The Tale of Blesséd and Anwar

The gypsy blood was there, hiding in his features, revealed in his eyes. Like the gypsies, his people had fled their homes, had travelled away on the monsoon rather than overland. They had alighted in the land of the sun and the thorn trees; the rains and the dry seasons. But the gypsy blood was there, revealed most fully when he was away from the city, away in the land that he knew and loved best. Travelling didn't tire him, it invigorated his soul, gave him the space to think, to renew. When the horizon stretched away before his eyes, when the land lay ahead with her secrets hidden from all but a few, like him, then he was alive, awake, aware.

The gypsy blood was there, hidden in his soul, revealed in his sad eyes, grown large from staring out at the unlimited horizon, from staring at the land that revealed her secrets to him and a few others. His golden, dark skin revelled in the warmth of the sun, his feet curled and relaxed with the earth beneath them. He smiled, the gentle smile of a man that understands the ground beneath his feet. There were so many things that he didn't understand, things that felt alien to his mind but this he understood, this land, the scent that carried on the wind, the animals and the plants. He understood this land in ways that he had never understood so many things, it was familiar to his soul. And his soul sang a harmony with the song of the land. His silence stretched out into the music of the landscape, freed his soul to sing its own unique harmony. He smiled.
His dis-ease had been shed in the first kilometres of the safari. The moment the road had begun to rumble under the tyres and the traffic had begun to thin away. And with it his tiredness and the turmoil in his head had been shed, thrown away as the four wheel drive created its own wind. The city, work, family, business were all thrown from him, sloughed away as he travelled into the land he knew. The discordant song of the city was gone from his ears, a song for which he had no words and no harmony, a song for which his soul could not sing with.

He loved the song of this land, in a way that he would never be able to love a woman. In a way that left women feeling that he didn't love them. But that wasn't true, he loved and deeply, but the land was his first love and it wasn't in the nature of women to be second in any man's heart. The land had won his heart first and women didn't understand that they didn't have to compete. And the sadness in his eyes revealed this loneliness.

By the fire of our safari he told be the story of his gypsy eyes and his wandering heart...

Once upon a time in a land that is now called Pakistan but was, before that, called India by the British and before that was called by the name that Allah had given it and the land had accepted as her own, there lived a very devout family. This family were always hospitable, they followed the laws of the Koran and the ways of the Suna. They fasted during Ramadan and they celebrated as they knew they should. This family lived in a village in the land that Allah had named and that man would eventually forget. The father of this family was a farmer, like his father had been before him and his sons were becoming after him. This man loved the land, he loved the rich smell of the earth when the rains began and the fresh green scent of the harvest mixed with the salt sweat as they laboured. He loved the sun as it warmed the ground and his skin. And every day, at prayers, he sent an extra prayer to Allah thanking Him for creating man to farm the earth.

His wife, also, held the earth dear to her heart and loved it with the same love that she had for her husband. They had grown together on this soil and their roots were deep and nourished by it. She had been blessed and knew well that her gratitude should be limitless.

But there was one sadness in their hearts. They had been blessed with seven fine sons. Tall straight boys, healthy and hard working, devout and obedient. But they had no daughter. The farmer's wife missed the company that her daughter would have provided. She longed for the solicitation of preparing a girl child for her wedding day. She had enjoyed so much the intimacy with her own mother but that was not possible. Allah had provided them with fine healthy sons and she was grateful.

One day a caravan of gypsies arrived in their town. The gypsies were always looked upon with awe and some scepticism. Everyone knew that a long time ago the gypsies had come from this very land, their features were proof, but had taken to the road and had never chosen to return. The gypsies had the large, dark eyes of a people who are used to looking far into the horizon and not close to their own selves. They were not Muslim and they were not devout. But they repaired the pots and pans, the tools and the harnesses and they brought stories from the great wide world that they travelled in. They made they camp away from the village and they kept mostly to themselves.

This group of gypsies seemed particularly ragged and unwell. But it had been hard for everyone that year and no one made comment. One night a wailing began from the gypsies camp which was enough to rend the hardest heart. It began at dusk and continued throughout the night.

“Someone should go to them,” the farmer's wife said in a frightened voice.

“Not I,” said the farmer. “There's magic in those cries,” he said conclusively.

And he was right, there was fearful magic in those cries. And no one from the village dared to leave their homes for fear of the spirits that would surely be walking that moonless night. At dawn the cries died away and the silence lasted only a moment before the muezzin called the faithful to prayer.

After the prayers had ended, and the souls of the men were bolstered after the fearful night, the farmer led the men to the gypsies camp. What they found frightened them to the core. Every gypsy had died during the night, disease had taken them all. The men of the village stared in disbelief.

“Surely the demons have been here.”

“Surely they have been punished for some terrible crime.”

“Surely we could have helped them,” said the farmer, tears glinting in his eyes. “We must serve them now in death as we never did in life.”

Carefully they buried the dead, removing only their jewellery. They dug two graves, one for the men and one for the women, they faced their heads to the east to greet the day. The farmer made sure that each and everyone was laid quietly to rest with as much respect as possible.
As they came to the last of the gypsy wagons they heard a sound which was completely foreign in this place of death. It startled them all. They had been speaking with lowered voices and working in silence and so this sound startled them all.

