The mortgaged dagger

Dr. Sultan bin Mohammed Al Qasimi

My late uncle, Sheikh Sultan bin Saqr Al Qasimi, the ruler of Sharjah, had a private library in Sharjah Fort and another in the Western House. My father would always take me with him on his private visits to his brother, Sheikh Sultan bin Saqr Al Qasimi. They would meet in the library, whether in the Fort or the Western House. The location of the two libraries allowed for entry from the sitting room side and the inner house side.

I received the bundle of books, and some servants carried them to me, and they were placed in the middle of the storeroom, which is a large building where we all sleep. The place is dark, as there is no outlet of light except from one window in that large building, and it has a door facing the sunrise, all of this to bring warmth into that building.

It was winter, in November 1953. I spread the books on the floor of the storeroom, specifically in the middle of it. I started browsing through the books, while the female servants were working in the storeroom, cleaning, or taking some things out or putting them there, and I was shouting: “From there... not from here... from here.”

I put the books in the window, which is a niche in the wall, and I started taking down the books one by one and leafing through them.

- The book of Al-Hasan Al-Basri, which contains his biography, personality, teachings, and opinions, as well as Islamic rulings, preaching, and hadith. Why did I request this book? Because it is from the library of my uncle, Sheikh Sultan bin Saqr Al Qasimi, the ruler of Sharjah, and he is needed to understand Islamic rulings.

• The novel of Antarah ibn Shaddad. I read the book quickly, as I liked the novel, even though it has a lot of imagination .

• One Thousand and One Nights. I read that book, and it was all fantasy. That didn’t matter as much as the book contained a metaphor for prostitution. I started to delete many parts of that book because I decided to narrate that. I found myself busy narrating those stories among the students, in the neighbors’ houses, and in our house as well.

  Al-Shawqiyat, by the poet Ahmed Shawqi. I think my uncle needs this book more than I do, as he is a poet.

  - Jewels of Literature in the Art of Arab Composition, a book. I used to read what was in it in short periods of time, and each topic did not exceed a few pages.

  There is only one book left, entitled: Nahj al-Balagha, Selected from the Words of the Commander of the Faithful Ali ibn Abi Talib, may God honor his face, by its compiler, Al-Sharif Al-Radi.

  I started thinking, is this book worth all that effort and sacrifice of the dagger!!! I started to take revenge on that book, so I spent most of the time reading it and I memorized most of it.

  Our house changed a lot. After it was the headquarters of the Deputy Ruler of Sharjah, and after the death of the Ruler of Sharjah, our house became the headquarters of the Ruler of Sharjah. There were constant feasts and banquets, and plates would enter our house empty and leave it filled with food. The noises would only stop at night, until my father abdicated in favor of his nephew, Sheikh Saqr bin Sultan Al Qasimi, and his daughter's husband. Then the house became quiet. You would not hear screams or smell cooking.

  My father used to attend the council of his nephew, the Sheikh and Ruler of Sharjah. If someone came to complain, he would sit in front of my father. My father would stand up and direct him to Sheikh Saqr Al Qasimi, saying: There is the ruler... that ruler. Sometimes it would be Sheikh Saqr himself, saying: I am the ruler, come here.

  My father found his presence at Sheikh Saqr's majlis embarrassing, so he stopped going to the ruler's majlis and sat in his own. Suddenly, people entered his majlis, either seeking help, complaining, or as guests from outside Sharjah.

  My father had closed his sitting room, but people would gather outside the door, which was on the side of the sitting room, waiting for him to leave. Our house had another door, the one that opened onto the courtyard in front of the fort, but my father refused to use that door. He would leave through the kitchen door when he wanted to go to the house of Sheikh Saif al-Madfa, the village judge, or to the market, where he had his business, real estate, and merchant friends.

  In the morning or evening, my father would perfume himself with perfume and incense, and would go out of the kitchen door. To his right was the smell of cooking and wood smoke, and to his left was the cowshed and the smell of cow dung. When he went out of that door, he would find a small yard full of wood and cow grass, and my father would pass through it. Around that yard were palm-frond houses, and my father would go out of them to the main road leading to the house of the village judge and to the markets.

  Whenever my father came back from Sheikh Saif Al Madfa's house at night, he would find me reading the books I had bought. He would say to me, "Read for me from the book you read to me from yesterday." He meant Nahj Al Balagha. I said to him, "Why don't you take the book and read from it yourself?" My father said, "I like the way you read."

