Part 16 (2/2)

Then one day Dame Dervish came into my life. She introduced herself as my spiritual side and explained to me that the Creator was not a nucleus of ”fear,” but a Fountain of Limitless Love. A kind of wonder possessed me. At first, her very presence in my life was more intriguing than anything she said. Around her was an aura of light and calmness, like the moonlight s.h.i.+ning on a gently rolling sea. Motivated by her, I started to read about Sufism. One book led to another. The more I read the more I unlearned. Because that is what Sufism does to you, it makes you ”erase” what you know and what you are so sure of. Then you start thinking again. Not with your mind this time, but with your heart.

Of all the Sufi poets and philosophers that I read about during those years there were two that moved me deeply: Rumi and his legendary spiritual companion, Shams of Tabriz. Living in thirteenth-century Anatolia, in an age of deeply embedded bigotries and clashes, they had stood for a universal spirituality, opening their doors to people of all backgrounds equally. They spoke of love as the essence of life, their universal philosophy connecting all humanity across centuries, cultures and cities. As I kept reading the Mathnawi, Rumi's words began to tenderly remove the shawls I had always wrapped around myself, layer upon layer, as if I were always in need of some warmth coming from outside. I understood that no matter what I chose to be-”leftist,” ”feminist” or anything else-what I most needed was an intimate connection with the light inside me. The light of Truth that exists inside all of us.

Thus began my interest in Sufism and spirituality. Over the years it would ebb and flow. Sometimes it was more vivid and visible, at other times it receded to the background, faint and dusky, like the remains of a candle still burning, but at no stage in my life did it ever disappear.

Then why is it that now, after having devoured so many books on spirituality and religious philosophy, after having been through thick and thin with Dame Dervish, I once again feel like that timid girl in Smyrna? These days I cannot raise my eyes to the sky for fear that G.o.d might be looking down at me with his brows drawn over his eyes. Is that what depression is about-the sinking feeling that your connection to G.o.d is broken and you are left to float on your own in a liquid black s.p.a.ce, like an astronaut who has been cut loose from his s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p and all that linked him to Earth?

PART SIX.

Dark Sweetness.

The pen puts its head down.

To give a dark sweetness to the page.

-Rumi.

A Djinni in the Room.

One morning in November when I wake up, I sense a strange presence in the room. The baby is two months old and is sleeping better now. There is a dusky light penetrating through the curtains, a whispery sound in the background and a perfumed smell in the air. I s.h.i.+ver as if being pushed into a Murakami novel where everything is surreal.

There is a creature in the corner-not human, not animal, not like anything I have seen before. He is as dark gray as storm clouds, as tall as a tower, as elusive as a will-o'-the-wisp. He has a long, black ponytail, though he has dyed a clump of it white and let it hang across his face. A diamond the size of a hazelnut glitters on one ear. His face is small, his goatee is tiny, but his fiery eyes appear enormous behind his metal-rimmed spectacles. One second he stretches up, his head reaching the ceiling; the next he widens, spreading from one end of the room to the other. Like thick cigar smoke he drifts in the air. In his hand he carries a beautiful cane and on his head is a silk top hat.

I immediately recognize him as one of the djinn my maternal grandmother warned me against in my childhood. I don't know anything about their s.e.xual orientation, but this one seems gay to me.

”Who are you?” I ask fretfully.

”Ah, but don't you recognize me?” he says, chivalrous and poised, as if he were a brave knight and I, a damsel in distress.

”No, what do you want?”

”Please, cheri,” he says snippily. ”Have you never heard of the djinni who haunts new mothers?”

I give a sobbing breath and my face gets hot. ”My grandma says there is a djinni named Alkar1s1, known to molest women who have recently given birth.”

He cracks a laugh. ”The times are changing fast, cheri. Alkar1s1 is so old-school. She retired long ago, that minx. Today n.o.body knows about her anymore. She wouldn't make it to the top ten.”

I am surprised to hear the djinn have a top ten list, but instead of asking about this, I remark, ”I didn't know you guys could age.”

Taking a napkin from his pocket, he begins to wipe his gla.s.ses. ”Of course we do age, though we haven't lost our minds over Botox creams, like your kind. At least not yet-”

I look at him more closely, only now suspecting that he might not be as young as he looks.

Putting his gla.s.ses back on, he continues: ”Of course, we don't age as quickly as you poor sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. Your ten years are approximately”-he makes some calculations in his head-”equal to 112 years in djinn time. So a hundred-year-old djinni is just a kid where we come from. As for Alkar1s1, how should I put it? Her name is synonymous with nostalgia.”

”Do djinn have nostalgia?”

”Not us, you guys do! Don't you ever watch Disney movies? They use us as decor. I mean, what is that thing about the djinni in a lamp? We are living in the twenty-first century, h.e.l.lo! No one hangs out in lamps anymore!”

”Do djinn find Disney movies politically incorrect?” I ask, mesmerized.

”You, too, would feel the same way if your kind were portrayed as pudgy-bellied, five-chinned, blue ogres with baggy trousers and fezzes on their heads,” he flares. ”Don't you see we've all adjusted to the times? I go to the gym four days a week and I don't have an extra ounce of fat on my body.”

”Who are you, for G.o.d's sake?!”

Like a good gentleman he tips his hat and bows to me with a roguish smile. ”My sincere apologies if I forgot to introduce myself. I am your obedient servant, the Djinni of Postpartum Depression. Otherwise known as Lord Poton.”

I feel a chill go down my spine. ”What do you want?” I ask, although I am not sure I want to hear the answer.

”What do I want?” he prompts. ”It is a good question because, as it happens, my wish is your command.”

”Hmm, shouldn't it be the other way round?”

”As I said, forget those cliches. Let's get to know each other better.”

Lord Poton is such a s.h.i.+fty being that I don't immediately realize how creepy he can be. For the first couple of days I watch him more out of curiosity than worry. Little do I realize that he is settling in during that time, making himself at home. Then one day, he produces a lockbox.

”What is that?”

”It's my gift to you,” he says, grinning. ”Don't you always complain about how your finger-women tire you out with their endless quarrels?”

”Yes, but-” I say tentatively.

”Good, I will lock them all away so that they won't bother you anymore.”

”Wait a minute,” I object. ”I want no such thing.”

But he doesn't listen to me. ”My wish is your command, remember,” he whispers, as if to himself. Then he stretches out his manicured nails and pulls the members of the Choir of Discordant Voices out of me, one by one.

The first to get caught is Milady Ambitious Chekhovian.

”What do you think you are doing, mister?” she admonishes him as he holds her by the nape of her neck and forces her into the box. ”I have important things to do! Let go of me!”

Next comes Little Miss Practical. I would have expected her to follow the course of least resistance and surrender, but apparently she finds swearing more practical. Smoldering with anger, she yells, ”Yo, who do you think you are? You moron! Get your hands off me!”

”Please don't bother, I will go where I need to go,” says Dame Dervish as she walks with dignity into the box.

”Poton, darling, why the rush? Why don't we talk first tete-a-tete? Just the two of us. May I call you Potie?” says Blue Belle Bovary, pouting her lips, tilting her head to one side, trying to use her feminine wiles to get herself off the hook. Despite her best efforts, she, too, is sent into the box.

”But I have lentil soup on the stove, you cannot arrest me now,” begs Mama Rice Pudding.

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