Disciples

Salim and Usman weren’t friends, but they were the only ones who understood each other. They hated each other. It was a respectful hate that only two rivals, the best at what they do, can share.

They were disciples of the greatest chronicler of the realm, and everyone knew when he decided to stop writing one them would succeed him in the court, and sit behind the throne to record all the sayings of the court. The Chronicler already knew that either one of them would serve the sultan better than he could. He was pondering the question of who should succeed him.

It wasn’t an easy question, because of how different they were, and how much they hated each other. They’d never admit to the hate, but they’d never been able to work together, and the chronicler knew to choose one was to lose the other. As a teacher he had a greater choice to make as well: the art of writing could not afford to lose either one of them.

Writing was a rare talent, the ability to see in everyday events the making of the legends of the future. To serve the sultan well, was to make him a hero, and to lie was to insult him. To write, one had to see things differently. The heavens did not part at the words of the Sultan, God did not speak to his people from a bush, but the writer could make him. And he could not lie, so the writer had to use metaphors, ideas, techniques, comparisons, to bring out the greatness of the Great one. Even if in the decadence of the age, his throne shone less grandly, that it was made of Gold should not be forgotten. That was the responsibility of the writer.

The chronicler was a great writer, but a better teacher, and his disciples had been taught and moulded as the finest hands from the very start. They had been meticulously trained in the formation of words, or lines, of dots, of the language. Each stroke of the pen, each dip in the ink, each flick of the wrist, perfectly controlled, and so precise, they would write as beautifully if blindfolded. In fact they could, he’d made them.

He trained them in the choice of words, explained the reason for using one word instead of the other, when to go with your instinctive choice and when to think that much more. When to write the words that just flow from the nib, and when to pause… when to break with grammar, how to say more than language traditionally allowed one to. How to use the paper, and the shape and sounds of words to create pictures and shapes in the eyes of the reader, to make writing more than transmission, to make writing a method to engender ideas.

Salim and Usman had learnt it all, but still searched for more.

Usman looked through the writings of the great ones, he spent all his time reading, and slowly understanding. He became solemn like the great chronicler. He never discussed what he’d read, unlike the other scholars who spent their days in the archives, he wasn’t concerned with the information he’d read, but with how it had been written. And he asked himself why the method had been chosen. Slowly he began to understand. And his writing became like to that of the great ones… he found the right comparisons, he thought about the right order for the words to flow in. He spent hours constructing sentences, and then slowly, deliberately he made all the small strokes that first created letters then grouped them into words, and then a sentence, a paragraph, a piece, an idea… and just as slowly as his art materialised he’d feel the satisfaction of the what he did seep through his being.

Salim was not as patient, he wasn’t patient at all. He couldn’t wait for the Sunrise before he left his home, he couldn’t wait for the sunset before he turned to the courtesans, and he didn’t recognise the night. He’d spend days under the sky, watching clouds. He’d watch leaves in the wind, he watched the courtesans as they spun dancing. He watched rain fall, and felt it on his face, and felt its softness, its wetness; he lay under the moon to feel the dew, and thought of how it was different to the rain, and yet the same, and the ice in winter. He watched the grass he lay on, and felt the velvet of its blades, and the sharpness of its margins and wondered… why in grass the lines were all parallel, but in some leaves they made odd designs, and what odd meant? He watched the stillness in things, in the trees trunks, in the blue of the sky, and the stars, and saw in them the energies that drove the universe, and he felt communion with that energy. He ran from one day to the next, barely waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. He rarely ever wrote, or tried to writer better. He wrote about what he knew, and about what he thought, his hand was flawless, from the first time he picked up a nib, he never smudged a word, he never drew a long dot, and he never thought about what he did.


And yet his work already rivalled that of the greats lying in the dust of the archives. His every word, and every idea, created without care, as though, saying things that dazzled the minds of the learned, was just written, in the same hurried manner that the many lines he’d been given to copy by the chronicler in years past. His work was so much a part of his being, that it did not need conscious effort.

Those who knew Usman spoke of his hard work, and dedication, and those who spoke of Salim of his joviality. Usman thought Salim could do much better, he wasn’t serious enough, that he wasted his time lying under the sky, when he could learn how to harness his ideas, and his vision. But he knew why Salim spent nights under the sky. Salim had tried to get Usman to join him under sky once, but Usman had spent the day complaining that he couldn’t spread his parchment out flat. He’d been mesmerised by the sky, as anyone would be, but he’d not been inspired by it. Salim read the greats, but they were just writers, they did not create the beauty.

The time came for the teacher to choose. His hand had started to shake, and in time he knew, even though he’d spent his whole life writing, it would smudge a document, something that he could not let happen, not after 40 years of perfection. So he decided to choose his successor.

Usman thought it should be him, because though Salim wrote beautifully, he did not write in the right manner, his work was moody, new, and like him, unpredictable. He would write about things as he felt like, not like he should. Salim did not know enough about the greats to be one. He wrote in flourishes without thought, without plan. Usman had worked so much harder than Salim, and everyone knew it. Usman had made writing a science for him, nothing he wrote was ever aany less than perfect, he would not let it be.

