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unable to sleep for a long while； not because I was preoccupied with the
horror of what had happened； but because I was considering all that yet lay in
store。
203
I AM RED
I appeared in Ghazni when Book of Kings poet Firdusi pleted the final line
of a quatrain with the most intricate of rhymes； besting the court poets of
Shah Mahmud； who ridiculed him as being nothing but a peasant。 I was there
on the quiver of Book of Kings hero Rüstem when he traveled far and wide in
pursuit of his missing steed； I became the blood that spewed forth when he
cut the notorious ogre in half with his wondrous sword； and I was in the folds
of the quilt upon which he made furious love with the beautiful daughter of
the king who’d received him as a guest。 Verily and truly； I’ve been everywhere
and am everywhere。 I emerged as Tur traitorously decapitated his brother Iraj；
as legendary armies； spectacular as a dream； clashed on the steppes； and as
Alexander’s lifeblood shimmered brightly from his handsome nose after he
suffered sunstroke。 Yes； Shah Behram Gür spent every night of the week with a
different beauty beneath domes of varying color from distant lands； listening
to the story she recounted； and I was upon the outfit of the striking maiden
he visited on a Tuesday； whose picture he’d fallen in love with； just as I
appeared from the crown to the caftan of Hüsrev； who’d fallen in love with
Shirin’s picture。 Verily； I was visible upon the military banners of armies
besieging fortresses； upon the tablecloths covering tables set for feasts； upon
the velvet caftans of ambassadors kissing the feet of sultans； and wherever the
sword； whose legends children loved； was depicted。 Yes； handsome almond…
eyed apprentices applied me with elegant brushes to thick paper from
Hindustan and Bukhara； I embellished Ushak carpets； wall ornamentation； the
bs of fighting cocks； pomegranates； the fruits of fabled lands； the mouth
of Satan； the subtle accent lines within picture borders； the curled embroidery
on tents； flowers barely visible to the naked eye made for the artist’s own
pleasure； blouses worn by stunning women with outstretched necks watching
the street through open shutters； the sour…cherry eyes of bird statues made of
sugar； the stockings of shepherds； the dawns described in legends and the
corpses and wounds of thousands； nay； tens of thousands of lovers； warriors
and shahs。 I love engaging in scenes of war where blood blooms like poppies；
appearing on the caftan of the most proficient of bards listening to music on a
countryside outing as pretty boys and poets partake of wine； I love
illuminating the wings of angels； the lips of maidens； the death wounds of
corpses and severed heads bespeckled with blood。
I hear the question upon your lips： What is it to be a color？
204
Color is the touch of the eye； music to the deaf； a word out of the darkness。
Because I’ve listened to souls whispering—like the susurrus of the wind—
from book to book and object to object for tens of thousands of years； allow
me to say that my touch resembles the touch of angels。 Part of me； the serious
half； calls out to your vision while the mirthful half soars through the air with
your glances。
I’m so fortunate to be red！ I’m fiery。 I’m strong。 I know men take notice of
me and that I cannot be resisted。
I do not conceal myself： For me； delicacy manifests itself neither in
weakness nor in subtlety； but through determination and will。 So； I draw
attention to myself。 I’m not afraid of other colors； shadows； crowds or even of
loneliness。 How wonderful it is to cover a surface that awaits me with my own
victorious being！ Wherever I’m spread； I see eyes shine； passions increase；
eyebrows rise and heartbeats quicken。 Behold how wonderful it is to live！
Behold how wonderful to see。 Behold： Living is seeing。 I am everywhere。 Life
begins with and returns to me。 Have faith in what I tell you。
Hush and listen to how I developed such a magnificent red tone。 A master
miniaturist； an expert in paints； furiously pounded the best variety of dried
red beetle from the hottest climes of Hindustan into a fine powder using his
mortar and pestle。 He prepared five drachmas of the red powder； one drachma
of soapwort and a half drachma of lotor。 He boiled the soapwort in a pot
containing three okkas of water。 Next； he mixed thoroughly the lotor into the
water。 He let it boil for as long as it took to drink an excellent cup of coffee。 As
he enjoyed his coffee； I grew as impatient as a child about to be born。 The
coffee had cleared the master’s mind and given him the eyes of a jinn。 He
sprinkled the red powder into the kettle and carefully mixed the concoction
with one of the thin； clean sticks reserved for this task。 I was ready to bee
genuine red； but the issue of my consistency was of utmost importance： The
liquid shouldn’t be permitted to just boil away。 He drew the tip of his stirring
stick across the nail of his thumb （any other finger was absolutely
unacceptable）。 Oh； how exquisite it is to be red！ I gracefully painted that
thumbnail without running off the side in watery haste。 In short； I was the
right consistency； but I still contained sediment。 He took the pot off the stove
and strained me through a clean piece of cheesecloth； purifying me even
further。 Next； he heated me up again； bringing me to a frothy boil twice more。
After adding a pinch of crushed alum； he left me to cool。
A few days passed and I sat there quietly in the pan。 In the anticipation of
being applied to pages； of being spread everywhere and onto everything；
205
sitting still like that broke my heart and spirit。 It was during this period of
silence that I meditated u