“There are seven whom Allah will shade with His shade on the day when there will be no shade except His: the just ruler; a young man who grows up worshipping his Lord; a man whose heart is attached to the mosque; two men who love one another for the sake of Allaah and meet and part on that basis; a man who is called by a woman of rank and beauty and says ‘I fear Allaah’; a man who gives in charity and conceals it to such an extent that his left hand does not know what his right hand gives; and a man who remembers Allaah when he is alone, and his eyes fill up.”
— The Prophet 
(Al-Bukhaari, no. 620; Muslim, no. 1712; and others)
***
[This Islamic short story has been adapted from The Brothers Grimm’s “Little Briar Rose.”]
A Beautiful Beginning
The land where the Silk Road spread was being torn apart.
Soviets shut the doors of mosques and madrasas. They drove out imams and teachers with beards growing on their chins and duppis resting on their heads. They declared war on the long paranja robe and the flowing chachvan veil.
They knew no mercy.
One man and woman in Shahrixon begged for mercy from their Lord. They rushed to Pansod masjidi, swallowing their fear and raising their hands. Without a child that they could teach, their Islam would die with them.
That night, the woman dreamt that a voice said to her: “Your du’a has been accepted. A daughter shall be born to you in a year.”
The father and mother rejoiced. All traces of apprehension left them, and when the girl was born in Muharram, they considered it a new, beautiful beginning.
The father decided to host a generous feast—both for his daughter’s aqiqah and on the day of ‘Ashura. All were invited; his family, companions, and neighbors. He also reached out to wise women from the community—twelve of them, even though there were thirteen—so that his daughter might know her future kholas and receive their blessings. Besides, they were going to go again to Pansod masjidi out of gratitude for Allah 
. The list of guests had to be smaller than it usually was, for fear of being discovered.
As quietly as they could, the congregation filled the empty masjidi. All traces of apprehension left them. They ate as moonlight glittered on their golden plates of rice plov dripping with oil, wrapped manty stuffed with beef and onions and samsa set to burst with potatoes and vegetables. Their hands passed around mutton shashlyk skewers when they were not diving into bowls of steamy laghman noodles, hearty mashurda soup, and cooling salads.
Some of the people kept watch, but even they began to relax as the merriment went on. There was a tranquility in the air that none could explain. If they were caught, they would simply say that their houses were not big enough for the joyous occasion. And the revolutionaries from before had met here—perhaps the religious would also be spared.
When they were finished, the child received abundant prayers:
“May Allah grant her virtue!”
“May Allah grant her beauty!”
“May Allah grant her wealth!”
On and on they went, making du’a for the girl as they would for their own children. Nearly half an hour passed, and it was only the eleventh wise woman’s turn. Then a shrill voice rang throughout the musalla.
“May Allah grant her death!”
It was the thirteenth wise woman, snubbed by the lack of invitation, and furious that the community would take such a risk. Enraged, she continued.
“You endanger our well-being like this?! How dare you?! When the Soviets will arrest and execute our men if they catch you! May Allah grant her death at fifteen—the age we all learn to weave on our spindles—let her prick her finger on it, and bleed to death!”
Everyone was stunned into silence, save for the twelfth wise woman, who opened her palms as soon as the thirteenth had slammed the door.
“Ya Allah,” she implored. “Let the girl instead fall into sleep. Just as you did for the People of the Cave, protect her from the fitna all around us. It is only a minor death, for such a mere child. Our Lord. We only meant to gather in Your house, to celebrate Your generosity, on a day that You freed Nuh, ‘alayhi al-salam, and Musa, ‘alayhi al-salam. Preserve her Islam, and that of her parents, and those who help raise her. Ameen.”
The Curse Of The
Mil
The party quickly dispersed. Worried that the thirteenth wise woman’s du’a might be accepted, the father asked all the women in the community to burn their spindles. Understanding his worry, they obeyed his command without hesitation.
