Having long sauntered through the city bazaars of South Asia – the alleyways of open kitchens, of cobblers and mountains of turmeric, of sari merchants and blacksmiths – we regarded the outskirts of Mashhad as something like tomorrow-land. At evening, haloes of neon illuminated service stations, stores sat in geometric order teeming with western goods as stylish families strolled together in the gloaming. It was as though the frontier no-man’s-land (see previous post) had served as a wormhole to some other corner of the galaxy. That these realities – both Mashhad and Herat – could lie along Asia Highway #1 only hours apart, or sit proximate along the self-same Silk Route hardly seemed possible.

caliph of whom it was said, that
his accession was like the sun
rising upon the world. At his
death he was only 43 y.o.
photo credit: wikimedia
commons.
But whatever its modern face, Mashhad was ornate with tradition of its own. Here was the tomb of Harun al-Rashid, caliph and lover of tales, horse races and falconry, who presided over the Golden Age of Islam, and under whose auspices was assembled One Thousand and One Nights. It is said of the caliph that he would walk the streets at night anxious for the wellbeing of the faithful. From the far reaches of Shia Islam they come today – 20 million pilgrims a year – massed in the world’s largest mosque to honor the brilliance of that past. Set midst this radiant tradition is the gem-like tale of Scheherazade, daughter of a vizier, who, to save her own life, told gripping stories to the sultan but always withholding charged endings until the following day. In time, the outpouring of story worked its Persian magic: love overcame menace, grief and bitterness.
Feeling the pressure of time, we nosed the VW westward, Mashhad retreating in the rearview mirror. Some hours later we paused for a rest stop along a magnificent stretch of highway. Feeling refreshed, we set out again, but now on the watch for a service station. I was at the wheel when I noticed that my wallet containing documents and currency was missing at just about the same moment when our caravan coughed and came to a stop having run out of fuel. A desperate search ensued for the missing wallet – confirming that it had been left, possibly at our last rest stop. But there would be no means of retrieving it without fuel. So, I trudged up the road on foot to a small town, returning with a container of ‘benzine’ (gasoline) with which Iran is generously endowed.

in the sultan’s court, and provided the literary framework for ‘One Thousand And
One Nights’. Scholars have traced the origins of these tales to China, Java, Egypt
and various parts of South Asia. Though the collection now includes such favorites
as Aladdin and His Wonderful Lamp, Sinbad the Sailor and Ali Baba and the Forty
Thieves, these appear to be later additions to the core collection. photo credit:
Sani al-Mulk, miniature painter.
We prepared to retrace our steps in search of the wallet when a westbound bus stopped beside us. Out jumped two policemen and the full complement of passengers. We had no language in common, but they conveyed to us that they had found an item along the roadside and wondered if we might have unwittingly left it. Within a short time, I was able to describe the wallet and its contents, confirming it was mine. The policemen told the passengers of the happy ending, and that the bus should delay no longer. I was disbelieving and ecstatic: such was the miracle that only a traveler far from home could fully understand.
The policemen who remained with us, asked me to sign a paper affirming I had taken possession of the wallet. Then a truck rumbled into view, and one of the officers ran to flag it down. The handyman pulled back a canvas cover and, removing some freight, dug out a watermelon which he handed down to the policeman before resuming the journey. The officer then directed us to sit in a circle on the roadside grass while he commenced to carve up the melon. He passed around giant red slices that dripped their bounty and sweetness – an anointing, if you will – all over us as we grinned in pleasure and, for want of words, clapped our grimy hands like summer children at a waterpark. Then refusing all reward, the two policemen flagged down the next vehicle, politely bid us godspeed, clambered aboard, and disappeared. How the choreography – the wallet, the passing vehicles, the watermelon – of this moment was orchestrated remains a mystery.
Of course, we never met the old caliph who had long before done his people proud and endowed them with unforgettable stories. But I am certain we met his direct descendants that day who fully deserve his surname, ‘Rashid’, meaning ‘upright’. Not only did they prove to be righteous offspring of the fabled ruler, but they left us a story which, while it will never figure in One Thousand and One Nights, deserves inclusion there in my humble estimation. And, best of all, it is punctuated by a roadside sacrament of angelic order.
Jonathan, you are a master story teller, a “Scheherazade” in your own right!
Thank you.
Hello, Ardith! At least one thing applies to all storytellers that the Scheherazade tale implies. They are telling their stories not only for the amusement of those whose faces flicker with firelight around the hearth, but also as a desperate device for the saving of their own lives. It is this awareness that lends a certain flair to what they do. The just want to see another sunrise.
Jonathan: That was a sequence that would rate better than 1001/1 odds in any bookmaker’s bets, especially adding in the trigger event that generated the encounter: running out of gas before you got too distant from the wallet!
Praise to the Almighty! – protector of pilgrims, generator of all sequencing and choreography!
Yes, Wendell! The actuaries get busy to calculate the mercies of heaven, and they too are left speechless! Lovely of you to delve into the mysterious details! Sometimes running out of fuel is a blessing. As one sage has told us, ‘These things happen not to us, but for us!’
As a traveller who habitually takes off on an empty tank, as well as loser of uncounted wallets, I have also lost count of the Rashids that show up, almost to my wife’s dismay when she hears another one! …even if I credit the Almighty, I still am not learning, which is supposed to be the point of the suffering, right?
Hello, again, Wendell! I am well-acquainted with the affliction you own. So much so, that in some unnamed intimate circles, it is referred to as ‘larson-itis’. The trump card in this otherwise losing hand is that I had the good fortune to be partnered to a soul who is both foresighted and long-suffering. Such are the cobbled fixes that bring us safely – and humbly – through the vicissitudes of life.
You’ve had some amazing experiences. Life inspiring and enriching. PTL!
Hello, Eleanore! Or said another way – the humblest things, after all, stored up and pondered! Lovely of you to write!
What a wonderful story–truly amazing!!!! I agree with Ardith about your story-telling gift!
Greetings, Gann! The secret of having any talent at all, is to acquire good friends who for affection profess astonishment at a humble craft. Very best!
gloaming? I loved this word in your tale. But the speechless watermelon feast was the best.
Hi, Larry! I hope these word choices aren’t annoying you too much! Yes – the watermelon. A lush and messy ritual! As anyone with history in the Kalahari can attest.
Jonathan, loved “storytelling -desperate device for saving their own lives”! Maybe that’s why I’m trying to make order from the file boxes of family pics and documents! You continue to be an inspiration – God’s blessings!
As a traveller who notoriously takes off on an empty tank, as well as loser of uncounted wallets, I have also lost count of the Rashids that show up, almost to my wife’s dismay when she hears another one! …even if I credit the Almighty, I still am not learning, which is supposed to be the point of the suffering, right?
Hi Jonathan!! Wonderful! Your missives are a note of sanity in an increasingly weird world!
Warmest from Berlín, Germany