، اما از اندیشه عرفانی مساوات و به ویژه دموکراسی زاده نمی شود. زیرا سالک می باید همه وجود خود را به مراد و مرشد بسپارد و ولایت اصل عرفان است . ازین رو نمی توان سرنوشت کشوری را با اعتبار این که فلان پیر یا مراد خانقاهی انسان سلیم النفس و بی آزاری ست به انستیتوسیونی سپرد که بر بنیاد مرید و مرادی بنا شده است چنین بنایی سرانجام خواه و ناخواه سر از استبداد و خشونت و تک صدایی بیرون می آورد .
یک بار در دوره صفویه این اتفاق افتاد و سرنوشت کشور به دست فرزندان شیخ صفی الدین اردبیلی که خود مرشد و پیر خانقاه بود سپرده شد و قزلباش نه از آن رو که شهروندان ایران بودند بل از آن رو که مریدان شیخ صفی و سپس شاه اسماعیل و بقیه شاهان صفوی بودند(که نه فقط شاه که در حکم مرشدان اعظم آنان بودند) شمشیر می زدند و خشونتی که آنها در ایران اعمال کرده اند در تاریخ بی نظیر است. دوسوم مردم ایران را که شیعه نبودند به زور شمشیر قزلباش ها شیعه کردند. فرهنگ شعری و ادبی ایران در وجه غالبش ارتباطی به شیعه گری ندارد. نه سعدی شیعه بود نه حافظ نه مولوی نه خیام نه نظامی و نه عرفای بزرگ. فردوسی هم که حساب جداگانه دارد و بحث در باره تدین و شیوه اعتقادات دینی او هنوز بسته نشده است علاوه بر آن که شیعه در دوران فردوسی هیچ ارتباطی با آنچه از صفویه به بعد رایج شد ندارد. اسماعیله و زیدیه و علوی و فاطمی ها و غالی ها و انواع دیگر شیعیان در ایران مطلقا با شیعه دوازده امامی که ما می شناسیم و امروز سر از خمینیه و اوباشیه (تشیع مداحان) درآورده و برتخت شاهی ایران به نام فقیه تکیه زده است ندارد.
4ـ دوست نازنین مهربان و نرمخوی من فلسفه غربی را خوب می شناسد اما از ادبیات فارسی اطلاع چندانی ندارد ـ که البته عیب نیست ـ او غالب شعرهایی را که می خواند غلط می خواند و متأسفانه با غلط های فاحش.
این را از آن رو یاد آوری می کنیم که با توانایی اندک و آشنایی اندک از میراث عرفا و میراث شعرا (که مدام آنان را شُعران) می نامید نمی شود این فرهنگ را بازخوانی کرد و فلسفه و اندیشه عدم خشونت از آنها استخراج کرد. این کار سترگ به کسانی نیاز دارد که به این ادبیات مسلط باشند.
5ـ این ادبیات یکدست نیست. نیم بیشتر شاعران مدیحه سرا کارشان ترغیب شاهان به جنگ ها و اعمال خشونت بوده است. در میان شاعران بزرگ هم افکار ضد و نقیض فراوان است و فقط به یک نکته در باره مشهور ترین شاعر نرمخو و انساندوست ما یعنی سعدی برای آشنایی با این حقیقت کافی ست جایی که سعدی در بوستان داستان گذارش به معبد سومنات و کشف فریبکاری راهبی بودایی یا هندو ی بت پرستی را روایت می کند که با استفاده از فن و نیرنگ مجسمه ای (بُتی) را به گفتار وادار می کرد و آن را اعجاز بت خود وامی نمود و سعدی حکایت می کند که چگونه در معبد مخفی شده راهب را کشته و بت را شکسته است هرچند این داستان تخیلی ست اما توجیه قتل نفس برای در راه دین (نهی از منکر و در این داستان شکستن بت) است . یا بارها همین سعدی نرم خو و انساندوست ما از یهودی به زشتی یاد می کند و مولوی نیز همینطور. بنا بر این کار به این سادگی ها هم نیست.
6 حقیقت این است که ما در تاریخمان فرهنگ گاندی پرور اگر هم بوده است از 1400 سال به این سو و تهاجم عرب در موقعیت فرو دست و ضعیف و رو به نابودی بوده است.. شاعران و نویسندگان و هنرمندان هرچه کوشیده اند نتوانسته اند به زور و نیروی اهریمنی فقیهان و مفتیان و متولیان رسمی دین چیرگی یابند. هموار ه در فضای خفقانی که آنها ایجاد می کردند زیسته اند. نگذاشتند فردوسی را در گورستان مسلمانان دفن کنند. نگذاشتند خیام در گورستان مسلمانان دفن شود. سهروردی و عین القضاة را کشته اند و خیلی های دیگر را. شعر خیام منتشر نشد. حافظ دیوانش را جمع نکرد و مدام از ترس تکفیر به خود می لرزید . و ناصرخسرو گفت:
ازشاه زی فقیه چنان بود رفتنم
کز بیم مور در دهن اژدها شدم
