This novel is a retelling of 16th-century Sufi mystic and poet Shah Hussain’s eccentric life

I curse the day when my murshid clapped eyes on Madho.

For until that black, godforsaken day, I, Maqbool, had known the warmth of my murshid’s love. Then, in an instant, I was displaced.

Of parting, the pain is intense
O Mother, where shall I turn?
Rises from His fire smoke,
And red is its burn.

My murshid wrote these words.

This bread of sorrow, this stew of thorns
Cooked on a flame of sighs…

These words soaked in the beauty of pain. He wrote them yesterday, writhing in agony. It was late in the evening, and as soon as he had finished writing the kafi, he called me to him.

“Come here, Maqbool. Sing this,” he said, reciting the words for me. I tried to forget my hurt and anger and began a leisurely alaap in Raga Tilang. I decided that these verses would best be set to the Punjabi Theka and composed a lilting melody on the spot with 16 beats. I looked at my murshid as I sang. Ordinarily he would be beaming by now and nodding appreciatively, and a wah or two of appreciation or a mashallah would escape his lips spontaneously. But today, he gazed blankly into space, breathing with difficulty, silent tears flowing from his eyes. He seemed oblivious to my voice, which exists only to sing for him.

I have no use for it if it does not touch him. My murshid suffers. Seeking. Weeping. My heart breaks. I want to kill that Hindu bastard my murshid weeps for. But to hell with Madho. I want to talk about my murshid. His beautiful words have the power to melt the hardest heart. And people are moved to tears and rapture when his words find my voice. For I can sing. Yes, I can really sing. Singing is in my blood. I am a Marassi and I say this without shame. Why should I feel ashamed? I am from the house of Mardana who sang in the wake of Baba Nanak all the way to Mecca and back. My low caste has never mattered to me, not since I found the cool, deep shade of my murshid.

You see, my murshid is a Malamati. He had to work hard to seek the opprobrium, the abuse of the world in order to fight with his nafs, his ego. Maqbool Marassi never had this problem. By Allah’s grace I was born a Malamati. No land. No possessions. No status. And yet, this nafs is a haramzada. A bastard, this ego, how it creeps up on you! I would swoon with pride, drunk with happiness as I saw the joy on my murshid’s face when I sang his qalams.

Now, it feels like I have nobody to sing for.
All that my murshid can think of is Madho.

It was three weeks ago that my murshid first saw that cursed face. It was late evening, and we could hear the azan, not that the call to prayer meant anything to us! There were six of us crammed into my murshid’s little room below the mosque where he had lived for many years. My murshid and five of us mureeds, who could think of no better way of passing the time than to sit adoringly at his feet. My murshid cocked his head listening to the azan, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and said, “What time is it, lads?” The youngest of his mureeds in the room, who were just boys, giggled and said nothing.

When our murshid got up, all of us followed his lead and stepped out into the busy street. We were quite a sight. All six of us in ragged red robes and not one of us with a moustache or beard, not even my master, who had seen more than fifty summers and whose beard would have been long and grey but for the diligence of our barber. As the shoppers and passersby turned to look at us, unbidden, I started singing, keeping the rhythm on a small tambourine I always carried. My murshid and my fellow mureeds started dancing, whirling, as we made our way to the maikhana. The proprietor of the maikhana, an amiable rascal named Hatem who knew us well, greeted us with an exaggerated flourish. “Welcome! Welcome! O Lal Hussain, welcome! You honour my humble establishment with your presence.” My murshid guffawed as we took our customary spot in the tavern, for this was a daily ritual with its elaborate set of courtesies that could have rivalled those of Akbar Badshah’s court.

Hatem grinned and waved at one of his serving boys to attend to us. Pretty soon, a crowd had gathered around us. My murshid and I sat facing the street, with the other mureeds ranged around us, and as the crowd thickened, I began to sing again. We could clearly see the throng of pedestrians outside the maikhana, but I was paying scant attention to them. I was singing joyously, the cynosure of all the eyes in the room, my own eyes fixed on my murshid, who swayed gently to the strains of my song. And then his expression changed. His eyes lit up. I was close enough to him to hear his mashallah of astonished delight. My concentration broken, I somehow managed to continue singing, but my eyes followed my master’s.

Right across from the maikhana stood an elegant mansion, its façade painted a light pink. Its windows were adorned with intricate screens of carved wood, painted silver. Outside its main door stood an impressively moustachioed darwan impeccably dressed in white livery, adorned with a regal red turban and shining brass studs, and a stout staff in his hand. It was a mansion that I had known very well as a child, and had spent years trying to forget. It was a pleasure house, one of the many that dotted the street in the Bazaar-e-Husn mohalla, which was also home to the mosque beneath which my murshid lived. This was no ordinary pleasure house. It was the mansion of Amba, the most celebrated courtesan of Lahore, and was frequented by the richest and most powerful men of the city.

Amba was a kanchini, a golden woman, cultured and refined, who had been carefully groomed to serve as a companion to sophisticated men. She was as well versed in poetry and literature as she was in singing and dancing, and it was rumoured that she could hold her own in debates with the greatest scholars of Lahore, no matter what the topic. Outside Amba’s door tonight stood a knot of young men and I could tell that there was an argument in progress. My murshid held up his hand toward me and I stopped singing. He rose, and I rose to follow him as he made his way to the door of the maikhana. There he stood, my master, gazing at the young fellow who appeared to be the leader of the group of boys and was in a heated argument with the darwan.

Excerpted with permission from The Sufi’s Nightingale, Sarbpreet Singh, Speaking Tiger Books.