Yet the thirteenth wise woman’s other prediction came true. The Soviets called it the “Great Purge” of “public enemies.” In reality, it was a massacre of intellectuals and innocents. Among the slain were Abdulhamid Sulaymon oʻgʻli Yunusov, the man who translated Shakespeare’s works into Uzbek, and Muhammadsharif Soʻfizoda, known as O‘zbekiston xalq shoiri—the People’s poet of Uzbekistan.
There were many other martyrs, whose graves—and names—we still do not know.
The girl grew up to pray for them all, and for the others resisting the trial all around them. Thankfully, the du’as of the other wise women had manifested in the young girl. She was virtuous and beautiful, and her family had amassed wealth despite all circumstances. They were so wealthy, in fact, that they were often gone to trade with those outside of Shahrixon. As responsible and mature as their daughter was, they trusted her to take care of herself.
They began to relax, as they did so many years ago. On her fifteenth birthday, her parents allowed her to remain alone to spend the day as she pleased.
As all young women are, she was curious, and wanted to set foot inside of a masjidi just once. The wise women had told her stories about how, long before the cruel atheism of the Soviet Union, they used to visit the masjidi often. Wistfully, they had told her how serene it was to read Qur’an there, and pray as though one was breaking the surface of a tumultuous sea.
She had to try it. Just once.
After her aqiqah, no one else had stepped into Pansod masjidi. It was clearly abandoned. The Soviets had driven people out of buildings, and now, were too busy arresting them. No one would ever suspect to find her there!
She wanted to stare longer at the ayaat decorating the walls, and painted flowers that danced around them. And the vaulted muqarnas in the columns! She imagined the artisans from Kokand and the other craftsmen taking the bees’ honeycombs as inspiration. Everything was so ornate and beautiful. It was a shame that it had gone to waste.
Once inside, even with it all covered in dust, the young lady marveled at the masjidi and its attached spaces: the khanqah, a lodge for the devout, and the musalla, the expansive prayer hall that seemed to have room for everyone. And the dome above her head… She sighed in awe. Who would want to shut this down? Surely, only someone with evil in their heart.
Ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh-ksh—
A strange sound echoed in the empty masjid, an unfamiliar noise. It sounded like something clicking and readjusting, but it did not appear threatening. Intrigued, she tiptoed across the masjidi, trying to track down the source of the sound. The khanqah. Someone must still be here!
Cushions were littered throughout the khanqah, but there was no one seated on them. Instead, in the center of the room was an old lady working on a strange machine. The machine looked like wooden branches tied together through threads of their own, gears and knobs chatting away. A beautiful silk cloth was in its grasp.
Like the ones her parents and kholas made, long ago! This lady must have known them! It had gotten dangerous, they said, as someone could prick their finger and—
“It is rude to stare,” the old woman said simply.
The girl gasped. “Assalomu alaykum, khola!” she greeted earnestly. “I—subhan’Allah, I have only heard stories about silk. Is that how it is made?” the girl asked, breathlessly.
“Yes,” the old woman replied. “We call this a mil.”
A spindle.
The word was foreign to her. “What does that mean? What does it do?”
“Why not help me and find out?” The old woman made way for her new guest. Strangely, the girl felt as though the mil were beckoning her too. Silk was in everything beautiful. Hijabs. Prayer mats. Wall tapestries. What a gift it would be, to take what came from a worm and put it on a wall!
Without another thought, the young lady set her hand upon the mil. No sooner had it touched the spindle that her finger was pricked, and her body fell to the cushions.
A sleeping beauty was all that remained. The old woman disappeared.
Little Bayramgul
The community spent the entire day looking for her. Despite the panic, their horror subsided as they stepped into the masjidi. They yawned, and slowed their steps, and eventually laid down on the carpet. Some snored, and others were silent, but all remained asleep.
A massive bramble of thorns sprouted all around the masjidi. The Soviets did not dare to touch them. Anyone who did became lodged in their grasp. Despite the rumors that there were people taking refuge inside, no one was brave enough to seek them out, be it for rescue or for arrest.
