Steven Hunley
08-26-2011, 10:50 AM
Raggedy Man
by Steven Hunley
Ancient is the tradition of the Raggedy Man. It has been carried into the present day but its earliest documented adherent was Haroon al Rashid Caliph of Bagdad, who once stated,
“The secret to working wonders lies in anonymity.”
Although this saying is sometimes attributed to Rumi the Sufi mystic, Rumi was a sayer of sayings. Haroon was the doer of deeds.
It is written that Haroon was Defender of the Faith, Caliph of Bagdad, a supporter of the arts, and so much more, and so many were his titles, that it was no wonder he was exhausted. Exhausted by legions of subservient cow-towing courtiers, tired of tedious palace life filled with endless intrigue.
Most of all he was sick of yes-men and brown-nosers. Particularly, he was sick of Ja'afar the evil and corrupt Grand Wazir.
Of men of his like he had more than his fill. So he ordered all appointments canceled, his calendar cleaned. He went to his rooms and to his closet. Passing his silk kaftan beaded with pearls from Samarkand, ignoring his emerald encrusted robes stitched with the finest gold thread, he fixed his eyes and his hands upon his most favored garment, a suit of rags, matched by an equally threadbare pair of hempen shoes, as only the lowliest of beggars wear. While putting them on he regarded himself in the mirror.
“This suit of rags fulfills my needs and my mood.”
He smudged some soot from a nearby lamp, some say it was Aladdin’s, on his face for effect and retreated from his chamber, his palace, and his life as caliph, and escaped through a series of secret doors known only to him.
Finally he reached the outermost door, took a last royal breath, and pressed into the thriving streets of Bagdad.
“This is the true life."
Haroon was nobody’s fool. He spent all day inspecting different parts of the city, a taxing job which eventually built up quite an appetite. It was fortunate then that he found himself in the souk of sandwich makers. Providence guided the Defender of the Faith.
The Defender was prepared to beg for food. He noticed that one shop was doing an extraordinary amount of business. Naturally this is the one he picked.
“A scrap of food for those who hunger?” he chanted with his hand extended palm up.
The shop keeper heard his cry. A customer had ordered a custom-made job, but had failed to pick it up. Who would receive this bounty was know only to the Profit himself.
“Here beggar,” he said. “Allah blesses you with a meal to stave your hunger.”
He handed him a sandwich. After it hit his tongue it created a flavor sensation, a savory delight of the highest order.
“What a sandwich is this!” the counterfeit beggar remarked.
It was a combination of sweet meats, vegetables and dressing that nothing he’d had at the palace could surpass. He was delighted but confused. He noticed something odd. Business seemed to be good, and the product had no equal, so why was the sandwich-maker not prosperous? His clothing seemed worn and threadbare.
“Business is good?’ he questioned between bites.
“Yes, but,…”and his eyebrows knit. “Corrupt police and officials are always putting the bite on me, even more than thee, Oh Hungry One.”
“Why not appeal to the Caliph?”
"That would be useless, less than nothing, for no help will come."
"Why do you say that?" quoth the beggar.
“Know, Oh Beggar, that there is no Caliph, that he is only a story, for the Caliph, if there is one, has never been seen by anyone in this part of Bagdad. He is as rare as sushi on a meatball sandwich. It is said the grand Wazir runs Bagdad in his stead, and the Caliph, Allah bless him if he exists, is hiding behind the high palace walls, as cut off from reality as we here on earth are removed from Paradise. He is no help to us here. The Evil grand Wazir Ja'afar keeps him isolated and in his cups, so he can enrich his fat pockets through corrupt police and administrators.”
Then raising his hands he shouted, “Ho, Moslems one and all, deliver me from these vilest of oppressors!”
After he composed himself he turned to look at the beggar. Like a sand storm he’d disappeared.
The caliph returned to the palace, investigations were made. Ja’afar was arrested and imprisoned and thrown in the darkest and dankest of dungeons. Haroon dispatched couriers and messengers of glad tidings to the souk to announce his arrival and caused the city to be decorated in his honor.
