Episode IV: In Pursuit of the Promised

Shaykh Ahmad was dead, and the wolves moved fast. Siyyid Kázim found himself alone with the task his master had entrusted to him and surrounded by enemies determined to destroy him. Mockery. Denunciation. Organized hostility. A powerful Shí’ih leader, Siyyid Ibráhím-i-Qazvíní, turned that hostility into a campaign. The teaching could not survive on devotion alone. It needed an ally whose authority the slanderers could not dismiss.

Siyyid Kázim knew exactly who that ally had to be: Hájí Siyyid Muhammad-Báqir-i-Rashtí, a formidable ecclesiastical dignitary in Isfahán whose authority reached far beyond the city walls. If that man could be persuaded to reaffirm his former support for Shaykh Ahmad and his successor, the campaign against Siyyid Kázim would lose its footing.

But someone had to carry the message. Again and again Siyyid Kázim called on his disciples: would one of them arise with complete detachment, travel to Isfahán, and unravel whatever doubts had alienated the great Siyyid’s sympathy? Again and again silence answered him. One man did volunteer. Mírzá Muhít-i-Kirmání. Siyyid Kázim turned him away. “Beware of touching the lion’s tail,” he said. “Belittle not the delicacy and difficulty of such a mission.”

Then he turned to his youngest and most trusted disciple, Mullá Husayn-i-Bushru’i. “Arise and perform this mission,” he told him, “for I declare you equal to this task. The Almighty will graciously assist you, and will crown your endeavours with success.”

Mullá Husayn sprang to his feet, kissed the hem of his teacher’s garment, and set out.

He arrived in Isfahán clad in mean attire, laden with the dust of travel. Around Hájí Siyyid Muhammad-Báqir sat a vast company of richly dressed disciples. Among them, Mullá Husayn was an insignificant figure. Unobserved and undaunted, he advanced to a place that faced the seat of that renowned teacher and spoke words that stopped the room: “Hearken, O Siyyid, to my words, for response to my plea will ensure the safety of the Faith of the Prophet of God, and refusal to consider my message will cause it grievous injury.”

The Siyyid interrupted his own discourse. He ignored his audience and listened. His disciples rebuked the intruder, denounced his presumption. Mullá Husayn answered them with extreme politeness and firm dignity, and the Siyyid, pleased by the visitor’s bearing, apologized for their conduct and asked him to deliver his message.

But when Mullá Husayn pressed for an immediate hearing, the Siyyid tried to delay. He admitted that he and his peers had once believed Shaykh Ahmad and Siyyid Kázim were advancing the cause of knowledge and the Faith, but said that in later years they had noticed conflicting statements and mysterious allusions in their writings, and had judged it wiser to keep silent. Mullá Husayn would not accept that silence. “I cannot but deplore such silence on your part,” he said, “for I firmly believe that it involves the loss of a splendid opportunity to advance the cause of Truth.” Set forth the passages that trouble you, he told the Siyyid, and I will expound their true meaning.

The poise and confidence of this unexpected messenger moved Hájí Siyyid Muhammad-Báqir to tears. He sent for works written by Shaykh Ahmad and Siyyid Kázim and began to question Mullá Husayn on the passages that had excited his disapproval. To each one Mullá Husayn replied with characteristic vigor, masterly knowledge, and befitting modesty. He continued until the Mu’adhdhin’s call to prayer interrupted the flow of his argument. The next day, before an even larger assembly, he resumed. A deep silence fell on the hearers. They were seized with wonder at the cogency of his argument.

The Siyyid publicly promised that on the following day he would himself issue a written declaration testifying to the eminence of Shaykh Ahmad and Siyyid Kázim, and pronouncing anyone who deviated from their path as one who had turned aside from the Faith of the Prophet. He redeemed that pledge with his own hand, read the declaration to his disciples, and delivered it unsealed to Mullá Husayn, authorizing him to share it with whomever he pleased.