7ـ رفیق ما از همه نام برد از حافظ که آزاده ترین شاعر و حتی شاید بتوان گفت که بیش از سعدی مروج بی آزاری ست حتی اسم هم نبرد.
آسایش دوگیتی تفسیر این دو حرف است
با دوستان مروت ، با دشمنان مدارا
زامین جان حافظ را دقیق تر بخوان.
8ـ نمی خواهم بد بین باشم اما این گوهرها ی یکدانه ادب و شعر و عرفان در زیر خروار ها فرهنگ جهل و خشونت و تعصب و بی عدالتی و آز ، که مروج آن نهاد روحانیت شیعه است محصور و دفن اند. آنها 35 سال است صاحب قدرت سیاسی شده و بر هست و نیست این کشور و این ملت تسلط یافته اند. آنها اهل مدارا نیستند. آنها خود را نماینده خدا و اگر پیش بیاید خودِ خدا می دانند و بدون هیچ گونه عذاب وجدان مثل آب خوردن آدم می کشند و برای حفظ حکومت حاضرند ایران را به سوی جنگ و نابودی ببرند. اتفاق عجیب و استثنایی و منحوسی که در تاریخ ایران افتاد آن بود که قدرت استبداد شاه با استبدا دینی(یعنی با نیروی دینی که در دست روحانیت بود و سابقا به موازات با قدرت شاه و گاهی مدافع استبداد شاه بود) امروز یکی شده است. تخت و منبر یکی ست. نیروی استبداد سنتی شاه که عرفی بود با استبداد دینی باهم یکی شده و ظلمت و تباهی و جور و وحشتی که سی و پنج سال است بر ایران حاکم است نتیجه این اتفاق شوم و بد یمن است.
عدم خشونت از حاکمان دینی مسلط بر ایران انتظار نتوان داشت. لا اقل باید این را دانست.
زیرا تجربه 35 ساله چنین می گوید.
9ـ جای دیگری در یک حاشیه فیسبوکی در همین ارتباط نوشته بودم در اینجا هم تکرار می کنم که :
وقتی تبلیغ عدم خشونت به نفع خشونت حاکم تمام می شود ، دیگر ترویج عدم خشونت نیست تداوم و استمرار خشونت حاکمان است . النصر بالرعب حکومت ایدئولوژیک و متحجر و قساوتگر حاکم هیچ فرصتی برای پیروزی عدم خشونت باقی نمی نهد. این شعار در شرایط حکومت آخوند ها تیغ دو دم است که دم رو به مردم و رو به آزادی اش تیز تر و برنده تر است.
ایران خمینیستی نه هند استعمار زدۀ انگلیس است و نه آفریقای جنوبی نژاد گرا ی سفید . جدا از این در کشور ما نه گاندی هست نه فرهنگ گاندی و نه ماندلا و نه فرهنگی که ماندلا و مبارزات سیاها (در آمریکا و آفریقا و مستغمرات ماوراء بحار اروپایی) بر آن تکیه داشتند. می ترسم این رفیق ما اندکی سوراخ دعا را گم کرده باشد. تا حالا که اعقاب فلسفه دان و فلسفه گزاران ایرانی او در کشور ما هنر درخشانی نکرده اند. انجمن فلسفه شاهنشاهی سر انجام به فلسفه اسلامی تغییر نام داد و درخدمت دیسکور سازی برای اوجب واجبات خمینیه یعنی حفظ نظام در آمد. پیش از آن هم علمدار بازگشت به خویش و آنچه خود داشت و غرب زدگی و اسلامیسم فلسفی نما ی امت و امامت گرا بود و آخر خطش به یک عنصر پست بدخیم به نام احمد فردید ختم شد که پرورش دهنده شکنجه گران و بازپرسان نظام اسلامی بود و برای قتل و غارت و ویرانگری حاکمان نورسیده فلسفه می بافت و دکان زرق و شیادی اش را اداره می کرد. بازهم اگر در عرصه فکر نو در ایران اتفاقی افتاده است همان هایی ست که مشروطه خواهان مبتکر و مروجش بودند. امیدوارم دوست عزیز رامین جهانبگلو که می دانم افکار نرمش گرایانه و عدم خشونت او ریشه در روحیه لطیف و آرام خودش دارد اما باید در نظر بگیرد که جامعه ما یک لجنزار است که قدیسش دستور تجاوز به دختران زندانی می دهد پیش از آن که بالغ و نا بالغ و و حتی بار دار در میان آنها را تیرباران کند. از عدم خشونت درجایی می توان سخن گفت که تعادل میان قوای ظالم و مظلوم برقرار باشد . تعادل فکری فرهنگی روحی و اخلاقی. در حکومت ملاها چنین تعادلی میان ملت ایران و حکام جنایت پیشۀ دینی بر قرار نیست . اشتباه نشود. منظور دفاع از خشونت نیست اما یک جانبه سخن از عدم خشونت گفتن نتیجه اش آن می شود که قربانی ی ظلم همواره قربانی ئخواهد ماند و ظالم در ظلم خود جری تر و نصر خود را بیش از پیش به رعبی که برجامعه مسلط کرده مستظهر و متکی تر خواهد ساخت. م.سحر(محمد جلالی‌)

