The Saddest Story Ever Told

I recall hearing this moving, sad story for the first time when I was about four years old. We had cousins visiting us from Surat, for a fortnight or so, and they asked my mom to tell them the story of Sorab and Rustom. It was close to bedtime and my mother was initially reluctant to tell the story. But the cousins, who had obviously heard the story before from my mom, begged and pleaded. Though I had no idea about this legend, I, like any other four year old trying to avoid bedtime, also joined in my cousins’ chorus. Finally my mother said, “You know this is a very sad story. Are you sure you’ll be able sleep after we share in its great pathos?” She, of course, knew what our answers would be and without further delay she sat in a comfortable ‘easy chair’, with all the children surrounding her, seated on the floor.

When Mama told us stories, or sang to us, I usually sat closest to her right side, often resting my head on her knee. As the story progressed, from time to time she stroked my hair, a soothing practice she shared with all her seven children.

The story she was about to tell us, of the two champions, Sorab and Rustom, was the saddest story we were ever told. We always cried a little while listening to it and we were all in absolute tears and crying spasms when it was all over. I still cannot tell this story without shedding a few tears and there are always some wet eyes in the audience. It is the story from the Shahnama, the Mahabharata of the Zoroastrians, a compendium of dramatic folk tales from the era of Persia’s greatness and its military victories. And in the Western world, ‘Sohrab and Rustum’ have been immortalized in an epic poem of that same name by Matthew Arnold.

Growing up, I heard this story many times. It is the best-known legend from Firdosi’s Shahnama, the greatest work ever written regarding the Great Kings of Persia. The following is my rendition of this tragic epic:

In the ancient days of the great empires, many opposing armies settled their scores through a one-on-one combat between their respective champions. Huge armies amassed, usually on opposite sides of large fields, awaiting the call to battle and mass slaughter. However, since battles were so frequent, many rulers and leaders of these armies developed a more sensible way of settling disputes without any major loss of life and limb. Only the champions, one representing each army, fought each other and were in jeopardy. The leaders were honor bound to abide by the victory of one champion over the other.

In the Western world, our greatest familiarity with this concept of champions comes from the biblical story of David and Goliath. The Israelites won their victory over the Philistines as a result of the battle between these two champions. David’s triumph was also a victory for all Israel; Goliath’s death, a defeat for all Philistines.

During the time that the Persian Empire flourished, there were many opposing powerful nations and fiefdoms, with great armies. If these armies were to always meet in full-scale battles, it would soon decimate all the young men of these nations. As in all wars, there would be great, gory losses of lives and limbs on both sides; as in all wars, even the victorious armies would also have loses.

Hence, like in the case of David and Goliath, most of the armies had their own champions. The greatest champion was a Zoroastrian warrior named Rustom, who fought on behalf of Persia. In return for his bravery and many victories on behalf of the Empire, Rustom, like the Knights of olde England, was given a fiefdom.

There, in Adarbaijan, in the verdant valleys of the Caucasus Mountains, Rustom would retire between battles to spend his time in peace and comfort with his dear wife.

As a warrior, he especially savored these days of peaceful existence. He was a kind and gentle man who loved his family and friends and lovingly tended his garden. But he was also a warrior; not merely a warrior but a champion of renown, with expertise in weapons. He was famous for his use of the dagger, which he carried in a jewel-encrusted sheath. He was a great hunter and had killed a lion with his dagger and speared an eagle in flight. His family crest, therefore, carried a delicate rosebud, a jewel encrusted dagger, and a griffin. The griffin, now viewed as a mythical animal, part lion and part eagle, represented Rustom’s great prowess as a hunter; the dagger his greatness in battle; and the rosebud, the gentle side of this great warrior.

Rustom was aware that his days at peace were numbered. It was never long before he was called to battle by his king. This visit was no exception. However, on this call to duty, Rustom was especially saddened to leave his wife, since she was pregnant with their first child. Knowing not when he would return, Rustom asked his wife to send him the emblem of a rosebud if their child was a girl; and if a boy, the emblem of a griffin, similar to the one on his crest. He further instructed her to tattoo the correct emblem, depending on the sex of their progeny, on the child’s right shoulder.

On the eve of his departure, his wife pleaded with Rustom not to leave her. He replied that as a warrior, and especially as the champion of the Persians, he was honor bound to obey his king. He felt that this honor came before his own desires and even took precedence over his love for his wife and their unborn child. On his ability to fight and win, rested not only the well being of thousands of soldiers but also the glory and safety of the Persian Empire, as well as the sanctity of his Zoroastrian faith. Hence, it was with sadness, but also with conviction in the rightness of his actions, that Rustom reluctantly left his wife, now heavy with child.

