Opening; In Praise of the King; Why This Tale Was Written

Shagufa-e-Mohabbat

In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate.

The praise of the Sustainer is a brimming ocean, a sea without visible shore. Great swimmers have dived into it, each has filled his vessel according to its size and carried it off on his head; none has found its bottom or seen its shore, and whoever pressed further was swept under. Glorious is His majesty! This road is finer than a hair; on it the sight of the far-seeing is dazzled. As the master of inner meaning [TN: Rumi] says:

Born in the spring, it dies in the pain of autumn;
How should the gnat know whose garden this is? [Persian]

In boyhood there is no discernment; youth is known to be mad; in the season of youth nothing is dear but play and pleasure. As Sa'ib says:

Now I fall at the foot of the wine jar, now I dash the pitcher on a stone;
Cupbearer, do not be vexed with me; this is the world of youth. [Persian]

In short, one escapes these follies, the preparations for the journey are made, the clamour of departure rises; the intoxication passes, one grows old, the days of age arrive; and when the time comes to understand, on one side weakness bends one down and on the other death bends one towards the pit of the grave. He is the Mighty and Powerful, the Knowing and Wise, who by speaking two letters [TN: the divine command *kun*, "Be"] displayed a whole world; and in it is man, whose nature inclines to evil, and this pleased Him greatly. In it there were prophets and saints, kings and beggars; look closely and see what they were and what they became. Now there is night, now day; in His possibility the impossible is possible. Every drop of this ocean is an encircling sea; every grain of this desert is a wide expanse; it is a sight to behold. In this garden whose end is autumn, that thorn which caught in everyone's eye is the one that pricks. The bay horse of thought, for all its galloping, fell short in its round and bore the stroke of the whip; it stumbled, lost its way, and then no one came near it. Yet among the affairs of this unstable creation, the thread of love and the chain of union, though that too is without foundation, have pleased everyone. The pure in heart have taken delight in it. The shy have been tamed in it; in this very snare wild beasts and game have always been caught. When duality was put away, oneness appeared.

You will have heard that when the lancet passed over Laila's arm, Majnun's whole body was drenched with blood [TN: in the legend, when Laila was bled, Majnun bled]; when one heart was turned to blood, the other's home was ruined and he went mad. What finally becomes of Laila's state, that condition cannot in any way come into writing or speech. Where have blind-hearted ones like us the power to see, or the capacity to find out the truth of the matter? Otherwise every fresh rose petal is a record of the blood of a thousand nightingales, and the singers of the garden of creation have quite another reason for singing. On the gallows of the cypress hangs the slaughter of a hundred thousand ringdoves; the dove's coo, coo is a witness to the plunder of patience and peace. The splendour of this workshop without foundation lies in its changefulness; all its designs and pictures are borrowed; the parting of night and day is enough warning for those who look. This city of wonder, which is a house of enchantment, makes the wise mad. It has neither roof nor walls, neither wall nor door; those who are caught say it is a home; the ruined dwell in it; they laugh only to weep. In this world of becoming and decay there is this new kind of quandary, that the thief's hut stands joined to the king's palace. Every moment both are in fear, anxiety hangs over them; one is ruined, another is made; one is twisted, another is drawn tight. If its Manager had not based it on heedlessness, not even a madman would ever set foot in this workshop.

Here the wise tread blowing on every step, and fret when they taste the pleasure of a stumble. But those who are drunk and worship idols, by God, the moment they lift the reins without a care they reach the stage of their aim. There is no room here to say a word; silence is needed. Mansur indeed won the battle [TN: the mystic Mansur al-Hallaj, executed for saying "I am the Truth"]; in this unstable abode there are still thousands of gallows. In humility one gets through; in pride one is ruined. The thread of reason is short; this verse is witness: *Fa-bi-ayyi ala'i rabbikuma tukazziban* [Arabic, Quran 55: "Which, then, of the favours of your Lord will you deny?"].

The praise of the Lord of creation: a small mouth, a big matter.

That company is most fortunate whose protector and intercessor is the beloved of God: the first in creation and the seal of the messengers. Who can find the essence or truth of his being and attributes, whose very shadow is not seen [TN: by tradition the Prophet cast no shadow]? In nearness he rose to such a degree that his rank surpassed "two bows' length" [TN: Quran 53:9]. As the Sustainer is without partner, so in the eyes of the far-seeing is this Prophet. Let one send blessings night and day on the Prophet and his family and companions, and not fall into disputes or go further.