The Uzbeks referred to the young woman as “Little Bayramgul.” Bayrum was “festive,” because she had gone missing on her birthday, and gul, a rose. She had been beautiful and her absence was felt all throughout their community.
On and on Little Bayramgul slept. Some even said that she might have died, but no one was brave enough to enter the masjidi and check. All came to know her legend, including a young man who rode into Shahrixon from far away.
“Beware of getting too close, youngster!” an old man warned him. “Do you not know the story of Little Bayramgul?!”
“Of course I do,” the young man responded, dismounting his horse. “My grandfather told me the story. That is why I am here.”
The elder sighed. “Because she is beautiful?”
The youth raised his eyebrows. “No. Because it is wrong. Our sister sleeps inside a masjidi—an abandoned one, no less—and these Soviets could tear it apart at any minute.”
“All who have tried to approach it have died.”
“All of us shall die.”
“See those bones on the ground? Those thorns hate intruders.”
“I am not afraid, and I am not an intruder. Perhaps the house of Allah only opens itself to its guests, and not its enemies.”
“You speak of Allah , son…” The hand of the old man reached for an invisible beard. Once, long ago, he may have been able to thread his fingers through it. “Is this not a sign that Allah is keeping them safe? The Great Purge was only a year ago. Who knows what they will do next? Oh…”
“Exactly, hoja. My brothers and sisters are trapped in there!” The young man’s earnestness shone through his face. “And I should set them free. They ought to be among us again. before something else happens.”
“You would bring them out again? Why? It is so soon…”
“Those Soviets who tried to go in are long gone, as well as those who might have gone after their comrades. They care more for people now, not buildings. We have saved the story of Little Bayramgul. It is time to save her as well.”
“Youth is wasted on the young,” the old man sighed, and finally relented. He had not the ability to chase after the young man anyway.
The young man did not run towards the thorns. Instead, he walked cautiously towards them, and much to his surprise, the thorny bushes began to bloom. Roses of all colors welcomed him, parting a path for him to enter the masjidi. He looked behind him in wonderment. The thorns had returned behind him, protecting him from anyone who might try to go after him.
Even the old man was shocked. “ What are you standing there for?! Go on! And say the du’a, will you?!”
Despite his nervousness, a smile broke out on the young man’s face. “Allahumma inni as’aluka min rahmatik.” Oh Allah, I ask from your mercy.
PC: Tolga Ahmetler (unsplash)
His footsteps were soundless, though little puffs of dust rose from the ground with every step. Light streamed in from the windows, and yet, everyone in the masjidi was still dreaming. Of what, he did not know.
He knelt by the menfolk and tried to wake them. They remained still despite his gentle urging. So he would have to find her first… judging by the legend, she should be easy to spot.
His heart broke as he explored the masjidi. It was tidy, but it was not cleaned. The memory of his footprints remained on the carpet. Untouched Qur’ans remained upright on the shelves.
More painful than the dust and unopened masaahif was the silence. A masjidi should never be this empty.
He left the khanqah for last, dreading what he might find there. His teachers from madrasa had told him how they used to spend their time in retreats of dhikr and qira’a. It was a time that he wished he could have been a part of.
The young man swallowed. He hoped that his teachers were still safe, in his own hometown. A part of him wished that they, too, had merely fallen asleep.
His thoughts scattered the moment his eyes fell upon Little Bayramgul. Stretched out on the center of the khanqah floor, next to the dangerous spindle, the young woman lay still. She was just as everyone had said—beautiful, and strikingly so.
Immediately, he looked away. How was he supposed to wake her? Suddenly, his previous exchange with the old man seemed hypocritical of him. He was very afraid!
“I… Ya Allah. Make this easy.”
The young man had no idea what to do. He could not touch her, just as he could not touch the twelve wise women scattered throughout the musalla. His voice was useless, just as it had been with her father and his relatives.