His wife, realizing how firmly her husband was committed to a champion’s cause, feared that if she had a son, Rustom would have him follow in his own footsteps. This was so not only because of tradition, but mainly because Rustom was a warrior of great renown, and everyone, including Rustom, would expect his son to be a champion. She also realized that she herself lived in dread and sorrow each time Rustom left her to fight the king’s battles; that Rustom himself, though he feared no man, did not find any joy in leaving her. She hoped and prayed for a daughter, if only to save her future son from the dread of battle and a future daughter-in-law from the anguish that she herself had suffered each time Rustom went into battle.

That was not to be. A son was fathered by Rustom and the mother named him Sorab. The mother, though she tattooed the symbolic griffin on her son’s right shoulder, as per her husband’s instructions, sent Rustom the emblem of a rosebud. She hoped that if Rustom thought he had fathered a daughter, he would not have the child brought to him, to be trained as a warrior.

Rustom longed to return to his home, especially now that he had a child. But the Persian army was moving from battle to battle. No sooner had Rustom met a challenge and come out victorious, then the king endowed him with greater honors and insisted he stay on for the next battle. Years passed, and though still a great champion, age became the thief of this mighty warrior’s strength and agility. He no longer felt the thrill of battle nor the ecstasy of victory. Rustom’s wounds took longer to heal. He was weary of war and his heart ached for his wife, his daughter and the peace and quiet of his family abode. He also longed to see his father Jal, whose kingdom, in his old age, was being threatened by nomads. It had now been over thirteen years since Rustom had left his home to honor his country.

Sorab had his Navjote by the time he was ten confirming him into the Zoroastrian faith. He was now considered a man. Taking after his father, he was strong and agile. While he was growing up, his father’s friends and his relatives, had regaled him with stories of his father’s bravery and great deeds on behalf of his country. They told him of the time when Rustom had battled a ferocious lion with merely his dagger and how after that victory, Rustom’s hair and beard turned the color of a lion’s mane, striking further terror in the hearts of his enemies.

To the great consternation of his mother, the man who had guided and coached Rustom in the art and science of single combat now became Sorab’s mentor. For many years he had refused to succumb to Sorab’s pleas that he train him. But now that Sorab was a man, and had had his Navjote, he could no longer refuse him. He saw in Sorab, not only the makings of another Rustom, but a kind and compassionate person. He called him his gentle champion, who had the heart of a lion, the strength of a bull and the agility of a gazelle. These were the three symbols Sorab chose for his shield: a lion, a bull and a gazelle.

By this time there were many divisions, and many rival armies, in the Persian Empire. Sorab, to the great sorrow of his mother, sought to become a champion of one of these armies. His natural ability, inherited from his father, combined with the skills he learned from his father’s own coach, made him the ideal candidate for this profession. Thinking that his mother had sent Rustom the right message of the child’s sex at his birth, he hoped that some day he would meet his father. He wanted his father to be proud of his achievements and to let him know that he was truly his father’s son. He longed to be in the strong embrace of his father, the greatest champion of the Empire. Nothing, not even his mother’s pleading, could hold him back when at the age of sixteen he championed the cause of an army.

Great as Sorab was in the skills of battle, he was equally naive about the treachery of politics and the manipulations of leaders. Unbeknown to him, he had championed the cause of an army, and its leader, whose ambition was to destroy the Persian king, whose cause Rustom championed. Within two years Sorab won many victories, vanquishing powerful champions and establishing himself as a great and noble warrior. He kept his ancestry secret, so as not to take unfair advantage of his father’s awesome reputation.

Rustom had not been home for eighteen years. His fiery, lion like hair and beard had slowly turned to silver; his great body no longer stood erect under the weight of his armor. But his demeanor was still that of a great warrior and his eyes still had the fire of a youthful champion.

His desire to be, and remain, the greatest champion was now secondary to his desire to return home to a quiet life with his loving wife and daughter. There were now many younger men willing to champion the king’s cause; but the king, growing old himself, sought only Rustom.

Through all this turmoil and travail Rustom still remained loyal and obedient to his king. Through these years of travel and battle they had become friends. They shared a form of camaraderie known only to soldiers who also shared a common danger in the pursuit of a common cause. But their friendship did not lead to the sharing of the king’s many vices. Though fierce in battle, Rustom remained true to his wife and avoided the excesses of power. Now he was weary and longed to return home.

