told and illustrated by Sam Inayat-Chisti
(March 1984)
Tosun Baba sat in the great stuffed chair and opened a box of surprises: Turkish Delight, taffy, figs, nuts, halwah – this was a perfect uncle! And as each child settled down for the traditional story, Tosun Baba lit his cigar. While he drew in the aroma, blowing smoke rings thoughtfully over his head, he opened the evening to requests.
“Cinderella!“ cried one. Tosun allowed a significant pause, his severe eyes glinting with mirth, then began, “Cinderallah, I believe, is the correct version.“
And thus he related:
In a little hamlet near near Anatolya there lived a girl named Cinderallah. She lived with her proud step-mother and two vain sisters who set her to work day and night at every kind of chore they could dream up.
For all her fourteen years, Cinderallah never knew her father, and she'd lost her mother at a very early age to some dire political circumstances of the time.
In fact, she never could recall just how her present family came about, and whenever she inquired all she received were sarcasm and ill retorts.
“Yer hardly worth yer bread 'n' butter – go earn yer keep,“ they'd shout, or, “Why, you little Armenian, you have no roots, you sprang from the gutter.“
Always a cruel jibe, and always overlooked by their mother. The two sisters, Figstein and Muldoon, were as vain as they were beautiful (to behold), and as insensitive as they were vain. It was a fact quite unknown to the humble Cinderallah, that the frivolous and petty riches they flaunted before her had fallen into their greedy hands from her own real inheritance left her by her mother and hidden from her by her wily step-mother, Um Mathilde.
Cinderallah had none of the delicious halwah and Turkish figs that her sisters consumed in quantity. Occasionally on returning form the market with fresh coffee and baklava, she was allowed a few flakes of the filo off the mouth-watering pastry. There never was enough Turkish coffee for the little missy, she had to content herself with the dregs.
The mice pitied her, though, and she fancied they were dancing for her as she worked alone into the night on any typical evening when her sisters were off to the gambling houses or a social banquet, with Um Mathilde as chaperone.
But think not that Cinderallah was bitter. Petty thoughts were beneath her, for she was nobly born, she just didn't know where. And the little mice were not her sole consolation. She had a little song she sang while busy with her chores.
She had heard the words in a dream once and never understood their meaning, but it had a nice tune – and, well, she had rather a nice voice. The reason she was gifted with such a voice was because she imagined in her heart that every young girl should have a beloved – so perhaps one day she would have one too, and all the housework became for her a preparation for the day she would marry her beloved and please him.
And how she sang these silly little words, a simple heart-felt phrase:
SUB-HAAN-AL-LAH CINDERALLAH.......SUB-HAAN-AL-LAH CINDERALLAH...
...SUB-HAAN-AL-LAH CINDERALLAH.......SUB-HAAN-AL-LAH CINDERALLAH...
She would sweep to the rhythm she created with the words, wash dishes to the rhythm, sort laundry, scrub floors, bake bread, churn butter – all to the rhythm. And all for her precious Nobody, her undiscovered beloved, her Someday person.
She also kept a little pear-shaped medallion, her only possession, on a string around her neck. She could not make out the strange scrawling on the medal, but as it was all she had to her name, she kept it and polished it frequently 'til it shone like a star over her gentle little heart.
“Tonight is a fest-night,“ chided her step-mother, Um Mathilde. Startled out of her thoughts, so far away had they transported her, the girl stumbled over the basket of laundry she was just mending.
“Idiot wretch of an urchin!“ snapped Um Mathilde. Then her face relaxed into a sweet maternal countenance, sweet as eels in a smooth pond, of course. “Now, darling, be a good girl and finish your work, we need those garments for the fest. If you have everything done in time you will be spared a beating for your laziness, and you may have what is left of supper after we have left.“
“Will there be … festivities, ma'am?“ Here Figstein and Muldoon entered, bodices undone and barbs on their tongues. (Cinderallah had always admired thier comeliness, considering herself quite plain, as they'd have her believe.)
“Festivities! You runt, wouldn't you like to know! The best halwah!“ Figstein smacked her lips mockingly.