The victory was won. But the detail that fixes Mullá Husayn in memory comes after.

No sooner had he retired than the Siyyid charged a trusted attendant to follow him and find out where he lived. The attendant trailed him to a modest building that served as a madrisih and saw him enter a room that, except for a worn mat on the floor, was empty. He watched Mullá Husayn offer his prayer of thanksgiving and lie down on that mat with nothing to cover him but his ‘aba. A hundred tumans were sent in apology for the Siyyid’s failure to extend hospitality worthy of so remarkable a messenger.

Mullá Husayn sent them back. “Tell your master that his real gift to me is the spirit of fairness with which he received me, and the open-mindedness which prompted him, despite his exalted rank, to respond to the message which I, a lowly stranger, brought him. Return this money to your master, for I, as a messenger, ask for neither recompense nor reward. ‘We nourish your souls for the sake of God; we seek from you neither recompense nor thanks.’ My prayer for your master is that earthly leadership may never hinder him from acknowledging and testifying to the Truth.”

That was the first half of Siyyid Kázim’s mission: defend the teaching. Hold the trust. Train the right soul and send him into the field.

The second half was harder. He had to prepare people not merely to admire a teacher, but to recognize the One for whom all the teaching existed. And his hearers did not want to recognize anyone new. They wanted to worship the teacher they already had.

He grew more precise. The promised One would not come from the mythical cities of Jabulqa or Jabulsa. “You behold Him with your own eyes,” Siyyid Kázim told them, “and yet recognise Him not.” He is of noble lineage. A descendant of the Prophet, of the family of Hashim. He is young. His knowledge is innate, not derived from the teachings of Shaykh Ahmad. He is of medium height. He abstains from smoking. He is of extreme devoutness and piety.

Certain disciples, hearing these signs, tried to force them back onto Siyyid Kázim himself. A certain Mullá Mihdíy-i-Khú’í went so far as to announce this belief publicly. Siyyid Kázim was so displeased that he nearly expelled him from the company. There was no vanity in the man’s exasperation. He was trying to point past himself, and his own followers kept pulling the hand back.

Then comes the testimony of Shaykh Hasan-i-Zunúzí, a man who was there and who carried what he saw for the rest of his life.

He too had wondered whether Siyyid Kázim might be the promised One. He prayed for clarity and could neither eat nor sleep. One morning at the hour of dawn, Mullá Naw-Rúz, one of Siyyid Kázim’s intimate attendants, burst in and told him to arise and follow. They found Siyyid Kázim fully dressed, wearing his ‘aba, ready to leave. “A highly esteemed and distinguished Person has arrived,” Siyyid Kázim said. “I feel it incumbent upon us both to visit Him.”

In the early morning light, they walked through the streets of Karbilá and reached a house at whose door stood a Youth, as if expectant to receive them. He wore a green turban. His face showed a humility and kindliness that Shaykh Hasan could never afterward describe. The Youth approached, extended His arms toward Siyyid Kázim, and lovingly embraced him. The contrast was unmistakable: the Youth greeted Siyyid Kázim with warmth and affection; Siyyid Kázim received Him speechless and with bowed head, with a reverence so deep that even the shrine of the Prince of Martyrs had never drawn its equal from him.

They were led to the upper floor, into a chamber bedecked with flowers and redolent of perfume. They were bidden to sit, but Shaykh Hasan could not afterward recall what seats they actually occupied, so overpowering was the delight that seized them. A silver cup stood in the center of the room. The Youth filled it to overflowing and handed it to Siyyid Kázim, saying: “A drink of a pure beverage shall their Lord give them.” Siyyid Kázim held the cup with both hands and quaffed it. Shaykh Hasan too received a cup, though no words were addressed to him. All that was spoken at that gathering was that single verse of the Qur’an.

