Shah - Sorcerers apprentice an incredible journey into the world of Indias godmen

SORCERERS APPRENTICE

TAHIR SHAH

Arcade Publishing
NEW YORK

Copyright 1998, 2011 by Tahir Shah

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Shah, Tahir.

Sorcerers apprentice : an incredible journey into the world of Indias Godmen / Tahir Shah.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-61145-057-6 (alk. paper)
1. Shah, Tahir--Travel--India. 2. Magicians--Travel--India. 3. Magicians--India
-Biography. 4. Occultism--India--History. 5. Swindlers and swindlingIndia. 6.
HindusIndia. I. Title.
GV1545.S29A3 2011
793.8092--dc22
[B]

2011002221

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to the memory
of my father, Sayed Idries Shah.

AUTHORS NOTE

Some names and locations have been
changed in order to respect privacy.

Hits shay haghase nu dai che khkari
Nothing is what it seems

Favoured Pashtu proverb
of Jan Fishan Khan

CONTENTS

Three things cannot be retrieved:

The arrow once sped from the bow

The word spoken in haste

The missed opportunity.

Ali the Lion, Caliph of Islam,
son-in-law of Mohammed the Prophet

We failed to realise it was an omen when it came. Sunshine streamed down through an almost cloudless indigo sky, warming the dew-covered lawn. The gardener had fished out his dilapidated machine for the first mow of the summer. The great yew tree, basking in sunlight, threw long shadows across the grass. Squirrels dashed about in the monkey-puzzle and copper beech. A bank of azaleas perfumed the early-morning air. Then, quite suddenly, hailstones the size of conkers showered down from above, shattering the peace. A lone cloud in an unending blue sky had spawned the freak bombardment, which persisted for about three minutes. And, as the last nuggets of ice struck the lawn, the doorbell echoed the arrival of an unexpected visitor.

My familys home in an isolated English village was not unused to bizarre guests. The house was a magnet for the peculiar. One could never be certain whom the next to arrive would be. But, even by normal unpredictable standards, the man standing at the porch, waiting to be welcomed, was anything but typical.

The first thing that struck me about the towering Pashtun was his extraordinary bristliness. An immense bush of woolly beard masked much of his face. Hanging like an ink-black inverted candy-floss, it fanned out in all directions. His hands, ears, and the nostrils of his hooked beak of a nose were also thick with waxy hair. In the few places where the skin was bald the fingertips, palms and below the eyes it was creased and scaly as an armadillos snout. The sable eyes spoke of honesty and the furrowed forehead hinted of an anxious past.

The giant bear of a man teaselled the froth of beard outwards with a scarlet plastic comb, and dusted down his filthy khaki salwaar kameez, shirt and baggy trousers the preferred outfit in the Hindu Kush. Straightening the knotted Kabuli turban, which perched on his head like a crown, he peered down at the ground bashfully, as the front door was pulled inwards. My father, recognising Hafiz Jan, son of Mohammed ibn Maqbul, embraced him.

The Pashtuns luggage a single sealed tea chest bearing the word ASSAM in black stencilled lettering was carried in ceremoniously. It was heavy as an elephant-calf and stank of rotting fish.

Although received at no notice, Hafiz Jan was welcomed with great decorum. Tea and refreshments were brought and pleasantries exchanged. Blessings and gifts were conferred upon him. According to Eastern tradition, my father expounded in detail the pedigree of our distinguished visitor.

His forefathers had fought alongside my own ancestor, the Afghan warlord and statesman Jan Fishan Khan (a 210m de guerre, translating literally as He Who Scatters Souls). None had been so courageous, or trusted, as the progenitors of Hafiz Jan. They had accompanied the warrior on all his campaigns. Many had died in battle, side by side with members of my own family. When, in 1842, their lord had travelled with his enormous retinue of soldiers from Afghanistan to India, they had escorted him. With his sudden death at the tranquil Indian town of Burhana, they had pledged to guard for eternity the mausoleum of their commander, Jan Fishan Khan.

More than a century on, Hafiz Jan was proud to have assumed the inherited position: keeper of my great-great-great-grandfathers tomb.

The shrine of Jan Fishan, he said in faultless English, is the shrine of shrines, and as noble as He who lies there. It will last ten thousand years and longer!

A lengthy harangue followed, in which the Pashtun showered praise on the memory of Jan Fishan. Such orations, more familiar as the conclusion to a great Afghan feast rather than a dainty tea, are designed to verify well-established facts.

His Highness Prince Mohammed Jan Fishan Khan, son of Sayed Qutubuddin Khan of Paghman, began Hafiz Jan with deep, growling intonation, was pious, generous, chivalrous, honourable, and the greatest horseman that ever lived. Known as Shah-Saz, the King-Maker, he was a tactician, diplomat, philosopher and leader of great wisdom. Still today, continued Hafiz Jan, working himself into a frenzy, the descendants of his opponents tremble on hearing that legendary name Jan Fishan Khan, the Soul-Scatterer!

Suddenly, as if ordered to do so, Hafiz Jan fell silent. His face contorted with anxiety, he led my father into the garden. Twenty minutes later, the two men returned. My father was taciturn at first. Hafiz Jan was equally reserved.

Our brother, Hafiz Jan, began my father hesitantly, has crossed continents to be with us. He left the tomb of our forefather and hurried here. His journey was inspired by a disturbing dream.

His brow ridged in thought, my father related the dream of Hafiz Jan. Prolonged and elaborate, it had depicted many things. At the core of the tale, fringed by a series of confusing and interlinked events, was one gruesome incident. It centred on my own future.

Deceived by a concealed well-shaft, the dream had shown me meeting a sudden, undignified end. Hafiz Jan had hastened across land and sea to protect me from what he could only assume was a premonition. Rising up to his full height, the Pashtun thrust an arm in the air.

Rest assured, he barked, that I shall not stir from this place until the threat is vanquished!