It was under these circumstances that Rustom refused the king’s request that he prepare himself for yet another combat. Rustom was told that a young warrior named Sorab, with a growing reputation, had challenged any champion the Persian king wished to send against him. Sorab had already established not only a fine reputation as a warrior but also as a noble and gentle man. However, Rustom felt that these new young warriors were going into combat mainly because they wanted to fight Rustom, merely to enhance their own reputations. Even in death, they would be heroes if killed by Rustom and he wanted no part of it. He felt that these young upstarts did not deserve his attention and that they only challenged the Persians in hopes of battling Rustom. But the king insisted,”Just this once and you can return home.” Rustom agreed on the one condition that his identity and background remain anonymous, so that this young upstart would get no satisfaction from fighting the champion of champions.

As was the custom of Zoroastrians on auspicious days, both Rustom and Sorab awoke early, bathed, said their prayers and dressed for battle. Rustom, the old veteran, was calm and collected. He even shared some jest with his valets. As was his custom, he placed his bejeweled dagger in his belt. The dagger’s sheath was a prominent part of Rustom’s crest and he realized that the young warrior might recognize who he was through this sheath. For the first time in any battle, he removed the dagger from the sheath and left the sheath in his tent. The shield also carried his symbols; he had it covered with the skin of a lion to further maintain his anonymity.

Sorab, though confident of his strength and ability, was nervous. He did not know who his opponent would be and as he prayed, an unexplained feeling of sorrow fell over him. As he dressed, he caressed the tattooed griffin on his shoulder, remembering the great reputation of his father and the responsibility it placed on his shoulders. His coach, who was now an old man, repeatedly reminded him of his heritage, as he prepared him for battle.

Trumpets blared as the sun rose over Rustom’s tent, before its rays hit the tent of his opponent. Rustom viewed this as a good omen. As he stepped out of his tent, to walk the hundred paces or so to the center of the battleground, he could barely keep erect. But he took solace in the fact that the king had promised this would be his last mano a mano combat. He could then retire to his paradise on earth, and prepare to have a sumptuous wedding for his daughter, perhaps to a great champion.

When Sorab stepped out of his tent, the rays of the sun glistened on his armor. The chill and fear he had felt earlier evaporated in the warmth of the sun, and in anticipation of the battle to come. As the two warriors walked towards each other, a roar of encouragement went out from the soldiers amassed on both sides. While they were within ten paces of each other, Rustom drew his sword and slightly but unmistakably stumbled. A chorus of concern came from the side of the Persians, whereas a derisive laughter arose from the backers of Sorab. Even Sorab could not help but smirk at the approach of this old warrior toward him.

But the smirk quickly turned to apprehension as Sorab gazed into the piercing eyes of this old man. There was no mistaking that these were the eyes of a determined champion, who had no doubts about his ability to be victorious. But Sorab also saw something else in this old man. He felt a bond toward him; an instant bond he could not explain. Perplexed, he greeted him with great respect, and a salute with his sword that he had just drawn. The old man did not reciprocate.

Instead, before Sorab could bring his sword down from the salute, Rustom attacked. It was only due to Sorab’s agility that his raised shield, rather than his neck, caught most of the impact of this blow. The sword glanced down the shield and cut through the armor of his right shoulder.

The battle was on. As they fought, the very ground seemed to tremble. The hordes on each side encouraged and cheered for their own champion. There was no doubt that though Rustom was far more skillful in the wiles of battle, he was no longer a match for this young warrior in strength and agility. With a powerful stroke, Sorab dislodged Rustom’s sword. As the old warrior fell to the ground, Sorab towered above him with his sword on Rustom’s throat. “I do not wish to kill you, old man,” Sorab told Rustom. “Let us call it a draw and withdraw to our tents.”

“Kill me if you want to but I have never been in a draw in my many years of combat. No honor comes to me in a draw.” Sorab threw his sword aside, bent down, extending his open hand and helped Rustom up.

With drawn daggers, once again the battle raged. And once again the young man was triumphant. As he kneeled astride the fallen Rustom, Sorab had his knees firmly planted on Rustom’s arms and held his dagger in both hands to Rustom’s throat. A swift downward thrust and, in the blink of an eye, Rustom would be dead.