Three days later, that same Youth came and sat among Siyyid Kázim’s assembled disciples. He took His place near the threshold, with the same modesty and dignity. As soon as Siyyid Kázim’s eyes fell upon Him, he stopped speaking. A disciple asked him to finish his argument. Siyyid Kázim turned his face toward the Youth and said: “Lo, the Truth is more manifest than the ray of light that has fallen upon that lap.” Shaykh Hasan looked and saw that a ray of light had indeed fallen on the lap of that same Youth they had visited at dawn.

“Why is it,” the questioner pressed, “that you neither reveal His name nor identify His person?”

Siyyid Kázim pointed to his own throat. Were he to speak that name, they both would die.

Shaykh Hasan watched that Youth on other days too. He saw Him stand at the doorway of the shrine of the Imám Husayn, so wrapt in devotion He seemed oblivious of everyone around Him. Tears rained from His eyes. From His lips fell words, “O God, my God, my Beloved, my heart’s Desire,” with such frequency and ardor that visiting pilgrims nearby stopped their own prayers and wept. And then, without crossing the threshold, without speaking a word to anyone, He would quietly return to His home.

Shaykh Hasan learned that this Youth was a merchant from Shíráz, not a cleric. He and His family were among the admirers of Shaykh Ahmad and Siyyid Kázim. Soon the Youth departed for Najaf, on His way back to Shíráz. But the memory of that vision would not leave Shaykh Hasan. His soul was wedded to it. Years later, when the call of a Youth from Shíráz proclaiming Himself to be the Báb reached his ears, the thought flashed instantly through his mind: this could be none other than that same Youth.

Around Siyyid Kázim, meanwhile, not every disciple was honest. Some occupied seats of honor and professed devotion while nursing ambitions of their own. Siyyid Kázim saw through them. “None can comprehend my language except him who is begotten of me,” he said. And again: “I am spellbound by the vision. I am mute with wonder, and behold the world bereft of the power of hearing.”

He spoke of deficiencies from which the promised One would be free, and certain disciples knew exactly whom those words targeted. Among the inner circle sat Hájí Mírzá Karím Khán, who was both one-eyed and sparsely bearded. There was Mírzá Hasan-i-Gawhar, an exceptionally corpulent man. And Mírzá Muhít, extraordinarily lean and tall. Their fellow-disciples marked them with quiet certainty as the faithless ones Siyyid Kázim kept warning about.

Karím Khán proved the worst. He had sat at Siyyid Kázim’s feet for years and absorbed his learning. Then he left for Kirmán, claiming he would promote the Faith. One day his attendant arrived at Siyyid Kázim’s library carrying a book and requesting the master’s written endorsement. Siyyid Kázim read portions, returned it, and sent this message: “Tell your master that he, better than anyone else, can estimate the value of his own book.” When the attendant left, Siyyid Kázim’s voice turned sorrowful. “Accursed be he,” he said. After all those years of study, his one aim was to spread heretical doctrines and seize leadership after his teacher’s death. “The breeze of divine Revelation, wafted from the Day-Spring of guidance, will assuredly quench his light and destroy his influence.”

The world around Siyyid Kázim grew no quieter.

In Karbilá, the followers of his enemy Siyyid Ibráhím banded together, stirred up sedition, evicted the Ottoman governor’s representative, and seized the city’s revenues. Constantinople sent a military official with troops to crush the revolt. That officer besieged Karbilá and wrote directly to Siyyid Kázim, entreating him to pacify the city. He promised amnesty if they surrendered. If they refused, their lives would be in danger.

Siyyid Kázim summoned the chief instigators. With wisdom and affection, he persuaded them to lay down their arms and open the gates in the morning. They agreed. He would accompany them and intercede on their behalf.

But the ulamás, the very clerics who had led the rebellion, moved at once to sabotage the settlement. They knew that if Siyyid Kázim brokered the peace, his prestige would grow and their own would shrink. So they told the most excitable men in the city to sally forth at night and attack the besieging forces. They justified it with a lie: one of them claimed he had dreamed of Abbás, who charged them to wage holy war and promised victory.