  One night, my father came home and found me intent on reading a book. It was Nahjul Balagha. He sat down next to me and I began to read to him topics that were enlightening to the soul. His heart expanded and he said, “Where did you get that amazing book?!” I said, “I bought it and a number of other books in Bahrain.” My father asked, “How much did you pay for those books?”

  I said: One hundred rupees. My father said: Where did you get that money?! I said: I pawned my golden dagger for one hundred rupees. My mother, who was lying on the floor next to me, said: May God punish your devil. We wronged Barhum Sahn Al-Ottel.

• My father said, "What's up with Barhoum Sahn al-Otel?" So my mother told him what had happened the day the golden dagger disappeared.

  My father took me to an iron safe at the entrance to the storeroom, took out a hundred rupees, and said, "Tomorrow you go and redeem the mortgage and bring back your dagger." Then he added, "And the Sultan doesn't want anything?!" I laughed, and he gave me ten rupees.

  The next morning I went to Ahmed Ibrahim Al-Mulla's café, paid him 100 rupees, and retrieved my golden dagger from his wife, Nasra bint Muhammad.

  One day, at dawn, my father came to the store where we lived. He greeted me, and my mother and a woman who was sitting next to her returned his greeting.

  My mother said: Muhammad... this is Amina bint Badr... your foster sister, who was breastfed along with your brother Sheikh Sultan, may God have mercy on him.

  My father said: I know her, the deceased told me that.

  My father's eyes roamed around the storeroom, searching for Sultan. Then he said, "Maryam... where is Sultan?! The storeroom is dark, there's no book in it." My mother said, "There, in the back of the storeroom... like a jug with a book on its face."

  My father called me and took me with him, saying: Stop sitting among the women. My father took me to his private hall, which consisted of a beautiful room with a barjeel (wind catcher) attached to it, and in front of it a courtyard with two doors, one leading out of the house and the other into the house, and a bathroom. In the middle of that courtyard stood a large, shady tree called the shereesh tree, with fragrant white flowers, and there was a bench to sit under that tree.

  My father took me into his private hall, saying, “This is your home, Sultan.”

  I couldn't believe what I saw. The hall had turned into a bedroom, with a bed and other amenities.

  I thanked my father for that, and he said, “When I want to read your books, I will come to this place when you are in school.”

  I said: That makes me happy.

  My father said: But the books are few. Ask for many books, and I will pay you all the money you need.

  Then my father asked, "How do you know the names of the books?" I told him what I had done when my uncle, Sheikh Sultan, died. My brothers and cousins ​​were waiting in the library hall for the body to arrive from London, playing cards for a whole week. As for me, I was in the library transcribing the titles of my uncle Sheikh Sultan's books, which I had with me and would bring back.

  I ran to the storeroom and took out the papers with the names of the books, and went to my father’s private council, that is, my home, and found my father drowned in tears, so he hugged me to his chest and began kissing me, and said: I remembered your uncle, may God have mercy on him. My father began paying me huge sums of money, and I in turn brought the books from Al-Muayyad Library in Bahrain, and my father read and memorized, until one day we were in the council of Sheikh Saif Al-Madfa’ where the jurists and scholars were. My father had previously been only a listener, but today he had begun to participate in the conversation, and suddenly he stood up and said:

  Knowledge raises a house without pillars

  Ignorance destroys the house of pride and honor

  In November 1954, we passed through Bahrain on our way to Hajj. There, I left the hotel asking about Almoayyad Library until they directed me to it. I entered and found it filled with books, lined up on shelves from floor to ceiling. My gaze was distracted by the books and the man sitting on a chair with a table in front of him, who alerted me, saying, "What do you want, boy?"

  I turned to him and saw that he was an old man. I greeted him and asked, “Are you Al-Muayyad?”

  He said, "Yes, and what do you want?"

  I said, “I am your friend Sultan Al Qasimi, from Sharjah.”

  He said: "You are Sultan?! The one who is writing to me from Sharjah?!"

  I said, "Yes."

  He said: “What do you do with the books you buy and the ones I give you as gifts?”

  I said, "Read it."

  I told Al-Muayyad my story with books.

  Here Al-Muayyad asked: “What is the relationship of the late Sheikh Sultan bin Saqr Bey?”

  I said, "Uncle."

  He shook his head as if to say, "No wonder!"