Free Muhammad by Deepak Chopra Page A

wheat.
    Then Muhammad gazed up at the sky, where a black speck hovered. My eyes were failing, but I knew it was a hawk. Muhammad looked back at the mouse, then at the hawk again.
    â€œIt has no idea of the danger,” he said.
    â€œNeither do we,” I replied.
    You see the point? Like the mouse innocently eating its seeds, we go about our lives not realizing that death is watching us from afar, constantly stalking. Those were Muhammad’s inner thoughts. Why had he shared them with me? Our voices made the mouse scurry back into its hole. Muhammad stood up and walked toward me.
    â€œI’m a man now,” he said. “We can talk.”
    â€œA man? You’re seventeen,” I smiled.
    He didn’t smile back. “Old enough to defend myself, if anyone catches us talking like this.”
    That’s how it started. I never brought up the day his nurse lost him and he wandered into my courtyard, but he must have remembered. What kind of patience does it take to wait twelve years before speaking to someone again? He began coming to my house for tea and God. Only tea at first, because God remained a forbidden subject until later.
    Naturally, he wanted to know about me. “What is a hanif ?” he asked.
    â€œOne who believes in Allah, one who scorns idols and waits for the light to descend,” I said.
    He nodded gravely. “Everyone says you’re different, but you look ordinary to me.”
    Muhammad said this frankly and without apology, considering he was insulting an elder. I answered with a quote from one of my hidden books. “A man goes in and out among the people. He eats and sleeps with them. He buys and sells in the marketplace. This everyone can see. What they cannot see is that he never forgets God for a single instant.”
    â€œAre you that man?” asked Muhammad.
    â€œI will be, when I become a saint. For now, I can only try.”
    â€œWhy is one god better than many?” he asked.
    I answered with another question. “Why is one faithful wife better than many whores?”
    â€œWhat makes you call the gods whores?”
    â€œIn both cases you pay your money and get your wish. Only a whore is more reliable and trustworthy. Most idols take your money and give nothing in return,” I replied.
    Muhammad seemed pleased that I spoke so freely. As for myself, I often had to conceal a burning excitement that agitated me every time I set eyes on him. How could I explain it? It was impossible. I would lose all respect. A grown man trembling like a bride waiting in the dark for her bridegroom.
    We talked about everything, endlessly. Yet I could never draw Muhammad out about his own beliefs. This was a cause for concern. In Arabia, one belief swallows up every other: the tribe. The tribe tells you where you belong on earth. The tribe runs to defend you after you knife a stranger for spitting on your sandals. Like a monster with a thousand heads, thetribe sees everything and can eat whom it pleases. There is no room for belief in anything else, including God. God is just another thing for the monster to devour.
    One day I’d had enough. I turned on Muhammad. “Talking to you is like talking to a respectful oyster. Open up. Who are you?”
    He didn’t look startled. “I am one who selects friends carefully.”
    An angel must have seen my impatience, because at that moment he brought me the perfect response. It was from an old verse. “I have a friend, and he fills my cup with wine that has no equal.”
    Muhammad blushed. “You have been such a friend to me.”
    After that, our bond was sealed. We became bold enough that we’d talk in public, late at night after everyone else had stumbled home. I was always eager for his company.
    Word soon shot around town that he was my protégé. Just in case anyone took that amiss, I spread my money around more generously. I even sent a messenger boy to buy a calf and sacrifice it