The Chronicals of Alaraf

Via
Three Rivers Raidho
The Dancing Boy

Written by
Alexei Romanov Pahlavi

  Rarely, did Amerikan Shuyoukh ever have the privilege of entering Iran & Afghanistan.  However, for you, receiving  that invitation was a matter of natural progression.

      You flew via Emirites, first class suite, and even lead prayer for other first class passengers as the flight staff smiled awkwardly at your performance in the aisles.

However, their professionalism sparkled when none laughed when your Turban was knocked straight off your head as you bowed, not quite enough, to the overhead compartment when you chose to perform your Saddaqah of blessing the “little people” in the cheap seats with the privilege of touching your blesséd hands.

       As you clean your Yemeni rings with luxury hand sanitizer, you reflect upon your poverty in service to Allah.  The great sacrifices of Awliya before you as you mourn the losses the hadith told you to mourn.

The grief of the battle of Badr is greater than the grief of losing even one true friend to the present war.  Tears are only for the suffering of the Sahabah or our distance from Allah alone.

The Prophet mourned; but we can do better by centering our hearts only upon the Prophetic Inheritance™️.

     Your handlers arrive directly at your cabin, all smiles as they offer you fresh Chai. You drink it in front of them out of equal Adab [courtesy] with the profuse and proper Islamic gratitude as you are escorted to a black armored vehicle that costs more to maintain a month than a single village receives in aid in a year as your mind pleasantly swims in the mystic realms.

       Your Dari skills are pleasantly passable and your driver is delighted to ask you for blessings for each individual member of his family he excitedly details without pause. 

   At some points, he breaks into tears,

“Ya Allah! you blessed this village with the Greatness of this Awliya, may I not waste even a moment of Barakhah while within his holy sight!”

     You have the urge to crack a joke to lighten the atmosphere until the smaller man next to you gently, yet reproachfully, squeezes your shoulder and whispers:

    “Nekheir, do not cut short his reverie- in you, dear Shaykh, he sees the reflection of Allah.  Do not break the mirror.”

     You nod, but still feel uncomfortable within the veils of your own silence as you observe the fields of poppy behind barbed wire.

     You pass through the checkpoint, and each man at the gate kisses your hand. Some cry as you pray with each of them.

    One asks you, “Why is it, Dearest Mullah, that you honor us with your shadow & grace?”

     “I seek the Rohani Al Kahfi, of Khorasan. I was told a man here exists that has three forms of fana:  Fana al Shaykh, Fana al Baqa, as well as Fana al Sifāt”

      “Jee Hao, Ostaadiaa bus-e-saraa atka.  He arrives by bus a few days ago.  A-ha!  Here we are!”

     And we pulled up to an outpost near a mountain pathway.  Here, there was a counter staffed by two Baloch brothers whom were enthusiastic with offering those deep-spiced meat pucks you can recall with your very soul and their careful chaos of that delightful mint sauce.

     Noting your “humility sandals” they also worriedly offer more secure footwear but you decline.  It is an honor to wear sandals while climbing the debris of trails to the Holy.

     Your handler laughs as he walks, pulling corundum of ruby & sapphire from the rocks beside the pathway and hands each one he finds to you with his blessing after holding each to the light.

       “Holy things of Great worth is found amongst the debris, rocks, and dirt here, Murshīd, today Allah lines your pathways with precious gems.”

        You reach a nondescript ripped burlap curtain that cleverly obscures an entrance between two broken rock structures, you enter, and travel down a long, carved corridor lit with hardwired mining lights above the hum of generators. 

       Down the hallway further the sound of laughing could be heard as the corridor grew brighter, the schist-rock sparkles in the sunlight from the natural skylights above.

      You are motioned to remove your sandals next to the entrance and wash at a small pump-tap next to the entrance of the Musallah.

      “Pish namaz meyshawid…?” a younger brother asks you, as he subtly touches your robes, eyes wide like saucers, hoping you will not notice.

      You say “Of course,” affectionately and acquiesce, leading them through four rakat of Asr Namaz and extended salawat and Dhikr after, seated Sha’afi style, left foot parallel to the floor as the weight of the body rests on the uprightness of the right foot in kneeling prayer.

