As Hilary Kilpatrick wrote in The Journal of Arabic Literature, “Mahmud Tahir Lashin is one of those Egyptian writers who, pioneers in their own time, never achieved wide popularity and were soon forgotten. Yet his short stories reveal an original and accomplished artistry, and his novel, Hawwa’ bila Adam, is one of the most interesting works of fiction to have been published in Cairo during the 1930’s.”
The Irony of the Flute
By Mahmud Tahir Lashin
Translated by Amr El-Zawawy
Among objects, there are those which, if pressed, will break; others will not. These will instead become flexible, assuming all manner of different shapes. Still others remain intact under pressure, effortlessly morphing into new forms, purifying and crystallizing themselves. So it is with the soul: when it’s weak, it breaks. If it’s malicious, it takes on new shapes. When good, it will purify itself and crystallize anew. Among the latter type are the greats and prophets, but also Amm Wahdan…
As a suckling babe, Amm Wahdan was stricken by hunger, for his mother’s milk dried up. After that, he would no longer bite her nipples with his tender lips, and so tears rolled down his cheeks in hunger and misery. He was then orphaned, having been snatched from his mother’s dry breast at the hands of the many. As a boy, harshness worked its way through him at the hands of his stepmother, as, later, his father bowed down to her as much as he had treated the boy’s mother harshly before.
As a young man, Amm Wahdan was spurned like a stray dog. As an adult, he roamed aimlessly here and there, passing his days between scorching summers and caustic winters. Hounded by misery, he travelled between bustling cities and the serene countryside. Yet his pains did not turn him into a corpse or a thief or bandit! He became Sheikh Wahdan, a walking philosopher, ridiculing all that has yet happened and what is still to come!
How strange! Where is the bastard? Is he a Sinbad of sorts or a follower of Nureddin’s seven sailors? Nay. Wahdan is still fit as a fiddle as these lines are being penned. Now, he might be vehemently intent on philosophizing among the public. Yet this comes not in oratory, but through the sadly plaintive and happily dancing tunes of his flute.
**
There, near the Technical College is a boisterously dense district, besieged by state factories to its right and domestic sweatshops to its left. Thuds of hammers are harmoniously in tune, and the sounds clinking metal is heard all around, from the trundling machines that give off demons’ whispers and giants’ roars.
The shameful fact is that most of these factories are not Egyptian in the strictest sense: they are owned by Armenians or Italians. Though there are few that are Egyptian-owned.
The streets are abuzz with vendors and wares on display. Clad in black-and-blue caps, they sell pickled turnips, cucumbers, and lemons. Grimacing women, dressed in dusty milayas, display a myriad of stuffed vegetables, sure of their quality and competitive prices! Neither proud nor selfish, they would shout with loud self-assurance at passersby in their usual long-voweled accent, “Good ones, you beginners!” Everywhere, the “capitalists” would let their commissioned vendors exhibit mounds of well-crafted water pots, ornamented decanters, and large teapots of every color and hue: raw white, pleasing red, loud yellow, and even brindled! Every object must have its source and purveyor.
Many know the district, for the tram takes them there. And here we are, now near Amm Wahdan’s place, separated from the trams by only a wooden viaduct, wide enough for the heaviest train to pass under. There, one could see the workers’ dingy, extremely filthy houses beneath, standing side by side as they face the east. To the west are hills of coal dust, as dark as their miserable lives.
After this, the viaduct would dip, taking us to a rural area with green and intertwined palm trees, heads turned up toward the sky. Here, cottages stand in an awesome tranquility. Yet urbanization has gotten close enough that a few buildings and shops can be seen.
**
At the heart of the countryside, and under the patronage of sprawling urbanization, lives Amm Wahdan. I am not suggesting he’s some sort of superhuman with more than two eyes, one head, and an ordinary physique! His head is somewhat large, with hoary hair scattered here and there, preventing the usual pattern of baldness. He has a wide forehead with five deep wrinkles, confirming his fiftyish age. The deep-set eyes, above which stand one-and-a-half decaying brows, lead to a beard and moustache below, both excessively hoary and untrimmed.