Salim thought it would be him. Simply because… well because he was a better writer, he didn’t have to slave over what he wrote, it flowed from his pen. He didn’t have to think so much about it. Usman wasn’t talented, and though he was very hardworking it couldn’t substitute for talent. Usman could never write better than those before him had written, he was bound by the limitations of the field… he had no conception of the beyond, he did not believe in adventure. Salim could paint pictures, conjure images in the minds of the his readers, and they weren’t images of a sapphire blue sky, an idyllic picture drawn from convention. Salim’s created images, challenged his readers eyes, and won.  He could paint the sky red and the grass blue on his parchment, and people would look up and see red, and walk on blue, such was his skill.

People couldn’t find any difference in the quality of their work, the manner in which they worked was worlds apart. Salim was an artist’s, not a parrot, he did not adhere to some established style, he used his own. He wasn’t inspired by what those before him had said, he looked to the things around him for inspiration. And yes they might fail him, it was possible that someday he’d not be able to write, but what was the point of writing if you didn’t write everyday, as it came, and if you couldn’t write one day didn’t mean you were bad writer, some days just weren’t meant to be written. Salim knew there would never be a day when Usman couldn’t write, but according to him Usman would never be able to write.

The chronicler knew that both them were inspired by the same thing, the effect which stories had on them, but he also knew, that both of them interpreted those stories very differently, and they wrote differently too. But to the common people, and those who they would have to serve, both of them were equally talented, and no one but him could make a choice between the two, and even for him, he wasn’t going to choose the better, there couldn’t be one. Because to proclaim one the better would be to simultaneously proclaim that he couldn’t appreciate the genius of the other.

The chronicler announced a day on which he’d make his choice. Both the writers were excited and yet fearful. To be not chosen meant to leave the kingdom. The other would not tolerate such a close rival in the court, and the loser would, perhaps even more, be unable to tolerate being just the rival. Salim stopped watching the clouds so often. Usman stopped spending whole days in the archives, they both emerged and ate with other men. Their whole lives hung in the balance, and they were for the first time in years, seen in the squares of the city, and sitting in parks, calm and silent. Salim lost his cocky confidence, and Usman his air of learning, common people could finally speak to them without fear. Salim even played with the boys in the street on the eve of the announcement, and Usman sat at a café and played cards, discussing the ladies’ dresses.

On the day of the announcement, both of them were similarly nervous, though they showed it very differently. Salim took careful trouble over how he dressed, something he rarely did, even to the degree to match his sash with his vest. Usman however sat quiet and sullen, barely speaking, even to those he normally considered worthy of his company.

The chronicler entered his workshop, he looked at all those there, Usman sitting in his corner, not yet aware of his arrival, and Salim at the back, looking out of the door, and god only knew at what, his body casually resting against the pillar, the only thing that gave away his cool was the manner in which he ran his hand down his tunic.

Slowly people noticed the chronicler’s presence, and they turned to him. Usman got up and walked up the aisle, and the chronicler thought of him as a child, entering behind his father, slowly, awestruck by the sheer size of where he was, and so uncertain. Then he thought of Salim, how he’d refused to enter, but instead had spent the morning playing with the geese while his father pleaded his case with the chronicler.

He’d seen in Salim the seeds of genius very early, and after a while had almost given up on trying to instruct the head strong boy, who would submit to the logic of the teacher, “because I say so,” was never enough for him. He’d argue the evening into being a prelude for the morning, if that’s what it took, till he understood, or proved himself right. Usman was different, in silence he’d accept what the teacher had to say, and slowly over time, as the logic became apparent to him, he’d speak to his teacher and discuss whether or not what he thought was correct. Invariably he was right.

Salim, from the silence, guessed that it was time. He turned around, and with one last, very uncharacteristic pushing back of the hair that usually covered his face, he too joined Usman in the aisle.

It struck the chronicler that the only time he’d ever seen them in this close physical proximity, had been during exams, or when the results were announced. He really didn’t have an image of the two of them together, except with the expectation of having beaten each other. And this fact only made him realise how grave his choice was going to be.

It was a choice he’d made weeks ago, when he’d realised it was time. And since them, he’d been questioning himself. And now he was sure, for some obscure reasons, perhaps nothing more significant that he’d stopped having to argue with himself into the late hours of the night, establishing, and re-establishing the wisdom of his choice.

The last two nights he’d slept in peace.

He looked at his two greatest pupils again, standing just out of reach of the light coming in from the door. The doorway created a long rectangle of light on the floor of the workshop, lighting up the aisle. Both his pupils were standing at the edge of the frame, in shadow. As he thought of this, he looked around his workshop.

At first he could not see much, the light from the door had blinded him, but as his eyes got used to the light, he saw much that most people around him missed. The stains on the wall, the cobwebs amongst the rafters, the many hours of work he’d put in, in the workshop, labouring… and he almost asked himself, “for what?”

But before he could a pigeon flew in through the huge open door, and drew him back to the outside. It was bright out there, and the world was a huge place… unlike his workshop. There was much that could be done, and could happen outside. Much of it was bad, but there was always some good too.