      After prayer, you all remained seated, one Western man surrounded by Baloch & Khorasani as a figure in brilliantly beaded veils and sheer cloths serves even more Chai to each one of you in respectful silence.

      “Describe what it is, these three ‘Fana, in our man…and why it is so important for the Awilya of the Swamp of the Bears arrives at the mountains of caves, rubies, and American debris.”

       “I seek divine insight as always, Baradar-jaan.” You reply, you notice the Chai is smooth and pleasant and effusively compliment your Hosts with dua for Barakhah, then you continue,

     “In the West, Sufism is a rare and controversial thing.  The very idea of annihilation of the ego, the self, the sinful nafs of desires of this worldly life.  To have Fana first with a Shaykh, means he and his Shaykh are one soul & mind, according to the writings of our Scholars.  An extension of the consciousness of one soul and divine persona through incarnations across the artifical limits of the human physical organism.”

     “Eternal life?”

      “In a manner of speaking.  Like a ‘StarWars’ force ghost, one who has Fana Al Shaykh after the Shaykh leaves his human body behind in death will never truly learn loneliness. They may not share memories, but the spirit is now an interwoven cloth.

     in Fana al Baqa, the Shaykh is completely annihilated except as a instrument of divine will. 

Then, finally, in Fana al Allah, one becomes a direct mirror of the conscious will of God.  However, if the Shaykh is imperfect, then even a perfected attribute may be passed to the student Murīd on the pathway to union with God.”

     They gathered around your feet and listened to every word you speak with undivided reverence respect and attention.  The eldest man clapped, and the veiled individual returned, and began to dance to the sound of unheard drums and instruments behind the wall,

      This is Afghanistan, there was no way to assume the gender of the veiled one until they began their graceful reverei, carefully removing veils and jewelry I knew this to be a Bacha bazi of highest prestige, in as much as one can be.  The other men chuckled and patted your shoulder knowingly as they hurriedly left the room, turning on small strings of lights like stars upon their exit.

        In the dramatic lighting of gold,reds, and blues, the hand gestures were exquisite and mesmerizing enough to make it difficult to case the rest of him, he wore a long dark wig and his feet were bare except for dark polish and extensive jewelry.  The clothing was more like a series of veils barely secured between rings & necklaces,

….and as your eyes scanned up, his caught yours.

      You know him, or rather, you knew him.  His nails are pointed and seductive, his hair is blond, and you recognize every line of his face from your prior life, before you were a Mufti, a Shaykh, an Awliya-Saint.

        This man was both Alive as well as Dead,

        “…and Psychic, US-FBI-DRR11-AGATHON was my badge number” he whispered into your ear,  “No one knows I am still alive, and here I am, dancing for your own dear pleasure, to yet another officer.”

      The Bacha Bazi Prisoner of War takes one nail to trace against your jawbone, “Relax, this is not a sting, I am fully abd Allah as well as Abd al Pir- fully enslaved, but I do wonder at your own conditions.”

     His words were like song, and no one who could listen would understand the English cadence he used. You get lost in his eyelashes- how could eyes be both hot and cold as they looked straight through you and mirrored your every fear & desire exposed, alone, in a cave room with a man you used to know only as dead long after you stood side by side in training.

” You have me for the entire night, You paid for the dance, you paid for the time to see me alone, now, my dear Shaykh, how much do you get paid to be shown to everybody, or are you and I the same?”

     You know he and his Shaykh are the same, for you know when his Shaykh died and how he was strangled, you read the reports from multiple angles and witnesses, hysterical & mead drunk.

      You were once the same, and now the same still, Except you are robed in linen and silences in front of everyone and Agathon’s chains sing loudly only in front of you, you, whom have exclusive access to every aspect and facet of him through the power of your wealth, esteem and reputation,

    “How else would you like GI Joe to dance for you, brother?” he purrs, and you cannot leave, but you absolutely wish you were not here, while wanting to be no other place.

      “Do not Dare close your Eyes, my Awliya,” says the beautiful Dancing boy. “Alhamdulillah, we are truly blessed to meet as Sufi instead of prior selves.”

      You start to ask questions and find a perfume finger silencing your lips,

      “Ask me Nothing, we are owned by the same Master and I have no answers. All I can do is dance for you until it is your turn, once again, to present yourself on your own stage, as hidden as I am naked.”