“Heart-red, soul-crystal or world-muddy?” asked the bartender.

“I am colourblind,” said the client. “Quench my thirst, please.”

The bartender gave him a glass of water and said: “Know your drink before you ask.”

Now a group entered the tavern, holding a crescent, a cross, a menorah, a trishula, and a lotus. They placed them in a corner and came to the bar.

“Do you have our brands?” one of them asked.

“We only have the lover’s brand,” said the bartender.

“And how much does it cost?” another asked.

The bartender brought out a white stone from under the counter and asked the man to kiss it.

“Why?” asked the man.

“Just kiss it, each of you,” the bartender insisted.

They did and each left a dark stain on the stone.

“The love potion is not for you,” the bartender said and gave each of them a cup of tea. “This will quench your thirst,” he said.

Now a man in tattered clothes and worn out shoes entered the tavern and went straight to the bartender.

“I can see the beloved in my heart,” he said.

“You have captured a river in a bubble,” said the bartender.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked.

The man smiled and said: “My heart is already taken. There is no room for another desire.”

One of the five standard-bearers came to the lover and said: “Get us a love potion from the bartender.”

His companions stopped him, saying: “How do you know if the bartender has the right brand for each of us?”

The bartender laughed and said to them: “Unwind, relax, unburden.” Then he looked into their eyes and said: “Stretch your hands.”

They did. He inspected them and said: “You have blood on your hands and your hearts are stained. Better go to the hamam and clean up.”

Outside, the night had veiled the sun. The Street of the Storytellers looked deserted as people, and their beasts, were already inside their taverns and stables.

The innkeeper at the Alif Laila Tavern asked his assistants to light a fire in the middle of the big hall where the town’s best storyteller was to entertain his guests.

As the fire warmed up the hall, the assistants placed dozens of charpoys around the fire, put mattresses and pillows on them and placed thick, colourful quilts on the foot-side of each bed.

He also placed bowls of pine kernels and dry fruits near each bed as the guests moved in.

Then came the storyteller; wearing a dome-shaped golden cap and a colourful overcoat. He placed his coat near the fire as an assistant put a huge hookah before him.

He took a few deep puffs, watched the smoke making mysterious shapes as it moved up towards the ceiling, and asked: “So what story do you want tonight?”

In winter nights, people love scary stories provided they are not alone. And this was a large group of traveling merchants known for their love of the supernatural.

“Tell us a story of Shah-e-Jinnat, king of the jinn,” one of them said.

“Yes, yes, Shah-e-Jinnat,” they all shouted.

“Why Shah-e-Jinnat,” asked the storyteller.

“Because the jinn are scary,” said a merchant.

“Scary they are, but are they scarier than men?” the storyteller asked.

“Men are not scary, they are weak,” said another merchant.

“Yes, indeed. They are weak and lustful and it is this combination that makes them so frightening,” the storyteller said.

“If you learn to fear yourself, you will not fear others,” said the lover who was sitting quietly in his corner.

“Ah sir, that’s more difficult than capturing a jinni,” said the storyteller. “It is easier to admire yourself.”

“Shah-e-Jinnat, Shah-e-Jinnat,” the crowd shouted.

The storyteller smiled and began his story:

“Shah-e-Jinnat had a daughter who was so beautiful that she could not be compared to anything,” he said.

“Never describe your love,” the lover warned, “you will fail miserably.”

“Indeed, sir,” said the storyteller, “but they want a story.”

“Then let me tell you a story,” the lover said.

All agreed and the lover began:

Once a messenger told a lover his beloved wants a pound of flesh. Right away, the lover took a knife and cut a piece of flesh from his left thigh and gave it to the messenger.

As the messenger was about to leave, the lover asked: “Did the beloved say if the flesh should have come from my left thigh?”

“No,” said the messenger.

“OK, then take another pound from my right thigh,” said the lover.

But before the messenger could leave, the lover stopped him again and gave a piece from his left arm, then right arm, left side, then right side and he did not stop until he had no flesh left on his body.

Finally, the messenger went to the beloved and said: “I have brought a bagful of flesh from your lover.”

“See, this is the difference between a lover and a messenger,” said the beloved. “I just said I wanted a pound of flesh and he sent me all his flesh. You did not offer even an ounce, although I did not say I will not accept your flesh, did I?”

The six who came to the tavern with the symbols of their faiths offered no comments.

Later, one of them said: “This is blasphemy. Let’s kill this lover tomorrow.” (To be continued … )

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