Then, it is related, came the day of the parade. Streets were cleared, especially the street of the sandwich makers. Mahmood, maker extraordinaire, looked forward to seeing the Caliph himself.
On this occasion he remembered talking to the beggar.
"I wish he could be here today to see this.”
He'd forgotten that Bagdad was a city of wonders where even the wishes of common shopkeepers came true.
The parade started, led by stern-faced palace guards riding coal-black chargers, winding their way down cobblestone streets through the shadows of towering minarets.Their sharp scimitars shimmered brilliantly bright in the sunlight of late afternoon as they crossed intersections that ran east and west to the corners of the world.
Following them were thirty maidens of exceeding beauty whose faces were as fair as the moon, scattering rose petals yellow and gold from their pale and delicate fingers.
He heard cheers marking the arrival of the Caliph himself.
At first he could only see his clothes. His doublet was of green silk encrusted with emeralds. A turban of white silk studded with black pearls sewn with precious gold thread graced his head.
He strained to see his face. Finally it was turned towards him and made visible.
And he saw...and it was the face...Oh, by the beard of the Profit...of the beggar!
A cold wave of realization washed over him.
"I, who denied his very existence! Telling the Ruler of both Time and Tides that he did not exist! Allah, have mercy upon your poor servant! For certainly it is written that my head shall roll for this!"
He fell to the ground and prostrated himself. The Caliph saw him. He dismounted, bowed deeply, gently raised him and spoke.
“Let it be known to all, Mahmood the Sandwich Maker, that there is indeed a Caliph, and that it is he that has rewarded you for your talents."
With that he handed him an enormous sack. In it, many pieces of gold and a life-time commission to make sandwiches for the royal palace written on finest velum in precious gold leaf.
And it is written, Oh My Beloved, that both sandwich maker and Caliph lived happily ever after.
Authors note: Before I’d developed a style of my own I would rip off anybody, but not just anybody, only the best.
Thank you, Sir Richard Francis Burton.
http://youtu.be/gWCFfvCFlDI
©Steven Hunley201
by Steven Hunley
Ancient is the tradition of the Raggedy Man. It has been carried into the present day but its earliest documented adherent was Haroon al Rashid Caliph of Bagdad, who once stated,
“The secret to working wonders lies in anonymity.”
Although this saying is sometimes attributed to Rumi the Sufi mystic, Rumi was a sayer of sayings. Haroon was the doer of deeds.
It is written that Haroon was Defender of the Faith, Caliph of Bagdad, a supporter of the arts, and so much more, and so many were his titles, that it was no wonder he was exhausted. Exhausted by legions of subservient cow-towing courtiers, tired of tedious palace life filled with endless intrigue.
Most of all he was sick of yes-men and brown-nosers. Particularly, he was sick of Ja'afar the evil and corrupt Grand Wazir.
Of men of his like he had more than his fill. So he ordered all appointments canceled, his calendar cleaned. He went to his rooms and to his closet. Passing his silk kaftan beaded with pearls from Samarkand, ignoring his emerald encrusted robes stitched with the finest gold thread, he fixed his eyes and his hands upon his most favored garment, a suit of rags, matched by an equally threadbare pair of hempen shoes, as only the lowliest of beggars wear. While putting them on he regarded himself in the mirror.
“This suit of rags fulfills my needs and my mood.”
He smudged some soot from a nearby lamp, some say it was Aladdin’s, on his face for effect and retreated from his chamber, his palace, and his life as caliph, and escaped through a series of secret doors known only to him.
Finally he reached the outermost door, took a last royal breath, and pressed into the thriving streets of Bagdad.
“This is the true life."
Haroon was nobody’s fool. He spent all day inspecting different parts of the city, a taxing job which eventually built up quite an appetite. It was fortunate then that he found himself in the souk of sandwich makers. Providence guided the Defender of the Faith.
The Defender was prepared to beg for food. He noticed that one shop was doing an extraordinary amount of business. Naturally this is the one he picked.
“A scrap of food for those who hunger?” he chanted with his hand extended palm up.