“Oh Great Warrior, I do not wish to kill you. I see in you a person of great love and wisdom. Let me say that you were victorious. I will then come to your tent in all humility, bearing precious gifts and you can regale me with the stories of your many victories.” Sorab’s words fell on deaf ears.

Again, Sorab felt a powerful bond toward this old champion. As he pondered this perplexing situation, Rustom, a more wily and experienced fighter, turned the tables on Sorab. It was now Rustom who had the upper hand, his knees pinning down Sorab’s forearms and his dagger at Sorab’s heart. Without hesitation, with one powerful thrust, using both his hands, Rustom swiftly pierced Sorab’s armor and his trusted dagger entered Sorab’s heart. “I am the champion,” Rustom roared, “because I do not hesitate to kill the enemies of my king. You are merely a boy seeking glory in battle. I seek victory and honor!”

Though in great agony, Sorab spoke. “I could have killed you twice, old man, but twice I spared your life. It is not in me to kill a man towards whom I feel such a bond. Perhaps you are right; I do not have the makings of a champion because I lacked the desire to kill you. But you should beware! My father is the greatest of champions, and when Rustom learns how his son was killed, he will surely avenge my death.”

“Rustom has no son. You are seeking false glory by taking his name for that of your father. I should know, for I am Rustom.”

“Oh my beloved father,” Sorab sobbed. “When we battled with swords you struck my right shoulder and cut through my armor. Pull the armor down and you will see that my mother tattooed the emblem of the griffin from Rustom’s crest on that shoulder, as you had requested. Everyone in Adarbaijan knows I am Rustom’s son. I took this profession not only to follow in my father’s great footsteps, but mainly to seek him out. But I kept my ancestry a secret because I did not want my reputation to rest on your glorious achievements. ”

As Rustom heard these words, a feeling of doom spread through his soul. When he exposed Sorab’s shoulder and saw the tattoo of the griffin, he realized to his great sorrow what he had done. A mournful roar of anguish arose from Rustom, shattering the morning sky. He held his dying son close to his bosom; both of them now in tears, agonizing over their tragic fate. Rustom wished that all the men he had slain in battle would slay him a hundred fold, in return for the life of his son. As he wept, Sorab replied in tears, that fate, even in death, had finally brought him into the arms of his noble father, the fondest wish he had long cherished.

We all wept!

Epilogue

My mother always ended her story at the point where Sorab dies in his father’s arms. As we grew up and read various English versions of Firdosi’s “Shanama,” we realized how powerful and vivid was this great author’s sense of tragedy. His description of the torment of Sorab’s mother, Tehmina, is but one illustration of the author’s incredible ability to evoke strong emotions amongst his readers.

Bearing in mind that Sorab’s mother did not relate to her husband the truth of the child’s gender, one can understand why she might blame herself for this tragedy. The power of Firdosi’s pen is obvious, even in the translation, in his description of the poor woman’s sorrow and her reaction to a tragedy to which she may have been a major, though unwitting, contributor.

With the caution that young children may not want to read the excerpt to follow, I will now quote Firdosi:

“With her own hand her body vest she rent,
Her form shone forth like a ruby ornament.
With shouts and groans lamenting to the day,
From time to time her senses passed away,
Her eyeballs from their sockets then she drew,
Lifting them high unto the flames she threw,
Her ringlets, twisted like a noose, she clenched,
And from their roots with her own hand she wrenched.
The streams of blood, as rivers when they swell,
Flowed down her cheeks; at times she prostrate fell.
Black dust she strewed upon her head afresh,
And with her teeth tore off her arms the flesh,
Then fire upon her head she cast and lit,
And all her musk-like locks were burnt with it.”

And thus she joined her beloved son Sorab, compounding further the sorrows of Rustom, her beloved husband.

 

Photo Credits

Rustom in battle – Wikimedia Public Domain

Rustom mourns Sorab – Wikimedia Public Domain

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Guest Author Bio

Dr. Maneck S. Wadia
Dr. Maneck S. Wadia of Del Mar, California who has been in USA since the 1950s is an internationally prominent professor, author, speaker and consultant to over 300 organizations & companies here and abroad. He is also a very successful entrepreneur with diversified interests and an author whose books on management are used by over 150 universities worldwide.

He has served as Director of numerous corporations, having been listed in “Who’s Who of Contemporary Authors, American Men of Science, Marquis’ Who’s Who Dictionary of International Biography & Who’s Who in the West. Dr. Wadia is also a Member of the San Diego Symphony Board.

 

 

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