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brush; if my master miniaturists are forced to draw a horse on a blank sheet of 
paper; quickly; without any story in mind。” 
“Only; of course; if this is really a slip of the brush and not an actual nose;” 
said Our Sultan shrewdly。 
296 
 
“My Sultan;” said Master Osman; “to this end; if a petition by express 
mand of Your Highness were announced tonight; if a guard were to visit 
Your miniaturists; requesting them to draw a horse quickly on a blank sheet 
for this contest…” 
Our  Sultan  looked  at  the  mander  of  the  Imperial  Guard  with  an 
expression that said; “Did you hear that?” Then he said; “Do you know which 
of the Poet Nizami’s stories of rivalry I like best of all?” 
Some  of  us  said;  “We  know。”  Some  said;  “Which  one?”  Some;  including 
myself; fell silent。 
“I’m  not  fond  of  the  contest  of  poets  or  the  story  about  the  contest 
between  Chinese  and  Western  painters  and  the  mirror;”  said  the  handsome 
Sultan。 “I like best the contest of doctors who pete to the death。” 
After He’d said this; He abruptly took leave of us for His evening prayers。 
Later; as the evening azan was being called; in the half dark; after exiting the 
gates  of  the  palace;  I  hurried  toward  my  neighborhood  happily  imagining 
Shekure; the boys and our house; when I recalled with horror the story of the 
contest of doctors: 
One of the two doctors peting in the presence of their sultan—the one 
often  depicted  in  pink—made  a  poison  green  pill  strong  enough  to  fell  an 
elephant; which he gave to the other doctor; the one in the navy…blue caftan。 
That  doctor  first  swallowed  the  poisonous  pill;  and  afterward;  swallowed  a 
navy…blue  antidote  that  he’d  just  made。  As  could  be  understood  from  his 
gentle laughter; nothing at all happened to him。 Furthermore; it was now his 
turn to give his rival a whiff of death。 Moving ever so deliberately; savoring the 
pleasure  of  taking  his  turn;  he  plucked  a  pink  rose  from  the  garden;  and 
bringing it to his lips; inaudibly whispered a mysterious poem into its petals。 
Next; with gestures that bespoke extreme confidence; he extended the rose to 
his rival so he might take in its bouquet。 The force of the whispered poem so 
agitated the doctor in pink that upon bringing the flower to his nose; which 
bore nothing but its regular scent; he collapsed out of fear and died。 
 
 
   
297 
 
I AM CALLED “OLIVE” 
 
Prior to the evening prayers; there came a knock at the door and I opened it 
without  ceremony:  It  was  one  of  the  mander’s  men  from  the  palace;  a 
clean;  handsome;  cheerful  and  being  youth。  In  addition  to  paper  and  a 
writing board; he carried an oil lamp in his hand; which cast shadows over his 
face rather than illuminating it。 He quickly apprised me of the situation: Our 
Sultan had declared a contest among the master miniaturists to see who could 
draw  the  best  horse  in  the  shortest  time。  I  was  asked  to  sit  on  the  floor; 
arrange paper on the board and the board on my knees and quickly depict the 
world’s most beautiful horse in the space indicated within the borders of the 
page。 
I  invited  my  guest  inside。  I  ran  and  fetched  my  ink  and  the  finest  of  my 
brushes made from hair clipped from a cat’s ear。 I sat down on the floor and 
froze! Might this contest be a ruse or ploy that I’d end up paying for with my 
blood or my head? Perhaps! But hadn’t all the legendary illustrations by the 
old masters of Herat been drawn with fine lines that ran between death and 
beauty? 
I was filled with the desire to illustrate; yet I was seemingly afraid to draw 
exactly like the old masters; and I restrained myself。 
Looking  at  the  blank  sheet  of  paper;  I  paused  so  that  my  soul  might  rid 
itself of apprehension。 I ought to have focused solely on the beautiful horse I 
was about to render; I ought to have mustered my strength and concentration。 
All the horses I’d ever drawn and seen began to gallop before my eyes。 Yet 
one  was  the  most  flawless  of  all。  I  was  presently  going  to  render  this  horse 
which  nobody  had  been  able  to  draw  before。  Decisively;  I  pictured  it  in  my 
mind’s  eye。  The  world  faded  away;  as  if  I’d  suddenly  forgotten  myself; 
forgotten that I was sitting here; and even that I was about to draw。 My hand 
dipped the brush into the inkwell of its own accord; taking up just the right 
amount。  e  now;  my  good  hand;  bring  the  wonderful  horse  of  my 
imagination into this world! The horse and I had seemingly bee one and 
we were about to appear。 
Following  my  intuition;  I  searched  for  the  appropriate  place  within  the 
bordered blank page。 I imagined the horse standing there; and suddenly: 
Even  before  I  was  able  to  think;  my  hand  set  forth  decisively  of  its  own 
volition—see how gracefully—curling quickly from the hoof; it rendered that 
beautiful  thin  lower  leg;  and  moved  upward。  As  it  curved  with  the  same 
298 
 