Again the choice he was making came home to him. The one he chose, would inherit the workshop, with its privilege, and prestige, comfort (all that one could wish for), and the other would walk into the light streaming into this realm. Light from that huge outside, that only formed one rectangle on the floor of his world.

The chronicler wondered whose was the better lot. Once more the pigeons, flying out this time, disturbed him, and he looked at his pupils. And softly he began to speak.

“I’ve made two decisions. The first is that it is time I should step down and let more stable hands replace my aging ones. And the second decision is that Usman should replace me.”

He did not speak with pause, or with drama, or desire for effect. He just said what he’d come to say, hoping that the others would realise that that was all there was to it. No one could question his decision, he knew, but he wanted no one to think too much about it. No one could really understand his choice. Not even his pupils perhaps.

In the silence after he finished speaking for a second there was no sound. Then with the soft almost imperceptible swish of silk, Salim turned around and walked out. He paused for a split second at the doorway and breathed in everything he would never see again. His teacher allowed himself a soft, unheard sigh, as he saw that silhouette for the last time. Salim walked away into the light. As he left, the teacher too left.

Usman was so over come by the thought of becoming what he now was, that he slumped into his customary seat, that of a pupil. It was only late in the evening after the sun had gone down and the light had left the workshop alone, and the lamps were being lit, that he lifted his head and looked at his teacher’s seat. And only much later that he corrected himself, he was looking at his own seat. That thought was more than he could handle.

Salim left the realm as everyone knew he would. He rode for weeks, and months and years. He’d stop at places, sometimes in fields, sometimes in great castles and spin tales out of what he saw. He drew audiences to himself. In the weeks that he spent anywhere he’d achieve celebrity. The nobles of every court invited him to join them, offering him the greatest wealth, and the greatest beauties of the realm. But he turned them all down, and merely searched for his next story, and wrote it down. He didn’t care for much else.

He became the greatest story teller of his age and for many ages to come, people told his stories, and wondered how a single man had come to create so much. His fame spread far and wide in the years after he died. But even in life he was acknowledged as the world’s best. But he never told his audiences his name. He would write and spin suspense, pathos, glory and dejection and much more into a single fabric, and yet never leave any mark that would distinguish it as his work.

When people asked him, “Who are you story teller? Where do you come from?” All he’d say was, “Usman is better.” And in silence, pass on, leaving the place the same night.

Usman never wrote anything. He was a perfect chronicler though, and the Sultan he served was pleased with him, and showered him with favours. He became one of the most important members of the court, almost as powerful as the vizier. Some said he was more powerful, because of the special regard the Sultan had for him, and the many hours they spent together.

But Usman never wrote anything. Till one day his son told him a story.

The story had been written by a travelling bard, and told the tale of a bard in shining armour who rescued a maiden from death in the wilderness, only to lose her. She was in love with the very man who had left her to die in the wilderness. But she didn’t know this, and to tell her, would be to break her heart. So the knight took her to a place far away, where the man would not find her, and told her to wait for her love. Then the knight left her. As he rode away, he was challenged by a man, and he’d killed the man, realising in his final stab, through his heart, that this man was the one she loved. Over come by guilt, he’d never been able to return to her. And now he rode from town to town, over come with grief and guilt, almost crazy.

There were many more such stories, people everywhere told them. The boy had heard this one from his nurse. The Nurse knew many more, and even those were but a few of the entire collection. The best part of it all, was that no one knew who wrote these stories.

Usman took up his pen once more, this time to write a story. But his story was lost.

In the years after their death, Salim’s fame only grew. People told and retold his stories, translated them, even tried to copy them. but most just searched for the name of the author. They became equally famous for being deserted by their creator as they were for being beautiful. People started obsessing over who may have wrote them. They spent entire lives searching for clues, reading the stories backwards, in columns, and deciphering every name known to history. And still learnt nothing more, and yet were unwilling to give up their search, unwilling to accept that man could be so devoid of ego to not mark his creations as his.

Never realising that ego was the reason they’d been abandoned.

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One day, a boy, an adventurous scholar, unaware of his place in the world ventured into the archives of the realm. The realm itself had long since ceased to be, but the scrolls still remained, ignored, and rendered inconsequential. This scholar, was called Usman, and he passed amongst the same scrolls that had been the joy and life of Usman the royal chronicler, and he just passed them, staring open eyed, without comprehension, barely aware of what he was looking at.

At random, it seemed, he reached out and picked up a scroll that wasn’t in place, it didn’t look like any of the scrolls in the place. It was a story. It was Usman’s story.

It was a long story, telling of two rivals, and how their teacher came to choose one between them, and how the other went on to become a great writer, and how the stories he told had come to be known across the land. And how this great writer never gave his name, but only that of his rival, and how the chosen one had been eclipsed. And the stories of the great writer lost their author… there was a list of his works.

And Usman read in the archives the names of all the stories that people told each other over and over again, never tiring, never knowing who wrote them. And as he drew to towards the end of the story, he knew he would soon know who it was.

And in the last line of the scroll, Usman read what Usman wrote, “So ends the tale of Salim, who wrote these great works, and I, Usman, who was chosen, perhaps, only so that his name would not be lost.”