Muldoon pitched in. “And baklava by the bushel! Ha – and handsome men from good families. They'd hardly notice you. But we will dance away the night!“
Cinderallah's eyes grew wide. Halwah, sweet dish! And – baklava by the bushel! She almost swooned with ecstasy. Surely her secret beloved, when he comes for her, will own a bakery. (She'd write it in, on the petition inscribed on her tender heart.) “And so there will be … music?“
The sisters cackled. “Oh, what an innocent! Drums, little one, and rebab!“ Um Mathilde clapped her hands. “Now, darlings, it's time to get on with our preparations. Cinderallah has work to do, her break is up – she has much to complete for tomorrow night's festivities which we are holding here.“
All three girls were excited over the surprise, not the least Cinderallah. “Ah, Um Mathilde, then I shall be able to see my first celebration!“ She was so elated.
But the matron only turned a cold glare on the girl. “Cer-tainly not!“ So harsh was that response, Cinderallah nearly fell off her stool. Left alone to her mending, she suddenly felt an impulse to weep.
And weep she did. She fell straight to her knees, her palms outstretched and pleading. Through her flowing tears, all that the girl could force from her throat were those two words to her beloved.
“Sub-haan-al-lah, Cinderallah … Sub-haan-al-lah, Cinderallah ...“ And only the mice paid heed, and gathered in a circle about her.
Tosun Baba took a long draw on his cigar, and closed his eyes in contemplation as though lost altogether in memories far away. Abruptly coming to after a melancholy pause, he cleared his throat and tugged at his mustaches. “Well! To jump ahead ...“
Um Mathilde and her daughters headed out for the festive event, with all of its promise of wine, song and dainties – and perhaps romance.
“Looks as though we'll all of us be up all night,“ sneered Um Mathilde, as a parting remark, accompanied by the snide giggling of her two daughters. “Just have those slips finished for tomorrow, or you'll hear something!“
SLAM! Went the door.
And Cinderallah was quite alone, save for the mice.
The old mouser-cat, Vespa, had seen his days chasing mice and was now reduced to a household fixture. He got up from his nap and waddled his stiff bones and shredded fur to his only mistress, rubbing a figure-eight in and out of her ankles.
She reached down to lift him in her arms, but as she touched his fur she received such an unusual shock from him, she jumped backward and landed in the basket of laundry, her ears shaken by a thunderclap and the sound of a drum being struck.
When she came to her senses, there stood in the room with her a tall and powerful figure, a woman of the noblest bearing by far that Cinderallah had ever imagined. She came no closer than the doorway, yet obviously the door had never opened.
In her astonishment she had missed altogether the transformation of the mice into handsome and noble dervishes, lovers of the most beautiful and glorious Truth. And Vespa? Vespa was one too, of incalculable age but of equally potent manner.
As Vespa began handing out instruments to the former mice, a rebab here and a drum there, cymbals to this one and a ney to that, and as each instrument was reverently received with a kiss and a touch to the brow, the girl turned and beheld the woman – who beheld the girl with a most affectionate gaze.
Before Cinerallah could offer her a stool, a dervish-mouse had already produced a sheepskin on which this lady sat and motioned for Cinderallah to take her place by her side.
The girl modestly did as she was told. The lady held her hands in one hand while her other arm enfolded Cinderallah so, so mildly and caressed her all the while that the musicians played. Only the blaze in the fireplace lit the most serene smile on the lady's lips.
The noblewoman whispered to the girl, who now was enchantingly soothed by the sway of the music and the deep effect it had on every particle in the house. “We have heard your prayer, O pure one,“ she began, “and have come to you, to take you to the Beloved.“
“Ah!“ gasped the girl. “Then you love him too? … I – uh – mean, you know him? Uh … who is … where is he?“ She looked in every direction for someone.
The lady laughed. “Show me your medal, dear one,“ was all that she answered, but oh, how her eyes sparkled. Her laughter was like bells. Wide eyed in disbelief, Cinderallah showed it to her. Without even taking her eyes off the girl's to look at it, she asked, “Do you know what it says?“
“I – can't make anything of it … is … is it writing?“ stammered the girl.
“Read.“ commanded the woman.
The girl's glance darted nervously from the lady's eyes to the medal, to her own lap, back to the medal, then the lady's face, which now appeared illuminated all of itself. Suddenly the girl's confusion stopped. All sound stopped. She lost her sense of her own face, as it were, in the lady's face before her. And as if the whole space around were speaking to her, inside and out, she was all at once compelled to hear and to utter these words:
“What is being looked for – is what is looking.“
The lady merely nodded and turned Cinderallah's attention to a blind dervish-mouse who began to sing. After the song, more music, and dervish-mice formed a circle, each in turn greeting the lady with a bow.
