… Then I asked that black-faced wretch, “Ai black-faced, black-fortuned one! May your mother sit in mourning for you! Were you one of the letter-writers?”* Bowing his head, he replied, “It was I myself who wrote the first letter: ‘The harvest is ready. Flowers are blooming in the gardens, the grapevines are heavy with bunches of grapes.’ Then I was the first of them all to swear allegiance to his envoy.” “Then after that, what happened to you?” “Not to me, to the city,” and he whispered, “Ai brother, speak softly, or rather, don’t speak at all, for the harvest of heads is ripe, and there’s a curfew in Kufa.” A curfew in Kufa! I was astonished, and wandered from lane to lane. The lanes were deserted, the streets empty, the windows closed, the doors locked, the mosque echoing with silence. When he stood to lead the prayer, those praying with him formed in rows that filled the courtyard of the mosque all the way to the back. When at the end of the prayers he turned to look, the rows of men had vanished, the mosque was empty. When he entered the mosque he was surrounded by men going to say their prayers, and when he left the mosque he was alone.* He wandered through empty streets and deserted lanes. Flowers were blooming in the gardens, the grapevines were heavy with bunches of grapes, and the harvest of heads was ripe. Don’t speak, for fear you might be recognized—
… Then the Buddha opened his lips: “In a dense forest lived a tiger. Springtime, the night of the full moon. The tiger and his cub were enjoying themselves in the forest. One time he roared so loudly that the whole forest echoed. Hearing his roar, the jackals too shook themselves. They began howling and wailing at the top of their voices. For a long time they kept howling and wailing. They aroused the whole forest, but the tiger remained silent. His cub said, ‘Oh my father! You, so brave, the king of the forest — it’s surprising that the jackals are making so much noise, and you are silent.’ The tiger replied, ‘Oh my son! Keep one word of your father’s close to your heart: when jackals speak, then tigers fall silent.’”
Hearing this parable, one monk said, “Oh Lord Buddha, when did this take place?” He smiled and said, “In the time when I had taken birth as a tiger and was living far from Banaras in the foothills of the Himalayas. Rahul was with me.”
… After these words, the Buddha fell silent. When he had remained silent for a long time, the monks fell into perplexity: had the time to keep silent come once again? When the wise will fall silent, and shoelaces will speak. This is the time when shoelaces speak. So don’t speak, for fear you might be recognized. They spoke, and were recognized, and the harvest of heads began to be cut down. When I reached the edge of the water-channel, the branches of the leafy tree were loaded with heads.* The cut-off heads, seeing me, burst out laughing, and began to fall into the water-channel with a plop! plop! like ripe fruits. I was afraid my head might have ripened too. Before the fruit could fall from the branch, I leaped into the water-channel. Struggling to stay afloat, I somehow reached the far bank. I came out of the water-channel and decided to head for the city. But there were no vehicles at all. The bus stand was deserted. Not a scooter-cab, not a taxi. Not even a private car to be seen. I asked a passerby, “What’s this? There’s not a vehicle to be seen.” He replied, “There’s a strike in the city today. All the vehicles are off the road and all the bazaars are closed.” I set out on foot. I had gone only a little way, when a procession overtook me. It was a very big procession. A countless multitude. A turbulent ocean of heads. But where are the heads? I looked closely — no one had a head. Where had their heads gone? And was my head still there? Since coming out of the water-channel it hadn’t occurred to me to see whether I had brought my head out intact, or lost it. I touched my head with both hands, and found it safe on my neck. I offered thanks to the Lord. It was as hot as Doomsday. “Oh Lord, save us from the fire of Hell.”* The sun had come down to only one and a quarter spears’ length from the earth,* and skulls were bubbling like cooking-pots. Today heads are burdens on the shoulders. Those who have been released from this burden are fortunate. If I’d left my head back there, I would have been safe. Those who have heads, and have brains in their heads, are in trouble today. Those who have brains in their heads, and tongues in their mouths. “I swear by Time, man is surely in loss.”* “It’s evening. The river has stopped flowing,”* the tents have already burned. “Burnt-out fires here, broken tent-ropes there.”* A few tent-walls are still burning. In their light I saw that the corpses had no heads. Where are their heads? Oh brother, they have been lifted on the points of spears.* Now you’ll see them at the court of Damascus. Shoelaces are speaking. The speaker’s head is on a platter. “Ai my dear friend! Now what news of the city?” “Oh brother, now the heads of the head-cutters have been cut off and brought into the court.” And a centipede crawled in through the nose and out through the mouth and in through the nose again. The head on the platter is that of the wretch who cut off the blessed head and lifted it on the point of a spear and put it on a platter and presented it at the court. At that court how many heads were presented on platters! And how many more will be presented. Then the son of David said to his son, “My son, that which is crooked cannot be made straight. Those who have died are fortunate, those who are alive are unfortunate.* Least fortunate of all are those who are yet to be born.” “Ai, traveler, if you’ve passed through the blessed city, tell us the news.” The camel-rider wept. “Ai brother, don’t ask how things are there.” The corpse of that valiant man hung for three days on a gallows in the center of the blessed city. Then his mother emerged from her house. She came to that spot, looked at her son’s hanging body, and said, “My chevalier, your time for dismounting has not yet come.”* There is peace in the city. The wise men are silent. The harvests have been reaped. The harvest of heads, the harvest of virgins. How many children died, writhing with hunger and wailing with thirst. How many laps were emptied. How many women, the women of the blessed city — the wells of Jahanabad are choked with the corpses of women. Those whom even the sun never saw unveiled, are exposed to public view. Ai city, how did you become sacred, how did you become dishonored? Alas for your ruined lanes — and for those who have ruined you, despite your benefits to them! How do cities become sacred, how do they become dishonored at the hands of those who benefit from them and know them as sacred! Then where did the sacredness of that sacred city go? Its protector, breaking his flute, smashing his pitcher, went off — into what forests? And a white snake emerged from that wise man’s mouth and slithered off into the waves of the ocean. Water at first, water at the last. Om, shanti, shanti, shanti—“I swear by Time, man is surely in loss.” Those people are like spiders, they have built their houses; and of all frail houses, the spider’s house is frailest. So alas for those towns that were overpowered by a cry, or swept away by a torrent of water, or wind, or fire. How many mansions lie with their roofs fallen in. How many wells of cold sweet water have been filled with dust; how many have been choked with the corpses of virtuous women. “From the Jama Masjid to the Rajghat Gate is a desolate wasteland.”* Special Bazaar, Urdu Bazaar, Khanam’s Bazaar, where have all the bazaars gone? No water-carriers, no clinking of water vessels. Lanes that were like leaves from a painter’s album have been laid waste. “Now Jahanabad lies in ruins—”*
… After a long silence, the Buddha opened his lips: “Monks, just imagine a house which is burning on all four sides. Inside it some children are stumbling around, trembling with fear. Oh monks, men and women are children, stumbling around in a fiercely blazing house.” “I swear by Time, man is surely in loss.”