The half brow was apparently so carved by his stepmother, to whom his father bowed down. His brow was once complete and pretty, but she thought that he should carry a sack full of wheat to his father at the market before he came home to have his breakfast. However, the sack was beyond his capacity to carry. His eyes were wide open, imploring the woman to let him be, as he had no food in his belly save a morsel of bread and a piece of cheese unchewed since the night before! Yet the woman insisted, and so he struggled to lift the sack—and failed. The woman was indignant, fed up with that lazybones, and she cursed his late mother.
The orphan boy retreated to a corner of the house, shedding scalding tears. At noon, his father came home, and the wife hastened to explain everything in her stentorian voice. She provided a tissue of lies, so that the man gripped the boy’s neck and pounded against him, shaking him and roaring like a thunderbolt. Then, he violently pushed the boy away, so that he flew out with insolent dizziness until he fell. His face struck a grindstone, which slit half of his brow…
**
At the heart of the countryside, and under the patronage of sprawling urbanization, lives Amm Wahdan, having become orphaned, oppressed, and homeless. He lives in serenity and tranquility. Not having enjoyed any miracles of lucky stars or treasure islands, he repaired to that place after a long and exhausting journey under the scorching sun. He was so worn out that his legs were unable to carry him any farther. His shoes were tattered, with pebbles working holes through their soles, and he was soaked with sweat, trying wipe his forehead with the back of his roughened hand. The other hand had so tightly clutched his flute that it was as if frozen. He quickened his pace until he reached a small mosque called the Halei Mosque.
There, he stepped in to rest. The windows were all shut so that the atmosphere was both pleasing and hydrating. At first, he thought no one was there, so he made some noise while taking off his shoes off and shaking out the dust. Soon enough, he heard a faint voice reciting verses from the Quran. He felt ashamed of his behavior, and, struck by a feeling of awe, he retreated to a corner to pray in whispers. There, huddled in on himself, he lowered his head and kept an ear cocked to the one reciting the Quran. He understood nothing of what he was hearing. The reciter faced the direction of the qibla, so Amm Wahdan saw only his back, wide nape, and the huge blue tassel of his turban. The reciter slowly swayed with the rhythm of the verses, then finished and stretched his palms to call out to God. After lengthy invocations, the reciter wiped his face with both hands and turned to Amm Wahdan, so that the latter exchanged greetings with him. Seeing the man’s black roundish beard, Amm Wahdan fell silent, and each of them eyed the other for a while, sometimes averting their gazes and, other times, attempting to start up a conversation, but then stopping. Finally, the reciter broke the ice and asked Amm Wahdan whether he was a resident of the district.
That question led to a lengthy conversation full of accounts of misery. It was a sincere one, which could stir both lamentation and admiration. And the reciter’s words were redolent of profound knowledge and respect.
The noon prayer was due. Both performed a congregational prayer with the residents of the district. The reciter was the imam, this being his main profession. After they all finished, the imam introduced Amm Wahdan to the locals, who heartily welcomed him and offered to have him as their guest.
As the days rolled by, Amm Wahdan became their favorite, and they granted him a cottage among their cottages. He became like a brother and father to many of them. Amm Wahdan was thus a member of a large new family, in which he secured his livelihood and dignity. Every day, the rays of the early sun leaking through the niche in his home would gently waken him. He would then perform the morning prayer. As the sun was at mid-sky, giving the earth both warmth and golden colors, he would retreat to a lone palm tree near his cottage, absorbed in thought. He would also play his flute or actively go around carrying news and requests from one cottage to another. Sometimes, he would fail to fulfill all his tasks, for the young ones would grab his clothes to play with them…
At sunset, when the receding rays would linger across the farms, tops of palm trees, and roofs of cottages, the wearied farmers would go home, carrying their hoes and sacks overhead. After a short rest in the still of the night, they would form a circle around Amm Wahdan to listen to his small talk or his music as played on the flute. Afterwards, they would disperse, enchanted, and he would go home to enjoy undisturbed sleep.