میرزاده عشقی‌ شاعر ملی‌ و نویسنده نامدار Mirzadeh Eshghi Iranian national poet and writer

 میرزاده عشقی‌ شاعر ملی‌ و نویسنده نامدار

(بقلم آقای سعید نفیسی استاد دانشگاه تهران)

"متولد سال ۱۲۷۴ خورشیدی در تهران"

چندی پس از ختم جنگ اول گویا دیگر همه مهاجرین به ایران برگشته بودند و من تنها با چند تن از ایشان بمناسباتی پیش از آنکه از تهران بروند آشنا شده بودم. در آنموقع حیدر علی‌ کمالی اصفهانی‌ در لاله‌زار در محلی که روبروی مسجد است دکان کوچکی داشت که در آن چای فروشی میکرد. چون شاعر بود و با آزادیخواهان نیز روابطی داشت و در آن‌زمان لاله‌زار یگانه گردشگاه عصرها و اول شب‌های تهران بود ناچار جوانان هم سن من از رفتن بدانجا دریغ نمیکردند و از شما چه پنهان کسانی‌ بودند که ممکن بود هر چیز را ترک بکنند مگر آنکه اول شب به لاله‌زار بروند

هر یک از دکانها و مغازه‌های لاله‌زار یکعده باصطلاح "خوش نشین" داشت یعنی‌ کسانیکه چند ساعت در آنجا می‌‌نشستند، چای میخوردند و سیگار می‌کشیدند
و زنان چادر بسر را تماشا میکردند. اما این را هم بدانید که گاهی از ورود زن به لاله‌زار مانع می‌شدند و گاهی هم قرار میگذاشتند که زنان تنها از دست راست خیابان بروند و مردان از دست چپ. دکان کمالی در دست چپ خیابان بود و ما می‌توانستیم آزاد در آنجا بمانیم
کمالی بیش از چهار صندلی در دکان خود نداشت. بر یکی‌ از آنها خود او می‌‌نشست و اگر کسی‌ هم از آسمان نازل میشد جای خود را به او نمیداد. ناچار هر یک از جوانان که زودتر رفته و جای گرفته بودیم بمحض اینکه مسن تاری یا محترمتری وارد میشد برمیخاستیم و جای خود را به او میدادیم
یکی‌ از شب‌ها عارف وارد شد. عارف با کمالی میان خوب نداشت، اما حفظ ظاهر را میکرد، یعنی‌ آنروزها هنوز خشک و خشن و بدبین و بد معاشرت نشده بود و تا اندازه‌ای رفتار ظاهری پسندیده‌ای داشت. جوانی هم با عارف بود که چون جا نبود ننشست، من جای خود را به عارف داده بودم، با این جوان شانه به شانه قرار گرفتیم
ظاهرش حکم میکرد که دو سه سالی‌ جوانتر از من است، لباس اروپایی (کت و شلوار) پوشیده و کراوات درشت رنگارنگی زده بود و روی لباس عبای نازکی در برداشت
عارف حس کرد که من این جوان را نمی‌شناسم، حق داشت زیرا که تا آنروز ویرا ندیده بودم. گویا پیش از رفتن بمهاجرت به تهران نیامده بود و خانواده‌اش در همدان بودند و او در همدان بمهاجرین ملحق شده بود. عارف با صدای بم و لحن عصبانی‌ بی‌‌صبرانه‌ای که داشت او را بمن معرفی کرد و گفت: "میرزاده عشقی‌، از رفقای مهاجرت ماست." پس از مختصر درنگی با لحنی که اندک تحقیری در آن بود گفت:  "ایشان شاعر هم هستند  ."