“This is a night of Remembering,“ began the lady, without turning her eyes from the ceremony now taking place. “I am called Um al-Qadr, Mother of Power, also Mother of Dervishes. By remembering the Beloved, the beloved of all of us, you have remembered us right into your living room. We have always been together. ...“
Cinderallah was in a daze. Now old Vespa-dervish went to the center of the circle and turned round and round, his gray whiskers catching the firelight. When he had finished his Turn, Um al-Qadr rose majestically and, taking her young novice by the hand, led her to the center of the ring. But for these two, all voices softly chanted, “Subhaanallah, Cinderallah...“ And the chant grew louder and faster, whereupon Um al-Qadr took hold of both Cinderallah's hands and leaned back a bit, and made her lean back a bit, and round and round they turned!
Cinderallah was altogether dizzy, but Um al-Qadr held her pretty tight, and instructed her to just look at her face and forget all the rest. The girl was only too happy to comply, and never once did they stumble or bump anyone. Then eveything stopped quite suddenly. The two just stood there, eye to eye – Cinderallah was so full she could hardly stand it. The blind one sang and the others joined in. The chanting got stronger again, and she just closed her eyes, as the voices rang out huskily, like the sound of sawing wood:
“Hal – wah, hal – wah,“
swaying with each syllable, side to side, back and forth as a circle. In the excitement, one or another single voice would shout above the rest:
“Bak – lava! Bak – lava!“
Then all came to a finish, and only the blind one sang, and after that, the ney-flute with its reverberating overtones.
Cinderallah opened her eyes to find herself once again beside her newfound “mother“ on the sheepskin, who now addressed the girl with fond familiarity. “Daughter,“ (oh! How wonderful the sound of it to the child's ears!) “long have you sung that name – Cinderallah. So we heard, so we responded. We heard 'send her Allah' when you longed for your beloved. So we came. Now we are all here, you know with whom you belong, your real family. And it is time you receive a new name: Rahima. For you have known mercy.“
Cinderallah was so elated she was numb. As all prepared to rise, Um al-Qadr placed a kiss on Cinderallah-Rahima's brow and said, “It is time to come home. Leave behind what is old and follow your heart. You will be shown where to find us.“
And in a twinkling Vespa the cat lumbered out of the circle, and as he moved closer to Rahima he grew and grew in size, covering her entire view of the room and overwhelming her. For the moment she felt the fur of that gray beast against her cheek, the thunderclap shock overtook her as before.
When she came to, her only company was an old useless tomcat and some mice. She sat there a while and looked at them, trying to see the handsome fellows, her brothers-in-the-Beloved. “Nope,“ she shook her head. “I don't believe it.“
At dawn, which followed shortly after, she heard the footsteps at the door. “They're back!“ she leapt up and pushed back some loose strands of hair. Looking at the uncompleted tasks, she saw that it was hopeless. A beating and more scolding were inevitable.
The sisters came rolling through the door exhausted. For the first time, Cinderallah saw how pathetic and ugly they really were. For their outer beauty was far outweighed by the nastiness they had cultivated within. The garden overrun by the weeds, as it were. Their mother was left behind in thier haste to return. When she finally arrived Cinderallah took pity at her wretchedness and helped her into a chair. She looked dreadful.
What had happened? Nothing had happened. Cinderallah's eyes had only opened and now she saw her “sisters“ and step-mother as they really were, without dignity and without comeliness.
And she remembered Um al-Qadr's words: leave the old, follow your heart. She felt a number of strong feelings pulling at her heart. She felt angry at having spent so long in such unfortunate company, she wanted to kick them out and tear the place down. And, she felt merciful toward them, for they were indeed an unhappy lot, without knowledge or kindness or sympathy, without any true refinement. They were fat and grotesque to behold.
But most of all, Cinderallah-Rahima longed to be with Um al-Qadr. As that thought settled in her the best, she felt very sensible about it, and without further delay put on her thin, shabby overcoat, pocketed some bread for the journey and started out the front door.
She turned to say goodbye only once, thanked them for giving her a roof, and announced that she was taking to the open sky and roads unknown, to join her real family.
“Who do you think you are!“ they demanded, trying to be fierce. But she no longer believed it, and neither did they. “Who'll do the work around here?“ they clamored.
“I dunno,“ called Rahima over her shoulder. “I've finished my task here.“ And on she walked. The din of cries and abuse and cajoling and threats and more weeping grew faint behind her. As far as she knew, they'd just as well eat each other up. And of course, they did.
Rahima just kept right on walking.
The End
* * *
Translation into German by author (illustrated):http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2014/06/derwisch-marchen-oder-wie-cinderallah.html
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