The Tale of the Night

Chapter Two: The Tale of the Night

To the west of Joremir lies the city of Sirotin—like a land from a fairy tale, reached only after a long journey along the river. It is as if nature itself decreed that there must always be a mysterious distance between these two cities.

In a quiet village of Sirotin, where the air carries the sweet fragrance of silk and the bustle of trade, Salih had arrived. Hamad had sent him there with one simple task—to deliver money to a silk merchant.

The merchant’s home was lavish, almost royal in its splendour. The marble floors gleamed; the furniture was gilded with gold; and the walls bore richly woven carpets. Everything in that house seemed to cry aloud the tale of its owner’s immense wealth.

And there, in the middle of that grandeur, sat Salih—tall, sharp-featured, with a beauty like moonlight resting upon his face.

But the silk merchant, the very man Salih had travelled so far to see, was away on urgent business.

Not that Salih minded in the least! No—he was not troubled at all.

For the merchant had left instructions for his servants:
"If anyone comes from Roham, give him whatever he desires."

Such hospitality! Such generosity!

Salih wasted no time in seizing the opportunity. A smile curved across his lips as though he were saying: “When fortune opens the door, why be a fool and turn back?”

He began ordering dish after dish: syrup-soaked rasgullas, fragrant pilaf fried in ghee, spiced meat korma, warm tandoor bread, sweet curd, and date juice. A royal feast indeed. Each dish was carried to him straight from the kitchen.

And Salih? He sat like a king upon a throne, eating to his heart’s content. His face glowed with the satisfaction of a man who seemed to have conquered the world. Before him, the table filled with plates and bowls, a banquet fit for an emperor.

The servants bustled about, rushing to and fro, bringing whatever he demanded. And Salih issued his commands one after another—like the true master of the house.

How marvellous! Sent merely to deliver a purse of money, and here he was—savouring a banquet fit for royalty. Truly, fortune at times shows great mercy upon a man.

And so Salih’s wait turned into a grand feast—a festival of endless delight.

By the time the sun cast its golden glow upon the western sky, preparing to sink below the horizon, the merchant finally returned home. His face bore the weariness of the day’s toil, yet also a sense of relief—as though to say, “Ah, at last—home.”

This middle-aged merchant, whose features spoke of wisdom and whose eyes carried the depth of long experience, entered the chamber and beheld Salih. The young man sat finishing his sweets, a faint smile of satisfaction still upon his lips.

At once, the merchant felt a wave of guilt crash upon his heart. Stepping forward with genuine sincerity in his voice, he said:
“Forgive me for being late.”

There was true remorse in his eyes—as though he believed that to keep a guest waiting was no less than a crime.

Salih responded with a modest smile, handed him the purse of money, and the task was done. Complete. And with it, a remarkable feast as well.

He left the house with a stride of quiet pride, as though he had accomplished something grand. And upon the threshold, he wore a faint, mysterious smile—one that seemed to whisper: “Life, at times, can be sweet indeed.”

But when Salih had gone, the merchant’s eyes fell upon the table.

That same table, which had stood neat and orderly in the morning, now looked like the aftermath of a battlefield. Plates and bowls—so many, of every shape and size—stood in rows like silent witnesses. Each one carried its own tale: one bore the memory of sweet rasgullas, another the scent of spiced korma, yet another the story of fragrant pilaf.

The merchant’s eyes widened. He could hardly believe what he saw. His voice trembled with astonishment and disbelief as he asked:
“What are all these dishes doing here?”

The words hung in the air.

The servants—who had spent the day fulfilling Salih’s royal commands—stepped forward. Their faces carried an innocent pride, as though they had performed a noble service. One after another, they recounted the story: how the honoured guest had ordered dish after dish, how he had eaten with such satisfaction, how he had sat like a king.

The more the merchant listened, the paler his face became. His eyes grew wider, his mouth fell open.

When at last the tale was done, he looked utterly stricken—like a man struck by lightning. With a long, heavy sigh, his voice broke with helplessness and despair as he said:

“All the profit I’ve made from trading with Roham—this devil has eaten twice as much in a single afternoon.”