Whenever Laila sang in abandon, a divine light shimmered on her face. She was such a fascinating embodiment of the poetic, the musical, the fragrant and the beautiful that old or young, rich or poor, all would bow their heads before her. All would be spellbound by her; all heads would sway to the rhythm of her song. She would sing of future tidings when the land would be governed by contentment and love, when conflicts and wars would cease. She would awaken the king with her questioning—when will all this dissipation end, how long will the enjoyment of power go on for? She would awaken the dormant desires of people; she would make the blood quiver in their veins with her voice. She would sing of the valour of immortal heroes, and of the dignity of those wise women who had forsaken their lives for family honour. Her moving songs would tug at people’s heartstrings; they would feel tormented.
All of Tehran was enamoured by Laila. For the downtrodden, she was a light of hope, for the ardent she was an angel from paradise, for the wealthy, she was an awakening of their spirituality and for the people in power, she was a harbinger of mercy and justice. A signal from her eyebrows could make the masses leap into flames. Laila drew the masses the way consciousness draws the unconscious.
And this incomparable beauty was as pure as nectar, as spotless as snow and as innocent as a fresh bud. For her loving glance, for her enigmatic smile, for one bewitching gesture—what extraordinary things would happen—mountains of gold would rise, wealth would pay homage, empires would lick the dust at her feet, poets would be torn asunder, scholars would fall on their knees, but Laila would never even lift an eye to look at anyone. She lived under the shade of a tree, ate what she got as alms, and sang the strains of her heart. Like the verses of a poet, she was only an object of delight and light, not to be consumed. She was an image of the blessings of sages, immersed in benediction, coloured with peace, untouched by anyone—priceless.2
One day in the evening, Nadir, the prince of Tehran, passed by on horseback. Laila was singing there. Nadir reined in the horse and for a long time stood there and listened, lost in oblivion. The first couplet of the stanza ran:
Those who raise not their voice against injustice or untruth live only in body while their souls die
And once the inner spirit dies, no longer can one realize one’s dreams or fulfil another’s wishes as one lives a lie
He dismounted from the horse, sat right there on the ground and wept with his head bowed. After that he arose and going to Laila laid his head at her feet. The people around her politely dispersed.
Laila asked, ‘Who are you?’
Nadir said, ‘Your slave.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Your wish is my command. Light up my humble abode by stepping into it.’
‘This is not my habit.’
The prince sat down again and Laila began singing. But her voice quivered like the broken string of a veena. She looked at Nadir with beseeching eyes and said, ‘Don’t sit here.’
Many of the men around spoke up. ‘Laila, this is Prince Nadir.’
Laila said nonchalantly, ‘I am happy to hear that. But what work do princes have here? They have their palaces, their mehfils and their glasses of wine. I sing for those whose hearts are full of pain, not for those with whims and fancies.’
The prince said dejectedly, ‘Laila, for one note of yours I can surrender everything. I was a slave to fancy but you have made me taste the pleasure of pain.’
Laila began to sing again, but she lost control over her voice—as if it was not hers at all.
Laila put the tambourine over her shoulder and started walking towards her home. The audience also went home. Some people followed her till the tree where she rested. By the time she reached the entrance of her hut, everyone had departed. Only one man remained standing silently a few yards away from her hut.
Laila asked, ‘Who are you?’
Nadir said, ‘Your slave, Nadir.’
‘Don’t you know that I never allow anyone to enter my abode of peace?’
‘I can see that.’
‘Then why do you sit here?’
‘Hope clings to my breast.’
After a while Laila asked again, ‘Have you eaten something and come?’
‘Now there is neither hunger nor thirst.’
‘Come, today let me feed you the food of the poor. Taste the pleasure of that as well.’
Nadir could not refuse. There was a unique flavour in the millet rotis that day. He thought about the great joys that this huge mansion of the universe held. He felt as if his soul was being uplifted.
When he finished eating, Laila said, ‘Now go. It is past midnight.’
Eyes brimming with tears, Nadir said, ‘No, Laila. Now this shall be my abode too.’
All day long Nadir would listen to Laila’s songs: in lanes, on roads, wherever she went he trailed after her. At night he would lie under her tree. The emperor tried to reason with him, the empress tried to reason with him, the nobles entreated with him but the obsession with Laila would not leave Nadir. In whatever condition Laila lived, he lived in that state too. The empress would send him the best delicacies, but Nadir would not even look at them.
But Laila’s music no longer whetted the appetite. It was that strain of broken strings that had neither its earlier suppleness, nor magic, nor impact. She continued to sing, the audience continued to listen, but now she didn’t sing for her own heartfelt pleasure. She sang to please their hearts and the listeners never came compulsively, they came
