MUSSAH STREET AT MECCA.
PUTTING ON IHRÁM AT JIDDAH.
On crossing the threshold we uttered a loud salám, looking up into the air the while. Then we stepped inside, for, as the Persians say, if you wish to escape reproof you must assume the same “colour” as your company. The shop was oblong, measuring some 24ft. by 9ft., at a guess. Rough stools and low black erections on four legs took the place of chairs and tables. I counted no less than sixty pilgrims engaged in eating. It would have been impossible to count the beggars who came crowding in. These I brushed unceremoniously aside, much to the annoyance of one of them, who cried out in vulgar Arabic: “May your meal not sit well on you! How can you eat while we are starving here?” Compassion laid its hand in mine, and I would have given the petitioner a present, ungracious though he was, had not Seyyid ’Alí restrained me, saying: “Yá-Moulai, do not judge our friend by his looks. His appearance, I grant, is poverty-stricken beyond the power of repletion, but, you may take my word for it, his wealth underground surpasses the dreams of this slave of yours.” In this opinion he was supported by the pilgrims inside, who assured me that the residential beggars of Mecca are often extremely rich and in the habit of burying the money they wring from the credulity or the generosity of the strangers within the gates. The din in the eating-house was beyond belief. Everybody spoke at once, and at the top of his voice. A pack of children fresh from school would give you an idea of the uproar. The first questions the pilgrims asked of one another were their names, their nationalities, their professions, and their family pedigrees. Around one of the diminutive tables were seated two men, and, as there were a couple of vacant stools, I took one of them, my guide, as a mark of respect, sitting down on my left. Shortly after another pilgrim came in, and, picking up a stool, wedged himself between Seyyid ’Alí and myself, muttering a half-reluctant “Bismillah!” The gentleman directly facing me was a Turkish Effendi, Mahmud Bey by name. Like the majority of the inmates, he was clad in íhram, but his face singled itself out by virtue of its stony reserve. On the extreme right was a Persian Mirza, called Zainul-Abedin, whose countenance prepared me for the authoritative unction of his speech. A stalwart Afghan sat on my guide’s left hand, while the intruder, who had separated us, was a native of Hyderabad, Deccan. His name was Abdul Saleh.
The Persian Mirza was the first to break the silence. Looking at each of us in turn he said, in his mellowest tones: “Bah! Bah! Khúsh amedid! You are welcome. You have brought purity into the City of God.”
“And so have you,” was ’Alí’s affable response. “I was the essence of impurity when I left my native town of Ardebil to perform this holy pilgrimage; but I trust that God may purify my conscience.” The guide changed his birthplace with his company. “Do you come from Ardebil, my friend?” said Abdul Saleh. “Many learned people have come from that blessed city. The poet calls it the House of Knowledge.”
Seyyid ’Alí smiled a sarcastic smile. “Even the learned, my good brother of Hindustan,” quoth he, “are prisoners within the limits of the knowable, so fear not to inform the company wherein the fame of Ardebil consists.” My guide referred to the fact that the place he had chosen as his native town is the convict station of Persia.
“God forbid!” replied Abdul Saleh, courteously, “for the tact that is yours shows the poet to have been right. The abode of learning must count you among its most honoured citizens.” These amenities put the whole table in a good temper, and Seyyid ’Alí was not long in summoning the waiter, Omar, who, having informed us that his master, Stád Mukhtar, had gone to Mina in order to open a branch establishment there, awaited our orders in an attitude so free and easy that Mahmud Bey, frowning ever so slightly, grew a degree more reserved than ever. The waiter wore a fez with a streaming tassel, a long white robe, and a bright silk sash, from which hung an apron that had once been white. The dishes we ordered were a ghormeh of camel’s flesh roasted in onions; a kúfteh, or mincemeat, served with rice and seasoned with spices; a lamb kebab on a skewer folded in a sheet of bread fresh from the oven; and a sweet called mehlabi, which looked like English jelly. Omar, placing his right hand to his ear, like a muezzin bugling out the cry of the Faith, shouted out at the top of his voice to the cook in the adjoining kitchen: “Ghormeh! Kúfteh! Kebab! Melabi! Eikki!” then, seeing that his cigarette was gone out, he asked me to provide him with a match, which was given to him by my guide, who did not share Mahmud Bey’s ill-disguised disapproval of the waiter’s demeanour. The Turk, raising his eyes to mine, said across the table: “Effendim, the waiters of Stambul have better manners—however.” A contemptuous shrug of the shoulders completed the sentence. The speaker addressed me in his own language, though he was a good Arabic scholar; but a political discussion which followed a question of mine as to whether Abdul Saleh approved or disapproved of the British rule in India was held in Arabic.
“The poet says: ‘The essence of human enjoyment is the belly,’” said my guide, “so let us enjoy ourselves in a human fashion.”