The shop keeper heard his cry. A customer had ordered a custom-made job, but had failed to pick it up. Who would receive this bounty was know only to the Profit himself.
“Here beggar,” he said. “Allah blesses you with a meal to stave your hunger.”
He handed him a sandwich. After it hit his tongue it created a flavor sensation, a savory delight of the highest order.
“What a sandwich is this!” the counterfeit beggar remarked.
It was a combination of sweet meats, vegetables and dressing that nothing he’d had at the palace could surpass. He was delighted but confused. He noticed something odd. Business seemed to be good, and the product had no equal, so why was the sandwich-maker not prosperous? His clothing seemed worn and threadbare.
“Business is good?’ he questioned between bites.
“Yes, but,…”and his eyebrows knit. “Corrupt police and officials are always putting the bite on me, even more than thee, Oh Hungry One.”
“Why not appeal to the Caliph?”
"That would be useless, less than nothing, for no help will come."
"Why do you say that?" quoth the beggar.
“Know, Oh Beggar, that there is no Caliph, that he is only a story, for the Caliph, if there is one, has never been seen by anyone in this part of Bagdad. He is as rare as sushi on a meatball sandwich. It is said the grand Wazir runs Bagdad in his stead, and the Caliph, Allah bless him if he exists, is hiding behind the high palace walls, as cut off from reality as we here on earth are removed from Paradise. He is no help to us here. The Evil grand Wazir Ja'afar keeps him isolated and in his cups, so he can enrich his fat pockets through corrupt police and administrators.”
Then raising his hands he shouted, “Ho, Moslems one and all, deliver me from these vilest of oppressors!”
After he composed himself he turned to look at the beggar. Like a sand storm he’d disappeared.
The caliph returned to the palace, investigations were made. Ja’afar was arrested and imprisoned and thrown in the darkest and dankest of dungeons. Haroon dispatched couriers and messengers of glad tidings to the souk to announce his arrival and caused the city to be decorated in his honor.
Then, it is related, came the day of the parade. Streets were cleared, especially the street of the sandwich makers. Mahmood, maker extraordinaire, looked forward to seeing the Caliph himself.
On this occasion he remembered talking to the beggar.
"I wish he could be here today to see this.”
He'd forgotten that Bagdad was a city of wonders where even the wishes of common shopkeepers came true.
The parade started, led by stern-faced palace guards riding coal-black chargers, winding their way down cobblestone streets through the shadows of towering minarets.Their sharp scimitars shimmered brilliantly bright in the sunlight of late afternoon as they crossed intersections that ran east and west to the corners of the world.
Following them were thirty maidens of exceeding beauty whose faces were as fair as the moon, scattering rose petals yellow and gold from their pale and delicate fingers.
He heard cheers marking the arrival of the Caliph himself.
At first he could only see his clothes. His doublet was of green silk encrusted with emeralds. A turban of white silk studded with black pearls sewn with precious gold thread graced his head.
He strained to see his face. Finally it was turned towards him and made visible.
And he saw...and it was the face...Oh, by the beard of the Profit...of the beggar!
A cold wave of realization washed over him.
"I, who denied his very existence! Telling the Ruler of both Time and Tides that he did not exist! Allah, have mercy upon your poor servant! For certainly it is written that my head shall roll for this!"
He fell to the ground and prostrated himself. The Caliph saw him. He dismounted, bowed deeply, gently raised him and spoke.
“Let it be known to all, Mahmood the Sandwich Maker, that there is indeed a Caliph, and that it is he that has rewarded you for your talents."
With that he handed him an enormous sack. In it, many pieces of gold and a life-time commission to make sandwiches for the royal palace written on finest velum in precious gold leaf.
And it is written, Oh My Beloved, that both sandwich maker and Caliph lived happily ever after.
Authors note: Before I’d developed a style of my own I would rip off anybody, but not just anybody, only the best.
Thank you, Sir Richard Francis Burton.
http://youtu.be/gWCFfvCFlDI
©Steven Hunley201