 چیزیکه در سراپای عشقی‌ برای من تازگی داشت این بود که موهای سرش را گذاشته بود که از اطراف گوش و سر و گردن بلند شود چنانکه پشت گردن او پیدا نبود
در آن‌زمان برخی‌ از هنرمندن اروپا مخصوصا در فرانسه، بیشتر نقاشان و موسیقیدانان موی سر خود را اینطور می‌زدند، همین میرساند که عشقی‌ اصراری دارد همه بدانند او شاعر است، اما دریغا که در آن‌زمان در ایران کسی‌ نمی‌دانست که این علامت شاعری است!
عشقی‌ نزدیک عارف رفت و در گوش او چیزی گفت، من فورا پی‌ بردم که نام مرا از او پرسید زیرا بمحض اینکه عارف جواب داد فورا بهمان جای اول نزد من برگشت و دست پرشوری بمن داد و گفت در استانبول نام مرا از مرحوم لاهوتی و حسن مقدم شنیده است. در آن‌زمان لاهوتی و حسن مقدم مجله بسیار جالبی‌ در استانبول به دو زبان فارسی و فرانسه بنام (پارس) چاپ میکردند و از هر شماره چند نسخه پیش من میفرستادند که در میان خواستاران تقسیم بکنم و کمالی هم در این کار با من شرکت داشت.
میانه من و عشقی‌ همان شب گرفت و تا عشقی‌ زنده بود معاشرتهای بسیار نزدیک با او داشتیم ، پس از اندک گفتگو باو پیشنهاد کردم برویم با هم در جایی‌ قدری بنشینیم فورا پذیرفت. در انموقع تنها جایی‌ که ممکن بود کسی‌ در آن بنشیند و چیزی بخورد و راحت بکند، دو مهمانخانه در خیابان اعلا الدله آنروز و خیابان فردوسی امروز بود که یکی‌ را یک خانواده فرانسوی (وارنه) اداره میکرد و مهمانخانه پاریس "هتل دوپاری" نام داشت و دیگری را مردی بلژیکی (فیلکس) که مهمانخانه فرانسه "هتل دوفرانس" میگفتند و هتل دوپاری باصطلاح پاتوق من و معاشرین من بود.
با عشقی‌ بانجا رفتیم، در کنار تالار بزرگ مهمانخانه که در وسط آن یک میز بیلیارد هم گذاشته بود و صندلیها را ردیف، پای دیوارها چیده بودند نشستیم. از بس آنجا رفته بودم خانم وارنه که مهمانخانه را اداره میکرد نسبت بمن توجه خاصی‌ داشت و فورا دستور پذیرایی از من و مهمانم را میداد. از عشقی‌ پرسیدم چه میل دارد؟ بی‌ رودربایستی گفت: "یک شیر قهوه" 
با او شیر قهوه‌ای خوردیم و یک ساعتی‌ گفتگو کردیم. برخی‌ از بلاهایی که در سفر مهاجرت بر سرش آمده بود برای من تعریف کرد. اصرار کردم از اشعار خود چیزی بخوانند. گفت: "اینجا مناسب نیست. فرنگی‌ها دور مارا گرفته اند، وقت دیگر برایتان می‌خوانم."
در آن‌زمان هنوز عشقی‌ در تهران معروف نشده و تازه مشغول شده بود اشعار رستاخیز یا ایوان مدائن را که بقول خودش (نمایش تمام آهنگی) نام گذشته بود بسازد، هنوز خانه و زندگی‌ مرتبی نداشت و در این مدت هرگز ندانستم در کجا زندگی‌ می‌کند زیرا مطلقاً اشاره‌ای به این مطلب نمیکرد.
مدت‌ها عشقی‌ حتی در شاعری تکلیف خود را نمی‌دانست، سرگردان بود و روش خاصی‌ را هنوز اختیار نکرده بود، گاهی غزل پر شوری میگفت و گاهی قطعه‌ای در هجو این و آن می‌سرود. پیداست کسیکه زندگی‌ را بدان دشواری آغاز کرده، چندی در غربت و ناکامی زیسته، از خانواده و وطن دور مانده، دست و پایی‌ را که دیگران برای اداره کردن خود دارا بودند نداشته است باید بسیار بدبین و زودرنج و کم حوصله‌‌ باشد. بهمین جهت عشقی‌ هنوز دوست پیدا نکرده و احیانا این و آن را هم از خود رنجانیده بود.
گاهی قطعاتی را که در هجو این و آن میگفت بسیار دلازار و تند و بیباکانه بود، کسانیکه این اشعار بنعفشان بود آنها را در دست گرفته و در شهر می‌گرداندند و ناچار آن کسیکه مورد آزار عشقی‌ قرار گرفته بود سخت میرنجید. مدت‌ها عشقی‌ وسیله کینه توزی دسته‌ای نسبت بدسته دیگر شده بود.
این شدت عمل که در شاعری داشت در زندگی‌ او محسوس بود، مناعت طبع را با درشت خوئی توام کرده بود و بهمین جهت هرگز نتوانست زندگی‌ آرام و مرفه داشته باشد. بسیار گشادباز و دست و دل باز بود، هرچه عایدش میشد در چند ساعت تمام میکرد و هرگز اندوخته فردا را نداشت. دوست بسیار کم داشت و ما دوستان معدود او هر چه کوشیدیم سروسامانی بکار او بدهیم خود او نگذاشت.
از همه گذشته مرد بسیار ساده و زودفریبی بود و هر کس به او اندکی‌ روی خوش نشان میداد می‌توانست وی را بنفع خود برانگیزد و جان خود را بر سر همین کار گذشت گاهی که اشعار بسیار بلندی از طبع او میتراوید و بسیار معروف میشد نمیتوانست این ناسازگاریهای ویرا جبران بکند و می‌توان گفت هنر او بهدر میرفت و من از میان سخن سرایان این دوره تاکنون کسی‌ را ندیده‌ام که هنر خویشتن را بدینگونه حرام کرده باشد.
تهران - ۱۷ بهمن ماه ۱۳۳۷
سعید نفیسی

میرزاده عشقی‌ نامش سید محمد رضا فرزند حاج سید ابو القاسم کردستانی در تاریخ دوازدهم جمادی الآخر سال ۱۳۱۲ هجری قمری مطابق ۱۲۷۲ خورشیدی و سال ۱۸۹۳ میلادی در شهر همدان متولد شده است
کلیات مصور
مشیر سلیمی

 

