(Verily, here am I! O Allah, here I am!
Verily, here am I! O Allah, thou hast no mate!
Verily, here am I, O Allah! All praise and glory to thee!
Verily, here am I! O Allah, thou hast no mate!)
On my soul, it was fine! All my senses must have deserted me. I must have lost all consciousness of self suddenly. The burden of existence seemed to be lifted. If I did not actually slip off the slough of the flesh I came to realise in a flash that the soul is immortal. These introspective thoughts were not mine at the moment of the transformation. They were retrospective, forced on me, when, on coming back to a sense of my surroundings, I found myself kneeling at the Door of Repentance, and heard myself crying “Labbaik, la Sherika lak Labbaik.” Yes; there was I—“an Agnostic who would like to know”—rubbing my brow on the marble floor of the Ka’bah, without the dimmest notion in my mind as to how I came to be there. Only a month before I had been sipping lemon squash in a London restaurant. Strange. The first thing I did was to look round in search of my guide, as sceptical a rascal as ever breathed. He was on his knees, at my side, his eyes starting out of the sockets. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Come,” I said, “let us go out. I’m suffocating.” He rose to his feet, looking scared and abashed; but his face assumed its usual expression of sunny mirth on reaching the Harem. He put his tongue in his cheek as of yore; then, repenting him of his unregenerate mood, he told the truth. “Yá-Moulai (Oh, sir),” said he, “within the house so great reverence fell on me that I did hardly think of the blessed hourís and perís promised to me in Paradise. The same emotion overmasters me every year on entering into the Ka’bah of Allah, and yet what does it all mean? What is the value of this dream which we call life, and which is my true self? Is it the self that inquires, scoffs, doubts, but wants to find truth? Or is it the self that you discovered a moment ago bereft of every sense save one, namely, that which would seem to have drawn me irresistibly to a power whose will none would seem able to dispute? Has that power an existence outside my emotions, or is it merely the fabric of my senses? You are silent, Yá-Moulai. Well, there are more ways of getting drunk than by drinking of the juice of the forbidden fruit. I escaped from myself just then on a spiritual rather than a spirituous fluid. Let us return to our camp.”
CHAPTER VII
ON THE ROAD TO ARAFAT
The most important days of the Pilgrimage are the 8th, 9th, and 10th of the moon of Zú-’l-hijjah. Now, the 8th of Zú-’l-hijjah is the day of the Repose of the Soul. In Arabic it is called Youm-ul-Tarvih, and it sees the exodus of the pilgrims from Mecca on their way to the Hill of Arafat. The most noteworthy “column” of the Hájj is the sermon which is preached on the mount on the following day. No pilgrim is qualified to call himself Hájí unless he is present on that occasion. The preacher sits on a camel, and the pilgrims gather round him, those who can find no room on the slopes taking up their positions on the plain. Not ten pilgrims in a hundred can hear a word, and so the majority while away the time in praying, in weeping, in chatting, in telling stories, and even in making love. If they fall asleep or lose consciousness they are counted as absent. They must arrive before noon and must remain until after sunset. If they leave before the appointed time they must pay forfeit either by sacrificing a camel or else by keeping fast for eighteen days running. This day is named Youm-ul-Arafat in Arabic.
The pilgrims, before reaching the plain of Arafat, must perform their religious purifications, and, on arriving on the Hill itself, they must recite the following Niyyat: “O God, I purpose, in obedience to Thy commands, to abide here until the setting of the sun.” With this they must say aloud a prayer which runs: “I praise Thee, I glorify Thee, O Lord; there is no God but Thee. I have burdened my conscience with wrongdoing, and now acknowledge my sins. O, forgive me my trespasses, O Lord, for, verily, Thou art the best forgiver.” Nor is this all; for the pilgrims, having declared their intention and confessed their sins, must pray for their parents, their relatives, their co-religionists, their servants, and their slaves. The number of persons thus honoured in the remembrance should not be less than forty; and for this act of grace the pilgrims will be rewarded one hundred thousandfold. Furthermore, in the course of the day what we have called the Song of the Winding-sheet or Talbih must be repeatedly intoned, as must also the Tamjid or hymn of praise, and the glorification of God’s omnipotence, which is styled Takbir. Then, when the sun is setting, the pilgrims turn their faces in the direction of the Ka’bah and recite this prayer: “I take refuge in Thee, O Lord, from poverty, and from the evil that may come out of the day or the night; I repent of all my wicked deeds, trusting in Thy gracious pardon; and I seek shelter from fear in Thy protection: O Lord, I repent, I repent, I repent.” The second “column” of the Hájj takes place immediately after sunset, when the pilgrims rush forward impetuously from Arafat to Muzdalifah, in order to remember God near the holy monument (in Arabic, al Masher al harám), where, on a mountain on the thither side of Muzdalifah, the Prophet is said to have stood praying until his face shone as one who had seen his Lord. There the pilgrims pass the night, and at the hour of morning prayer they say: “O Lord, in obedience to Thy commands, I break my morning at Thy Masher al harám.” Thence they proceed to Mina, through which valley they passed on their road to Arafat, and there the stoning of the devil and the slaying of the sacrifices, two notable “columns” of the pilgrimage, are performed. This is the Youm-ul-Nahre or Day of Sacrifice.
On the eve of Youm-ul-Tarvih my friends and I went to stay the night with a Persian grandee who had taken up his lodgings in a large house near the Harem. We will call his name Ardashir Morad Khan. His was in many respects an exceptional character. He had acquired a knowledge of the French tongue without learning to detest the French nation, and had studied the Darwinian theory of the origin of species without aping the European. His conversation was grave and impersonal. He was communicative without being confidential. He never betrayed a trust, nor blabbed his personal secrets. From him I learned all I know of the political situation in Persia; and the Youm-ul-Tarvih was six hours gone—remember, in the East, the day begins and ends with the setting of the sun—ere we closed the debate and flung ourselves down to rest. Morning broke. Ardashir Morad Khan, having performed his ablutions, was saying his prayers, and I was drinking a cup of tea when there came a knock at the door, and a Persian friend of ours rushed into the room. His excitement knew no bounds. He stood bereft of speech from sheer lack of breath; but his face spoke volumes.
“Well, Sheykh Eissa,” said I, “what is the news?”