“It is a spirit,” said one.

“It is a demon,” said another.

“It is the angel of death,” said a third.

“It is a child,” said the farmer and he climbed aboard the wagon.

Lying in the arms of her dead mother a girl child cried in fear and hunger.

“Softly, softly,” said the farmer in a quiet voice. “Gently, gently,” he said as he picked the child from her mother's arms. “Come my beauty, into the sunlight, where it is warm and the breeze will dry your tears.”

The other men stared at the child.

“She is cursed,” said one.

“She is diseased,” said another.

“She is trouble,” said a third.

“She is blessed by Allah,” said the farmer. “Bring me her mother's jewellery,” he said as he walked back to the village talking gently to the child in his arms.

At first his wife frowned when she saw the child. But then she saw the big, dark eyes fringed with long, black lashes and her heart was turned to liquid gold.

“She is blessed,” said the farmer's wife and that became her name.

Blesséd grew up in the village calling the farmer and his wife mother and father and their seven sons brother. She was a beautiful child with grace and wisdom in all her ways. At first the other villagers were afraid that she would bring trouble to their lives but as she grew they saw that she was not only blessed but also a blessing.

Blesséd loved the land, the smell of the rains and the harvest, the smell of the air and the sun. But always her big, dark eyes fringed with long, dark lashes would look out to the horizon and she would wonder what lay beyond the horizon. Often she would wander away from the farm and the village to explore the land that surrounded them. She particularly liked to visit the wild woods and visit with the birds and the trees.

“Where have you been?” her mother would scold.

“To the woods,” Blesséd would reply, showing the firewood she had collected on purpose.

“The woods are dangerous,” he mother would say.

“But the trees and woods are my friends,” Blesséd would reply.

As Blesséd grew she became more beautiful and more graceful. She went about her chores with gentle elegance.

“It is time to speak of marriage,” her mother said one day.

“He will come,” Blesséd replied.

“How do you know?” her mother asked.

“I have seen him coming. He will come. You don't need to worry.”

Blesséd's mother was very concerned about this and set about with all vigilance to watch Blesséd .

“Mother,” Blesséd said one day. “You mustn't worry. When he comes he will go directly to father. He will be very respectful.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have seen it,” Blesséd replied with a smile and she kissed her mother. “Don't worry, I will never disgrace you. Never.”

One day a young man came to the village. His name was Anwar. He was a tall, handsome man with straight, dark haris; a warm, honest smile and hard working, clever hands. He was a very clever man who could build almost anything and repair almost everything. His speciality was creating ways to get hard jobs done more easily. He especially liked contriving ways to bring water closer to the villages because the smiles the old women gave him when they didn't have to carry their gourds of water nearly so far made his heart happy.

Anwar travelled from village to village fixing and contriving ways of doing things. He made a very good living at this work and he enjoyed all the sights, sounds and adventures that he met along the way. He was a happy man. One day he came to the village of the farmer. Anwar had heard that the village needed his help with their well. So he came, striding through the countryside on his long legs, singing a song in his strong baritone – if a little off key. He liked to sing and didn't much mind that he was, more often than not, slightly off key.

As he walked through the fields, singing his song, Anwar noticed a quick flash of bright colour off in the trees. He wasn't certain but he thought that maybe it was a person dancing amongst the trees. It was in fact Blesséd dancing amongst the trees. She had been so enthralled by the trees and their songs that she hadn't heard Anwar's song until he was quite close. When she did hear him she dropped to the ground and hid herself, peeking out through the bushes to see who was coming. Anwar paused only for a moment deciding that he had only seen a woman going to gather firewood. But in the back of his mind he wondered if he hadn't glimpsed a wood faerie dancing amongst her trees.

“It is a good sign,” he thought. “Either way.”

Anwar went directly to the home of the farmer, for he knew that the farmer was the wisest man in the village and the most likely to give him work. Respectfully he presented himself to the farmer's wife and enquired after the farmer. She pointed towards the fields. Anwar thanked her politely and walked in the direction she had indicated, whistling gently to himself.

The farmer was delighted to meet Anwar and insisted that he stay with them. Anwar accepted with the gentle, polite smile that was never far from his lips or his eyes.

And so that evening Anwar and Blesséd met. Their eyes touched across the room and in that instant the farmer's wife knew that Allah had sent this young man to them, to Blesséd.

“He has arrived,” the farmer's wife whispered to Blesséd as they prepared the evening meal.

“He has arrived,” Blesséd affirmed with a shy smile.

That night Anwar told them tales of his travels across the ocean, chased by the monsoon, in a trading dhow, to Africa. Blesséd's eyes were wide with wonder as he told stories of that great, wild continent. From that moment the gypsy blood, long dormant in Blesséd's veins, was stirred and her heart beat with the wander lust of her people.

“I should like to go to Africa,” Blesséd said to Anwar one afternoon.

“And you shall,” he told her, smiling his gentle, polite smile.