Thousand and one Nights - In the passage of time

In the passage of time everybody is constantly
looking for a Lost One. The Lover is in search of
his Sweetheart, the Heart looks for its Wishes, the
Conqueror for New Lands, the Archaeologist for
a Rotting Bracelet, the Poet for his Vision,and the
Devil in quest of All. 
I too for a lifetime have been lookin for my Lost One 
Everyone I have asked has given me some little clue-a clue based on the model of his own Lost One.
Someone would say "He was a tall, thin boy with hollow cheeks, who would sit at the door of a log-cabin and tell stories to little children."
a gravedigger said: "He was a coffin-maker. He built the coffin in which his mother was buried. He himself had dug the grave. Many a day, after his work was done, he would lie on the grave with his cheek on the wet soil, quietly talking to his Lost One. It was as if he were making a vow of some sort".  
One neighbor, a midwife, told me that the boy was born under an unlucky star. He brought ill luck to others. The night I cut off his
umbilical cord, the Great Master died. He sure was an ill-starred boy.
A forester said: "He was a true son of the woods. He cut down tall trees with a few powerful strokes of his axe. Giant trees fell before him, but he never struck a blow at young saplings."  
An old gardener said to me:  "He was an apprentice of mine."
He loved grafting trees and rose bushes. He would water even the lowliest thorn bushes. Once I pulled out a bush. He looked at me with accusing, sad eyes. I told him thorns sucked in precious water, weakened the soil, without producing anything. He said, "Yes, but if you take the trouble to graft them, they bring forth the most beautiful flowers". He actually had made several grafts on the thorn-bushes with amazing results. The flowers he developed from his experiments turned out to be some of the most beautiful gems I ever saw. He was in love with all sorts of creepers. He would be terrible upset, although quietly so, if he ever caught me uprooting creepers. He would say large trees, with intertwined branches, were the true offenders. These were the bullies, he said, which absorbed all the sunlight, letting the young saplings starve in the dark. These giants, he would point out, sucked up all the water in the ground, all the food provided by Nature within the soil. They were so greedy that, they would not let a drop of water reach the smaller, weaker plants. In this, the tall young man said, gardeners helped the bullies, fed their egos and made it possible for them to go on robbing the young trees from sustenance. Little by little, the saplings lost their strength, they underwent a complete transformation and became creepers; gradually they started winding around the huge trees, going up, up, up until they found light-, life-giving sunlight.
“He felt sorry for trees shaded by tall walls and always ministered to them. These, he said, were the orphans of the garden.
“The thorns, he claimed, were the flowers of unfulfilled wishes, the blooms unreached by rain, the buds of the gardener`s wrath. They strove ever so hard to bring forth flowers, to bloom, to make Nature the more beautiful for their existence-but in vain. They rebelled, they became bitter. That is why they sting anybody rash enough to approach them or step on them. They consider men unjust gardeners.”
In the passage of time everybody is constantly
Looking for a lost One: the Creeper is in search of
Sunlight, the Flower for the fall, the Spider for
The Fly and the Devil in quest of all.
I too for a lifetime have been looking for my Lost One
A farmer told me, "He used to be my farmhand. He ploughed the field with very deep furrows; he sowed, but so very carefully, so conscientiously. He believed that if a farmer gave thanks to the Lord for his blessings he would reap a thousand grains for each seed he showed. He worked on my farm for a while and during this time my crops flourished and my bread tasted better than ever. He believed arid lands cursed the heavens by night and men by day. Once I walked through a saline stretch with him. He told me saline land was made by the tears of slaves."
A grocer said, “He was one of us. He always tinkered with our scales to see that they were accurate and that people got their money`s worth.”
Widows recalled that when they went to buy tobacco, the tall young man would take infinite pains to see that the tobacco was measured exactly to the specified amount.
Attendants of book stores called him exasperating He would buy a book, they said, and return it the next day for another book. Thus, with the price of one, he read a whole library of books. However, they all agreed, when he returned a book, it was as good as new, as if no human hands had touched it. He knew the kind of book he wanted and warned book stores against selling books of the Devil`s authorship.
He believed that Satan found his way into man`s thoughts through liquor, through thought into the pen and through the pen into the soul of man.
He maintained that Satan had chosen this way in order to undermine and disrupt God`s works.
One day he bought a book and the next day he burned it. When asked why he destroyed it, he replied: “It was poisonous.” He believed every man first became a slave in his own mind and then he was shackled. He was asked once whether he had written anything. "I am illiterate", he replied. However, between the leaves of a book, a beautiful, unfinished piece of poetry was found, proving his literary talent.
I talked to a number of blacksmiths. They said he was a very good customer. He would buy a new axe once in a short while. But he would admonish them against making chains. These he hated more than anything else. Whoever makes chains, prison bars, shackles, fetters, handcuffs,” he would say, "is God`s enemy; He won`t be forgiven."
He ordered his axes of the purest, the hardest steel, and then he himself would sharpen and hone them. He loved the axe and hated the chain.
Some of his townsfolk told me he had been a mailman. An old man said he would always carry the mail in his hat – why? Nobody seemed to know. A minister said he did that probably because he thought of letters as living things, made up of people`s hopes, wishes, tears, moments of expectation, sorrows, heartbeats, nervous tensions, the souls `whispers. He probably could not bear to imprison in a mailbag a mother`s heart, a child`s look, a bride`s joy…he always carried the mail on foot. One last Sunday evening, however, his townsfolk saw him riding a horse, carrying in his hand a long roll of paper. That was the last they saw of him. 
A coppersmith told me my Lost One would go to his shop in the evening and sits by the fire and read until very late at night. Sometimes he would talk and praise the work of the coppersmith, but he spoke bitterly of the blacksmiths und their chains, fetters and shackles, of the tanners… with their lashes and whips.
One day I saw a big, heavily-built man riding in a gilt coach. I stopped the carriage and asked him about my Lost One. He stared at me angrily. "No use looking for him," he said, "You will never find him!" I was about to tear him to pieces, when his coachman bent down and whispered in my ear: "Be careful, don`t fight him. He is a voodoo charmer. He can put a spell over you, just as he did on the man you are looking for. I`m in his power, too."
I knew that my Lost One had once been a lawyer. I thought I would go and see some members of that profession. When I entered the courtroom I found bedlam. A slave was on trial for having blinded himself in one eye. The present owner had sued the former for damages.
He had documents to show the court that the former owner had guaranteed to take the slave back by making complete refund of the price, minus one dollar, if the slave suffered any bodily harm or disability within a year after the transaction was made. The present owner had paid 23 dollars for the slave. The former owner was prosecuting the slave for having disabled himself, intentionally, with criminal intent.
I listened for a while and then boldly interrupted the proceedings.
I approached the judge and asked him for my Lost One. He frowned, looked at me severely and said in a cold voice: “Many years ago we had somebody of that description among us. He was an attorney, an autocratic one, a trouble maker. Whenever he came to court, he committed all sorts of improprieties. He insulted the court, the law and whatever stands for justice. He would look at the Angel of Justice, holding the sword and the balance. He would accuse the Angel of being blind to real Justice; he would touch her sword and point out that only one edge of the sword was sharp, the other edge was blunt and ineffective.