Perhaps he needed to deal with the mil, since that was the cause of the issue? He could destroy it!
He approached the spinning machine, inspecting it with a careful eye. It was mostly sound—save for a drop of blood that marked where Little Bayramgul had pricked her finger. With a sure hand, he swiped his sword through the structure. Again, and again, he hacked at the machine until the threads fell apart and the beams split open. Finally, the spindle collapsed with a loud crash.
The young lady stirred.
He swallowed. “Bayramgul?”
“Mmm…” She shook her head and yawned. “What’s that?”
“What they call you.”
“Call me? Who is they? And who are you? And where am I?”
He knelt on the ground, unsure of how to explain the mystery of her sudden sleep and the contagion that had spread around the masjidi. He was at a loss for what to do. “Please, do not be afraid. You are in the masjidi still. Remember your fifteenth birthday—”
“What is going on in here?!” a low voice boomed.
Oh no. The father.
“We heard a loud crash!” a high-pitched voice. Eleven more voices rose from around the masjidi.
“And the lady’s voice!”
“And a man’s voice!”
“My daughter! My daughter!”
“Is she here?!”
“I knew it! I knew that my du’a would be accepted!”
The room became very full, very quickly. Keeping his head and voice low, the young man advised, “Everyone, please… we are in a masjidi.”
“Qalam Qilichdan Qudratli”
The young hero’s explanation to the village people was rather brief, but the time it took for him to say it was not. Among the ruckus of Bayramgul’s family chimed in the old man from outside. The thorns had wilted and he, too, had a clear path to join the rest of the congregation. Many of the wise women recognized him and believed his testimony. The Pasod family was thrilled. They embraced each other, praising Allah for keeping them safe and that they had found their young lady once more.
Bayramgul was pleased with her new name, and indebted to her savior for braving the task around him. She urged her family to host him for dinner. To which he responded, “As long as it will not invite the bad du’a of the thirteenth wise woman!”
Everyone erupted in laughter. The masjidi felt different—as though, now, it was old from use by the congregation. The wise women left to make preparations, with Bayramgul’s parents trailing behind her as they too made their way home.
The young girl was quiet, trying to stretch out her last few moments in the masjidi. She had no idea when she would return, and she felt so remorseful that for all the time she had spent there, she had been asleep. At the very least, she wanted to pray salah there. But it just would not do, after years of sleep…
Her savior seemed even more troubled. As they walked closer to the exit, he lingered behind, gazing at the walls and murmuring under his breath. “What a shame,” Bayramgul managed to catch.
The pen is mightier than the sword. [PC: Maryam B (unsplash)]
Casting a glance at the young man, Bayramgul sighed.“I do not even know your name,” she said sadly. “But since you gave me a nickname, I shall give you one too.
Botir!”
He smiled shyly. “‘Brave.’ Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Botir. You are also very silent.”
Botir’s expression was one of undefined pain.
Bayramgul sniffed, trying to think of what more to say. “Is it my family? You do not have to worry about them anymore. I know we gave you quite the start.”
“I am not worried about them,” he confessed. “I am worried about the masjidi.”
“People will visit it again. I am sure of it. We were kept in it for so long… and you came in. All those thorns you told me about… it was a sign!”
“Maybe so. But others may not see it that way.”
“We can make them see it that way.”
“I hope my fine work on the spindle did not give you any ideas…”
She laughed. “No, no. What is it they say? Qаlаm qiliсhdаn qudrаtli. The pen is mightier than the sword.”
“Indeed,” he said. He drew out a pen from his rucksack and looked at it thoughtfully. “Indeed it is.”
–
A message was found on the inner wall of Pasod masjidi that called for the people to save the mosque from destruction. That message was copied and transferred to the Shahrixon Museum. Allah knows best who wrote it.
The End
Related:
– The Six Fasts – A Short Story
– No, My Son | A Short Story
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