Blesséd and Anwar were married. The farmer, his wife, their sons and the entire village were delighted. The celebrations lasted long and gloriously. Anwar and Blesséd were the most handsome couple the village had ever seen and it was agreed unanimously that in the whole world their couldn't have been a more handsome and well suited couple. The only sadness was the knowledge that soon they would have to leave.

The farmer's wife wept as she kissed Blesséd good bye. Blesséd held her mother close and whispered, “Do not weep mother, for you always knew that I would have to leave, for I have no choice but to wander.”

The farmer's wife nodded her head acknowledging the truth of her daughter's wisdom. That night he farmer's wife wept in her husband's arms.

“My baby girl,” she sobbed. “She's gone.”

“She was never ours,” the farmer replied, although he too wept. “Allah has merely given us a few moments with these children of ours. She travelled to us. Now she must travel away from us.”

Blesséd looked out to the horizon, her husband stood beside her. She smiled up into his face. Her joy reflected his. “One day,” she said softly. “You will take me to this Africa of yours. For it seems a proper place for us to dwell.”

“Certainly my blessed one. For it is a good place and you will see the bright golden beaches and the turquoise sea.” And he went on to describe the beauty of Africa to her.

And so Blesséd and Anwar travelled throughout the countryside. Anwar plied his trade and Blesséd helped him, she learnt quickly and was soon an adept assistant. Always they moved towards the sea. Every village they stopped at they were welcomed and cared for, every village was one step closer to the sea and the dhow that would take them over the ocean to Africa.
Every evening they would sit over their evening meal and Anwar would tell Blesséd tales of the far off land of Africa. He would tell her of the sun and the thorn trees, of the great baobab trees, the animals and the plains. Blesséd never grew bored of his stories, her eyes would grow wide and soft as she tried to imagine the great land that was waiting for her.

One day, when Blesséd was heavy with their first child and very near her time, they approached a village.

“We will stay here,” Anwar said. “Until after our son is born.”

“That is good,” Blesséd said. “This is a happy village.” Blesséd was happy for the rest, although she loved travelling it was beginning to tire her.

Anwar found them a pleasant room and introduced himself to the local men. Soon he had work to do. The women of the village bought Blesséd food and drink. When they saw that she was near her time they sent for the midwife.

The midwife was an ancient woman who had delivered every child born in the village. She was tall and slender with a million intricate lines that the sun and wind had lovingly written onto her face.

“Tsk, tsk,” she said to Blesséd. “It will be soon. Very soon. You must rest now. No work.” The mid wife smiled revealing that most of her teeth were gone. Blesséd said that she would rest. The mid wife said that she would call again after evening prayers.

“Thank you mother,” Blesséd told her as she left.

“You are welcome beautiful girl.”

That night the pains began.

“Anwar,” Blesséd gasped. “It is time.”

Anwar dressed quickly and ran to find the mid wife.

“There is plenty of time,” said the mid wife as she collected her things and called for her daughter to assist. “First babies always take a long time to arrive. Quick yo make, slow to arrive,” she said chuckling to herself.

Blesséd never cried out, she bore the pain quietly and with perseverance. The mid wife was very pleased with her. Dawn passed without them realising and then the noon sun slipped overhead. Anwar paced before the door, worrying and praying, praying and worrying. The mid wife would step outside, when she could, to reassure him.

As the sun began to set into the horizon, a great angry ball of fire, even the mid wife began to worry. The night dragged on and Blesséd bore her pain bravely and silently. As dawn approached a baby boy was delivered, a big strong boy. As the midwife laid the boy into his mother's arms she knew that Blesséd was too weak to live through the day. The midwife stepped into the grey pre-dawn light. She saw Anwar standing watching the East.

“It is a boy,” she said.

“Allah be praised,” Anwar answered. “Can I go to her?”

“Yes,” said the midwife slowly, a deep frown creasing her already wrinkled brow.

“What?” Anwar asked. He took her hand. “What?”

“Blesséd is very weak. It was a difficult birth. I do not think she will last the day.”

“No,” Anwar answered.

“As Allah wills,” the midwife replied sadly.

That afternoon Blesséd lay with her head resting on her husband's shoulder. Her breathing was shallow and her skin pale and clammy. “I am so tired,” she whispered.

“Then sleep my blessed one,” Anwar answered.

Blesséd closed her eyes and slept. She never woke again.

Anwar's heart was broken. He stayed in that village until all the obligations he owed to the living and the dead were completed. Then he took his son and his tools and headed for the sea. He cared for his son like a mother would, but always he moved towards the sea.

Eventually they reached a port and Anwar booked passage for them. The captain of the dhow told him that they must wait some weeks until the monsoons began. Anwar said he would wait. Finally the monsoons that would take them away began to blow. Anwar and his son were the first aboard.

Of the journey there were many adventures, but they are for another tale. After some weeks they saw the shores of Africa. Anwar lifted his son and showed him the great continent growing before their eyes.

“This is your mother's land,” he said. “This is Blesséd land.”

And by the fire, in the middle of the African bush I finally began to understand my friend and his
sad, sad eyes.