**
Near the wide, wavy viaduct stands a villa. It’s a similar height to the others scattered here and there in that district. They are all narrow one-story homes, yet that villa is the best designed and best built. It’s surrounded by a metal fence, inside which stands a comely garden. The villa is owned by a wealthy Cairene …
He had it built a year ago, and he bought the finest furnishings so he could live there with his wife. They both eagerly awaited their absent son, whose approaching arrival made them feel all the happier. He was their only surviving child among many siblings. In his childhood days, he had filled their lives with love and solace. In his boyhood, he was a source of pride and hope, for he exhibited intelligence and rare acumen. He succeeded in school and got the certificate. After, he headed for Paris to pursue proper education, having convinced his hesitant father and worried mother.
In Paris, the young son enjoyed his days in the best way he could imagine. Neither distracted by pastimes nor by wild fun, he passionately applied himself to his studies, such that he became one of the top students. Once he’d finished his studies, he resolved to go home, where his parents were joyously waiting for him…
The young man came back with a brain full of knowledge and heart full of resolution. But alas, with tuberculosis in his chest!
The disease he had contracted was incipient and hard to diagnose. Even specialized doctors failed to discover it. As his achievements grew and people developed trust in him, his health started to play him false. Whenever Lady Luck smiled on him, his soul would mourn. Guided by the example he had set for himself, he kept on cutting his way through. Still, the illness took its toll on him and knocked him down. The young man took to his velvety bed, on which he used to lie, absorbed in thought, either ruminating or solving intellectual problems, such that when he succeeded, he would ecstatically build castles in the air…
TB had a stranglehold on him and made his insides bleed. He would stay sleepless for at night, and cry out in pain in the morning. Only his father would come to soothe him…
Pain left him in a heart-rending condition. Doctors kept pouring soluble opium into his mouth. Sometimes, he would fall asleep, but other times, he would remain wide awake, in a delirium, remembering his friends and his past and future plans. He might also experience reveries in which he would imagine his funeral procession attended by many he knew and others he would ask his parents about. Then he would break down in tears. Such was the condition of the distressed, wealthy family!
One night, the full moon loomed in the cobalt sky, partly covered by a translucent cloud. Its silver light filled the horizon with glamor, such that the young invalid spied it from behind the curtains. He thought this might be the last light he would ever see, and so he decided to have a look and inhale the fresh air before going to his resting place. Now, barely a bag of bones, he leaned against his father so he could see.
His legs were too weak to allow him to move very far, and he collapsed under the weight of his illness. They carried him to his bed, where they opened the windows, so that the fresh air could enter and the moonlight seep in.
Air and light entered, accompanied by Amm Wahdan’s tunes, which ridiculed what has happened and what will…
And a cloud covered the face of the moon…
Mahmud Tahir Lashin (1894-1954) was born to a middle-class family that lived in al-Sayyida Zaynab, Cairo. He completed his standard education in 1912 and then enrolled in the High School of Engineering in Cairo, graduating as a civil engineer in 1917. From 1918 until his retirement at the end of 1953, he worked at Maslahat al-Tanzim, or the Planning Department. He passed away in April 1954 after a brief illness.
Amr El-Zawawy is Professor of Linguistics and Translation, Faculty of Education, Alexandria University, Alexandria, Egypt. He has also practiced written and simultaneous translation for more than 20 years now. He contributed important articles to different international scholarly journals, including but not limited to Babel (John Benjamins), Journal of Psycholinguistics, California Linguistic Notes and Advances in Language and Literary Studies. He published a number of books and translations, including Studies in Contrastive Linguistics and Stylistics (Novika, USA), Exploring the Cognitive Processes of Simultaneous Interpreting (Lexington Books, USA), Seminal Studies in Linguistics and Translation (Cambridge Scholars, UK), and Selections from Arabic Poetry (Kindle, Amazon).
Also by Mahmoud Tahir Lashin:
Hadith al-Qaryah – Village Small Talk, translated by Catherine Cobham