In the passage of time everybody is constantly
Looking for a Lost One: The Judge for his Conscience
The Etcher for Ivory, Solomon for his Ring, the Dove
For its Cage, the Drunk for the Marshal, the Devil
In quest of All
I too for a lifetime have been looking for my Lost One
My Lost One was a Gypsy. I thought I would look for him among that tribe.
An old Gypsy said, "Oh, yes. He was a cousin of ours. His mother`s mother ran away and was led by the Devil to some large city. She was a simple-hearted woman, like all Gypsies. We never found out what became of her. We only learned some time later, that her daughter had given birth to a son, a child – we were told – who brought ill lock to everything he touched. He visited us for a while.
He was a real Gypsy, always true to Romany ways, never assuming alien manners, never getting intoxicated by the opium of so-called "civilization."  The day he was visiting with us, we saw him softly cry as he watched a young calf die."
I approached an old Gypsy woman, who was mending her tent while her kettle was boiling on the fire.
"Yes, yes, I remember him,” she said." One day he let me look at his palm – a very strange palm. It palm was cut in two by two curved lines. I couldn`t make out what they were or what they represented.
I asked my Old Master; he too, was baffled. I knew he was in love, but I never could find out the name of his sweetheart. His eyes were deep like the ocean, full of tribulations of sadness and other emotions.
He breathed like a baby; he was tall and straight like a reed. 
On his forehead his sparse hair fell in the shape of a cross. He looked as if he carried the burden of Man`s sorrow upon his powerful shoulders.
His hands were calloused and so were his heels. O insisted upon tying an amulet on his powerful biceps. He quietly smiled and let me. I also saw a mole upon the corner of his mouth.
My Lost One was basically an ascetic. I thought I would find traces of him among the Indian fakirs After a long search, I found a Grand Old Man who was pointed out to me as the prophet of prophets among the holy men of India. He told me, however, that my Lost One had been his own Great Master. "He was the Real Fakir", he said, "We worldly desires. But he tortured himself to awaken, to revive the soul of man. We could never find out his secret. We are submitting to pain and bodily hardship for complete obliteration, for death. He underwent his hardship to end death and suffering a true Buddha. But he was not a Prince. He was born in a log-cabin, not a palace. He was born on a mat, not on a feather bed. His first sight of the world was the sour frown of the midwife, not the smile of an overjoyed, proud father.
"We accept to our circle only those who belong to us, the initiated."
He destroyed circles, conventions, barriers. He wanted all to belong to the same circle, all to be safe guarders of the same Secret – the eternal Secret of Life.
"He believed Life was a gift of God." Whoever, under any pretext rebelled against Life, wasted it. Whoever despised Life or hated it was Love and breaking hearts was a great Sin. He believed Life was beautiful and ugliness only in the imagination of Man. Yea he was in love with life, but never its slave. (And only God cans love life without being its slave.)
"Now, if you want to find him you must get admittance to the presence of the Buddha."
"If you so strongly believe in the doctrine of my Lost One,” I asked, “why don`t you follow his ways?"
"One of us has been able to do so and has made great progress toward perfection. He always followed the Master, kissed his hand and listened to his counsel. Hi is a freed slave. We too are trying to achieve this former slave`s stage of perfection."
"Tell me his name!"
"The Disgraced One of India."
I set out to find Buddha. As I was passing by a maharaja`s palace, I heard a commotion and the wail of a young voice.
I soon found a group of people following a young girl who was being dragged by the hair by a pair of terrible-looking executioners to let her go, without heeding the lashing that was inflicted on her by a eunuch. I soon found out she had been a new addition to the maharaja`s harem and bad tried to escape when asked to submit to the ultimate desire of the king. "Let her go, let her go," wailed the mother. “She is only a child; she fled only because she was scared!” 
I followed them from a distance until we came to the huge gates of an ancient palace. An armed guard in a splendid uniform stopped me. I told him I was looking for a Lost One and described him the best I could. Hi listened very carefully and then seemed to remember something. "Oh, yes," he said, "I think I know whom you mean. Many years ago we had a man like that who caused us a lot of trouble.
He would come by night and walk around the palace walls. He was a suspicious character. He probably had a sister in the maharaja´s harem and was trying to help her escape. The chief of the guard does not like suspicious characters. The prowler was thrown into the Send."
In the passage of time everybody is constantly
Looking for a Lost One: The Gypsy for his Star,
the Fakir for Extinction, the Lips for a Kiss, the
Kiss for the Harem, the Preacher for the Bier, the
Devil in quest of All.
I continued my search. I walked, I rode and I sailed until at last I found myself in the presence of the Great Buddha. I threw myself at his feet, I kissed his hand, I begged, I implored and I could retain myself no longer – I broke down and wept like a child. Between sobs I managed to tell him of my mission. I said, "In your creed there is no sin greater than breaking a heart…"
"Get up my son, said the Buddha in a calm, penetrating voice."
"I know what you are looking for. He is a Secret that is hidden in my Silence. He is a Melody that can only be found in the strings of my Harp. You can only find him of you can become quicker than the Breeze, more versatile than Thought and deeper than Silence. He bent down and wrote with his finger in the soft sand: “He is Eternity."
Even the wildlife in the forest came to know of my search for the Lost One. One day I overheard a pair of pheasants talking to each other. It went something like this:
"Do you know whom he is looking for?"
"No how should I know?"
"No wonder, you were a little baby then. He is looking for one of our pupils. He was a child then. We taught him how to fly. Sometimes we had little fights and quarrels. But he always mended the quarrel with a sweet smile and gathered the most delicious seeds for us."
I came upon a group of hares. They recalled that he always shared his food with them and sometimes he went hungry to make sure they had plenty to eat.
A quilt-maker told me he had sold a quilt to my Lost One on credit.
"Our agreement was for him to pay for the quilt after death, in Heaven. However, he came and paid his debt in a short while right in this world."
An eviction agent said he had known my Lost One. "He was the poorest man I ever knew. Once I served him an eviction order.
His wife was about to deliver a child. He had no money to call a midwife. They had no food, nothing. Just then a man came with a bagful of double eagles for a retainer. He glanced at the legal folder and send the man away, refusing the gold – gold that would have solved all his problems and probably saved the life of his wife and the yet unborn babe. It seemed a group of slave merchants, knowing of his plight had tried to tease him by offering him a case.
His wife scolded him. If he didn´t think of her, at least he should think of the baby, she said. This sort of thing happened many times and his answer to his
"Your children and mine are God´s lambs; He will care for them."
An old shepherd told me he had known my Lost One. "He was a poet, always thinking, always brooding. He would come to us and sit by the spring, compose verse and music and caress little lambs.
"I would play his music on my reed. It was magic. Sheep would dance with joy and lick their young ones. Other shepherds lear ed his songs and as they played his tunes, they noticed a marked increase in their milk production and the lambs grew and fattened very rapidly."
My search took me to the graveyard. Suddenly I found His Name on a tombstone – it belonged to an unfortunate girl.
I trembled like a leaf. I fell down in tears. I heard a soft, tortured voice. It was the girl`s.  