The men believed it. They rejected Siyyid Kázim’s counsel and went out. Siyyid Kázim, who understood exactly what had happened, sent a faithful report to the Turkish commander. The commander replied and reiterated his appeal for peace. He also declared that when he forced the gates, he would regard Siyyid Kázim’s home as the only place of refuge. Siyyid Kázim had this declaration spread throughout the city. The population laughed.

“Verily,” Siyyid Kázim said, “that with which they are threatened is for the morning. Is not the morning near?”

At daybreak on the eighth of Dhi’l-Hijjih, 1258 A.H., the bombardment came. The walls were breached. The forces poured in. They pillaged and massacred. Hundreds fled to the courtyard of the shrine of the Imám Husayn. Others ran to the sanctuary of Abbás. Neither shrine could protect them. The hallowed precincts of both ran with blood.

One place, and one place only, held its sanctity: the house of Siyyid Kázim. So many rushed to his door that adjoining houses had to be seized to hold them. When the crush subsided, twenty-two people had been trampled to death inside. But those who reached his walls survived.

In a city full of men claiming spiritual authority, the one house that actually sheltered the desperate was his.

And still he kept speaking past himself. His final exhortation to his companions carried the weight of everything he had endured: “O my beloved companions! Beware, beware, lest after me the world’s fleeting vanities beguile you. It is incumbent upon you to renounce all comfort, all earthly possessions and kindred, in your quest of Him who is the Desire of your hearts and of mine. Scatter far and wide, detach yourselves from all earthly things, and humbly and prayerfully beseech your Lord to sustain and guide you. Never relax in your determination to seek and find Him who is concealed behind the veils of glory.”

He told them to prepare not for one trumpet, but for two. After the Qá’im, the Qayyúm would be made manifest. After the first star set, a greater sun would rise. “To have attained unto that Day of days,” he said, “is to have attained unto the crowning glory of past generations.”

Every year, in the month of Dhi’l-Qádih, Siyyid Kázim would leave Karbilá to visit the shrines of the imáms in Kázimayn. In 1259 A.H. he set out on this pilgrimage for the last time. On the fourth day he arrived at the Masjid-i-Baratha, on the highway between Baghdád and Kázimayn, in time for the noonday prayer. He stood beneath the shade of a palm facing the mosque and joined the congregation.

When the prayers were finished, an Arab shepherd appeared and embraced him. Three days ago, the man said, he had been tending his flock in the adjoining pasture when sleep fell upon him. In his dream, Muhammad, the Apostle of God, addressed him: stay within the precincts of this mosque. On the third day a scion of My house, Siyyid Kázim, will arrive at noon beneath the shadow of the palm. Go to him and tell him this: “Rejoice, for the hour of your departure is at hand. When you shall have performed your visits in Kázimayn and shall have returned to Karbilá, there, three days after your return, on the day of ‘Arafih, you will wing your flight to Me. Soon after shall He who is the Truth be made manifest.”

A smile spread across Siyyid Kázim’s face. His disciples grieved. He turned to them and asked: “Is not your love for me for the sake of that true One whose advent we all await? Would you not wish me to die, that the promised One may be revealed?”

He completed his pilgrimage. He returned to Karbilá. The very day of his arrival he fell ill. On the day of ‘Arafih, at the age of sixty, Siyyid Kázim died. His sacred remains were laid to rest within the precincts of the shrine of the Imám Husayn.

He left behind no institution to protect, no chair to inherit, no throne to guard. He left behind a command: scatter, search, find Him.

And behind him he left a band of disciples, purged of worldly desire, who now had no teacher to lean on, no master to consult, no presence to replace, only a charge to go out into the world and recognize, by their own unaided effort, the One their teacher had spent his life pointing toward but could never safely name.

The search was no longer an instruction. It was the only thing they had left.