decisiveness  past  the  knee  and  rose  quickly  to  the  base  of  the  chest;  I  grew 
elated!  Arching  from  here;  it  moved  victoriously  higher:  How  beautiful  the 
animal’s chest was! The chest tapered to form the neck; exactly like that of the 
horse  in  my  mind’s  eye。  Without  lifting  my  brush;  I  came  down  from  the 
cheek;  reaching  the  powerful  mouth;  which  I’d  left  open  after  a  moment’s 
thought;  I  entered  the  mouth—this  is  how  it’s  going  to  be  then;  open  your 
mouth wider now; horsey—and I brought out its tongue。 I slowly turned out 
the nose—no room for indecision! Angling up steadily; I looked momentarily 
at  the  whole  image;  and  when  I  saw  that  I’d  made  my  line  exactly  as  I’d 
imagined  it;  I  forgot  entirely  what  I  was  drawing;  and  the  ears  and  the 
magnificent curve of the spectacular neck were rendered by my hand alone。 As 
I  drew  the  backside  from  memory;  my  hand  stopped  on  its  own  to  let  the 
bristles of the brush sip from the inkwell。 I was quite content while rendering 
the  rump;  and  the  forceful  and  protruding  hindquarters;  I  was  pletely 
engrossed  in  the  picture。  I  seemed  to  be  standing  beside  the  horse  I  was 
drawing as I joyously began the tail。 This was a war steed; a racehorse; making 
a knot of its tail and winding it around; I exuberantly moved upward; as I was 
drawing the dock and buttocks I felt a pleasant coolness on my own ass and 
anus。 Pleased by that feeling; I gleefully pleted the splendid softness of the 
rump; the left hind leg that was slightly behind the right; and then the hooves。 
I was astonished by the horse I’d drawn and by my hand; which had rendered 
the elegant positioning of the left foreleg exactly as I had conceived it。 
I lifted my hand from the page and quickly drew the fiery; sorrowful eyes; 
with but a moment’s hesitation; I made the nostrils and the saddle blanket。 I 
hatched  in  the  mane  strand  by  strand;  as  if  tenderly  bing  it  with  my 
fingers。  I  fitted  the  beast  with  stirrups;  added  a  white  blaze  to  his  forehead 
and  finished  him  off  properly  by  eagerly;  measuredly;  yet  in  full  proportion 
drawing his balls and cock。 
When I draw a magnificent horse; I bee that magnificent horse。 
 
 
   
299 
 
I AM CALLED “BUTTERFLY” 
 
I believe it was about the time of the evening prayer。 Someone was at the door。 
He explained that the Sultan had announced a petition。 As you mand; 
my dear Sultan; indeed; who could draw a more beautiful horse than I? 
It gave me pause; however; when I learned that the picture was to be made 
without  color  in  the  black…ink  style。  Why  no  colors?  Because  I  happen  to  be 
the  best  in  the  selection  and  application  of  them?  Who  would  judge  which 
illustration  was  best?  I  tried  to  get  more  information  out  of  the  broad…
shouldered; pink…lipped; pretty boy who’d e from the palace; and was able 
to infer that Head Illuminator Master Osman was behind this contest。 Master 
Osman;  without  a  doubt;  knows  my  talent  and  likes  me  the  best  of  all  the 
masters。 
So; as I gazed at the empty page; the stance; look and demeanor of a horse 
that would please both the Sultan and Master Osman came to life before my 
eyes。 The horse ought to be lively; but serious; like the horses Master Osman 
made ten years ago; and it should be rearing; in the way that always pleased 
Our Sultan; so that both of them would concur on the horse’s beauty。 How 
many gold pieces are they offering; I wonder? How would Mir Musavvir make 
this picture? How would Bihzad? 
Suddenly; the beast entered my thoughts with such speed; that by the time 
I understood what it was; my damnable hand grabbed the brush and began to 
draw a miraculous horse beyond anyone’s conception; starting from the raised 
left foreleg。 After quickly joining the leg to the body; I made two arcs swiftly; 
pleasurably and confidently—had you seen them; you would’ve said this artist 
is no illu

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