I too am looking for him, even through the grave. He is my Idol. If you ever find him, kiss the print of my lips upon his forehead.
On it I found the warmth of compassion; in his eyes the glow of virtue; in his heart the melody of peace and serenity; and in his silence the Glory of God.”
I have looked everywhere, have left no stone unturned. My trail criss - crosses the entire globe. Following a long caravan, I arrived at Samarkand one day; the day when they held their weekly fair. There was a lot of yelling, shouting laughing, haggling, quarrelling. The noise was terrific. The clang of chains, the jingle of gold coins, the wail of the slave girls, the monotonous drone of middlemen, the crash of the whip…
One night, after a hard climb, i reached the top of Mount Qaf and was treated as a quest by Anga, the Benevolent Lord of all Birds.
He knew what I was looking for. He looked at me with his piercing eyes of fire and said:
"The One you are seeking was my brother, but he was much stronger though, and flew much higher. I take pride in the fact that I never hurt any living creature, but he went much further than that. He brought the bullies and their victims together, taught them not to hurt and not to get hurt, but live in peace and harmony, help one another and make life pleasant for all."
Once my Lost One had been a caravan leader; he led the caravan of Love and Friendship. He had been a merchant; he dealt in Compassion and Hope.
I went to visit the various warring tribes I had heard of, the Yellow-Robe, the Black-Robe, the Red-Robe and the White-Robe. They had all seen him and each claimed he had arisen from their tribe.
The Great Chieftain of the Whit-Robe stood up and angrily shouted, "No, he was definitely one of us!"
The Leader of the Red-Robe said: "He grew up among us. We all loved him dearly. The night he was born our Wise Man dreamed that the Sun rose at midnight and lighted the entire world. He said this was the sign of Mankind`s salvation. We tired to keep the boy with us so that the Sun would not go away. The White-Robe wouldn`t let us. They took him away from us."
The Chief of the Black-Robe began to speak; "He made the most beautiful mirrors, reflecting clear, sharp images, but colorless. We brought him over to make us a big mirror. He came and did as we begged him The White-Robe were jealous; they broke his mirror.
"He was a dyer. He took yarn of a thousand colors and put them all in his dying vat and made them all the same color. In his mirror all colors looked alike.
"Most of our boys are named after him and most of our girls after his mother. 
"Our women put their babies to sleep singing his melodies as lullabies. On the arms of our young men and on the breasts of our girls we tattoo his symbol and eternal reminder – an axe;-exactly on the spot where previously they branded us for slaves.
"His mirror made everyone look beautiful. However, not once did he feel happy looking at his own face in the mirror."
The Chief of the Red-Robe recalled that my Lost One had been a composer of music.
"He composed a thousand beautiful tunes, all in the same key; all different, all fresh, but all blending into one Great Song."
A Yellow – Robe lady summed up the feeling of her tribe by saying, “His voice was that of the Buddha.”
The Wise man of the White-Robe, thinking deeply before speaking, said: "He truly was the Voice of the Church Bell."
I went to Baghdad and approached the Palace of the "Thousand and one Nights." It was shortly before dawn and the guard was asleep. I climbed the high wall, dropped into the garden and located Scheherazade’s chamber. She was telling one of her stories. The Sultan was already nodding. I began to speak; Scheherazade put her finger to her lips, bidding me to keep quiet. The executioner fell finally asleep. The beautiful girl got up and we left together. She was terribly tired. Her eyes were swollen. We sat under a jasmine tree in the garden. Without waiting for me to speak, she said:

"Your Lost One is the ultimate image of the dreams of my tales heroes. I can only show you his picture in dreams, in hopes and in wishes."

She got up and led me to the slave market. "You can find him in the minds of these slaves, these unfortunate human beings.

There I witnessed a scene highly reminiscent of the one I had seen in Samarkand.

Scheherazade led me to a slave girl, who hung her head in shame as the slave merchant displayed her body to all and sundry, inviting them to touch the softness of her skin, to pinch her supple muscles. There was a long procession of lusty men doing just that and then leaving. Nobody seemed to want to buy her.

Large drops of tear fell on the burning sand and rose in vapor. Scheherazade said: "Your Lost One sails on a sea of such tears."
The slave girl looked up for a second with her large eyes and murmured softly: "He is more than that; he is my God."
There, too, a handsome man was eloquently praising the merits of the slaves, just like Junal in Samarkand. Scheherazade pointed him out to me, whispering: "Look at him. He is abud Lama."
She then took me to the land of Pharaohs. We sat by the Blue Nile under the shade of a tree. The sun beat on that land with the intensity of God`s wrath.
Pointing to the waves, Scheherazade said, “This is the bed of your Lost One`s Soul. He walked along these shores by night, finding the Nile a torrent of tears and blood. He told strange tales of the pyramids. It is a pity I can`t use those in my stories for the Sultan. He wants stories about beautiful damsels with ruby lips, ivory skins, large dark eyes, silk hair, marble legs, he wants to hear about a lassoed deer, an agitated heart, a hero lying in blood, a fly in the cobweb, and otherwise he will get bored and kill me.”
She took me to the slave market. The stench was suffocating."I am sure God has the gates of Heaven shut at night to keep this smell away,” she said, sadly smiling. She showed me a platform, where, she said, Joseph had stood on the day he was sold to the Pharaoh`s household.
The King of the storks told me that they had known my Lost One. "At sunset," he said "he would come to us and ask us about our sorrows. We would tell him that sorrows had come to us from generation to generation from our Land of Origin"
"I went to visit museums. They were full of chains, fetters, handcuffs, machines of torture and destruction; but nowhere could I find an axe or a file. Museum attendants, like the woodcutters, had never heard of him. In one museum I found the deed I had seen in the courthouse where the Negro slave was on trial. Now it was nicely framed and hung on the wall. At the top of the document the Lord`s Name was printed in beautiful, large gilt script, as large and as beautiful as God Himself. I counted thirteen seals, each bearing God`s Big Children:
Solomon`s sword, Nero`s tear bottle, Pharaoh`s snuff box, Cleopatra`s vanity case, Alexander`s bier, Genghis Khan`s spurs, all embellished the museum. I begged and implored until the attendant consented to let me take a picture of the framed deed. As I was leaving, he drew me aside and told me I could have the original if I paid him enough money.

In the passage of time everybody is constantly

Looking for a Lost One: Eyes look for the Mirror,

the Dyer for the Tint, Scheherazade for the Executioner,  

the Executioner for Sleep, the Stork for Sorrow,

the Museum Attendant for the  Deed, the Devil in quest of All.

FKS