In Praise of the King of Auspicious Nature, Fairy-Formed and Moon-Faced, Ruler of Lucknow, the Envy of Faridun and Shame of Jamshed, Sultan-e-Alam, May God Make His Kingdom Eternal

And the royal crown and the throne of world rule have gained beauty and adornment from his head and feet, in whose family rule has come down generation after generation [TN: Wajid Ali Shah, king of Oudh, whose title was Sultan-e-Alam]. Though it is the season of his youth, the light of his face has the greatest lustre and brilliance; the world of youth is at its height; he is the chosen design of the hand of the Painter of creation. Besides this, among all the virtues of auspicious rulers past and present he is unique: matchless in courage and daring, surpassing Hatim in generosity and liberality, a memorial of Naushirwan in justice and equity. Where under the sky on the face of the earth is another kingdom of such splendour? He has made his companions flourish with rank and grandeur, and enriched the poor with wealth and goods. Every night is *Shab-e-Barat* and passes every moment in pleasure and delight; every day is Nauroz and every morning the dawn of Eid. He has had buildings built such as the architect's mind could not conceive. Every quarter is a pattern of the highest paradise, and the Qaisar Bagh in beauty and grace is twice the garden of Iram. Whatever thing came into his mind, he brought it to perfection. His exalted nature has the greatest excellence; everything is God's power. Such is the kindness of the Disposer and the favour of the Self-Sufficient that every means of high endeavour is his. The peerless vizier, himself the Solomon of the age and the Asaf of the time [TN: Asaf, Solomon's vizier]: the two go together as cause and effect; this point is known to all. The wise *diwan* (minister of finance), bound to his orders, is unique among the chief well-wishers of creation: an image of righteousness, of good character, handsome and manly. Reckon it up, and he is the remaining token of those of old; he is greatly practised in this art. The river of bounty flows through him. He takes no bribes and has borne great hardships. Though not a soldier by profession, he does not stint in devotion to the death. In short, among the servants each is better than the next, a memorial of the age. If I were to describe them all it would grow long; brevity is my aim. So long as night and day turn, may this assembly endure.

The Reason for Compiling This Unique Tale, the Cause of Writing This Story

The hopeful of the favour and mercy of the Forgiving Lord, Mirza Rajab Ali, whose pen name is Suroor, submits in the service of dignified readers and discerning listeners that, through the unkindness of fortune and the tricks of the age, he gained no entry into Arabic nor became perfect in Persian; he remained a stranger to both and acquired the learning of neither. With low ambition he spent his time in writing Urdu, and toiled from evening to morning. For some days he busied himself with verse, and the raw notion of writing poetry stayed with him. When that too could not be done, his thoughts turned to prose. He found it even harder than that. So it was with *Fasana-e-Aja'ib*, the tale of Jan-e-Alam, which is much liked by the people of the world, according to the proverb: a half-line:

Acceptance in the heart and grace of speech are God-given. [Persian]

And the second writing, done at the instructive command of His Majesty the Shadow of God, is *Surur-e-Sultani* [TN: Suroor's prose version of the Persian *Shahnama*]. This too everyone likes; whoever is serious and understanding desires it; and readers and listeners are not wearied by some short and long tales of his either. When he had finished with these writings, a chance affair came about. A kind friend, in whose person all good qualities are gathered, a handsome, graceful young man, unique in courage, high-spirited and intelligent, a judge of merit and versed in the rules, a chief of his people, whose noble name is Amjad Ali Khan, and whose lineage and descent the world knows, cheerful of mind and glad of heart, living in Sandila and Malihabad. The hardest work in this country is that of revenue, and by God's grace his nature has reach in it; he has a most able mind. He has always had trust and credit among the officers of the everlasting government and has held the management of a district by right, not by force. He looks on the writer's state with great kindness, and wishes him every consideration. A tale written by Mehr Chand Khatri passed under his eyes, and most of its matter pleased him. But its style and language were old, that is, last year's almanac. It was wholly empty of the refinements of Hindi [TN: i.e. Urdu] that have since been made, and its everyday idiom was careless. At the wish of that noble Khan, this humble one took out the soul of that tale, which had pleased that discerning one's taste, and threw out the stuffing of the saddle pad.

Most likely it will be favoured by those with eyes and its reading will be in view. If they take delight or find some pleasure in it, let them not forget this sinner in their good prayers, but remember him. Though there will be no lack of readers and writers, the sorrow is only that we shall not be here. If the tale pleases, it will become famous, and we shall certainly be mentioned. Then, pardoning slips and mistakes, clearing their nature of ill feeling, let those of good qualities who are pleased with the words of Suroor say, with an eye of justice, this much: "May this sinner be raised among the servants of Husain." Neither Firdausi remains, nor Khaqani, neither 'Urfi nor Sa'di. The fame of the world is the utter groundlessness of this inn. Thousands of forests have been peopled in a moment; hundreds of thousands of settled cities have been ruined in this world. What is gladness? The great grief is that even grief does not last, and the way of the world does not stay in one fashion. Strange and wonderful is the reckoning here: one man's bier has been seen on four men's shoulders. Though who can hope even for that? But he whose name remains here for good is the one who lives for ever. In the world, by toughness of life, one endures everything hard and soft; all the goods of the world of means are left behind; others enjoy them; but a name, good or bad, remains. One brings nothing and takes nothing away. As one's deeds are, so is one's reward.

Break the pen, spill the ink, burn the paper and hold your breath;
Hasan, this is a tale of love; it will not fit in a book. [Persian]

By God's grace its beginning has been made well, and its end is good. Its name is *Shagufa-e-Mohabbat* ("The Blossom of Love"). I hope of the Sustainer that when this tale is finished, it will be accepted by high and low.