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week； which I’d personally named the “soup kitchen of the downtrodden”—
actually； of the “miserable” would’ve been more appropriate。 It was open until
midnight to those who knew about it。 Inside were a few unfortunates dressed
like horse thieves or like men who’d escaped the gallows； a couple of pathetic
characters whose sorrow and hopelessness caused their sights to slip from this
world to distant paradises； as happens with opium addicts； two beggars who
were at pains to follow even basic guild etiquette； and a young gentleman
who’d seated himself in a corner at a distance from this crowd。 I gave the
Aleppan cook a graceful greeting。 Heaping the meat…filled cabbage dolma into
my bowl； I covered it with yogurt and topped it off with handfuls of hot red
pepper flakes before taking a seat beside the young gentleman。
Every night a sorrow overwhelms me； a misery descends upon me。 Oh； my
brothers； my dear brothers； we’re being poisoned； we’re rotting； dying； we’re
exhausting ourselves as we live； we’ve sunk up to our necks in misery…Some
nights； I dream that he emerges from the well and es after me； but I know
we’ve buried him deeply beneath plenty of earth。 He couldn’t possibly rise
from the grave。
The gentleman； who I thought had buried his nose in his soup and
forgotten the whole world； opened the door to a conversation。 Was this a sign
from Allah？ “Yes；” I answered； “they’ve ground the meat to the right
consistency； my stuffed cabbage is quite to my liking。” I asked about him： He’d
recently graduated from a miserable twenty…coin college and been taken into
Arifi Pasha’s patronage as a clerk。 I didn’t ask him why； at this hour of the
night； he wasn’t at the Pasha’s estate； at the mosque or at home in the arms of
his beloved wife； but chose instead to be at this street kitchen teeming with
unmarried thugs。 He asked me where I’d e from and who I was。 I thought
for a moment。
“My name is Bihzad。 I’ve e from Herat and Tabriz。 I’ve painted the
most magnificent pictures； the most incredible masterpieces。 In Persia and
Arabia； in every Muslim book arts workshop where illustrations are made；
they’ve said this about me for hundreds of years： It looks real； just like the
work of Bihzad。”
Of course； this isn’t the issue。 My paintings reveal what the mind； not the
eye； sees。 But painting； as you know quite well； is a feast for the eyes。 If you
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bine these two thoughts； my world will emerge。 That is：
ALIF：
Painting brings to life what the mind sees； as a feast for the eyes。
LAM： What the eye sees in the world enters the painting to the degree
that it serves the mind。
MIM：
Consequently； beauty is the eye discovering in our world what
the mind already knows。
Did the graduate of the miserable college understand this logic； which I’d
extracted with lightning inspiration from the depths of my soul？ Not at all。
Why？ Because； though you’ve spent three years seated at the foot of a hoja
who gives lessons in an out…of…the…way neighborhood religious school for
twenty silver coins a day—today you can buy twenty loaves of bread with that
amount—you still wouldn’t know who the hell Bihzad was。 It was obvious
that the twenty…coin Hoja Effendi didn’t know who Bihzad was either。 All
right then； let me explain。 I said：
“I’ve painted everything； absolutely everything： Our Prophet at the mosque
before the green prayer niche seated together with his four caliphs； in another
book； the Apostle and Prophet of God ascending the seven heavens on the
night of the Ascension； Alexander on his way to China banging on the drum of
a seaside temple to scare off a monster stirring up the ocean with storms； a
masturbating sultan spying on the beauties of his harem swimming naked in
his pool while listening to a lute； a young wrestler sure of victory after
learning all his mentor’s moves； only to be defeated in the presence of the
Sultan at the hands of his mentor who had yet one last trick up his sleeve；
Leyla and Mejnun as children kneeling in a schoolroom with exquisitely
decorated walls； falling in love while reciting the Glorious Koran； the inability
of lovers； from the most embarrassed to the most crass； to look at each other；
the stone by stone construction of palaces； the punishment by torture of the
guilty； the flight of eagles； playful rabbits； treacherous tigers； cypress and plane
trees that held magpies； Death； peting poets； feasts to memorate
victory； and men like you who see nothing but the soup before them。”
The reserved clerk was no longer afraid； he even found me entertaining and
was smiling。
“Your Hoja Effendi must’ve had you read this； you’ll know it；” I continued。
“There’s a story I love from Sadi’s Garden。 You know the one； King Darius
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bees separated from the crowd during a hunt and goes off to roam the
hills。 Unexpectedly； a dangerous…looking stranger with a goatee appears before
him。 The king falls into a panic and reaches for the bow on his horse；
whereupon the man begs； ”My king； hold off from shooting your arrow。 How
is it that you haven’t recognized me？ Am I not the loyal groom to whom
you’ve entrusted a hundred horses and foals？ How many times have we seen
each other？ I know each of your hundred horses by temperament and
disposition； nay； by color even。 So then； how is it you pay no attention to us；
the servants under your mand； even those like myself whom you
encounter with such frequency？“”
When I depict this scene； I render the black； chestnut and white horses—so
tenderly cared for by the groom in a heavenly green pasture covered with
flowers of every imaginable color—with such happiness and calm that even
the dullest of readers would understand the moral of Sadi’s story： The beauty
and mystery of this world only emerges through affection； attention； interest
and passion； if you want to live in that paradise where happy mares and
stallions live； open your eyes wide and actually see this world by attending to
its colors； details and irony。
This progeny of the twenty…coin hoja was at once entertained and
frightened by me。 He wanted to drop his spoon and flee； but I didn’t give him
the chance。
“This is how the master of masters Bihzad depicted the king； his groom and
the horses in that picture；” I said。 “For a hundred years miniaturists haven’t
stopped imitating those horses。 Each horse rendered out of Bihzad’s
imagination and heart has bee a model of form。 Hundreds of miniaturists；
including myself； can draw those horses from memory。 Have you ever seen a
picture of a horse？”
“I once saw a winged horse in an enchanting book that a great teacher； a
scholar of schol