Welcome to the June 25, 2020 issue of The Shamcher Bulletin, weekly excerpts from the archives of Shamcher Bryn Beorse. If this was forwarded to you and you haven’t subscribed yet, you can do it here:
This issue features a few brief tales from Shamcher’s three years in Turkey. The first two are from an interview with Wali Ali and the other, about the King of Afghanistan, is from his book, Planet Earth Demands.
In Turkey today: Dervishes and Umbrella Street
Dervish or Umbrella?
Shamcher means ‘Sword of the Message’ or ‘the Tongue of FIame’. And it means a lot of other things. In Turkey it means an umbrella, and you know in Turkey I had two experiences: I was in Turkey for three years and I was a Sufi then and joined the Sufis there. And one time I was having my usual Salada Yumurta (that means egg salad) and I had an umbrella; and I forgot it and then came a man out running at me, saying, "Shamcher! Shamcher!" And I thought, "He knows my name! He must be a mystic.” No, he had my umbrella!
But another time it was more mysterious. I was walking up the street in Istanbul and suddenly a man came down that I had never seen the like of. He had a robe, white but very soiled, and big flashing red hair and flashing red beard, and he looked like a beggar but a very majestic beggar. And I looked at him and I thought, "Can you really offer some money to such a great man?" But I did. I took a two-dollar piece, which they had in Turkey, and put it in his bowl. And his eyes shone like stars and he came over and took both my hands and said, "Shamcher." And so I hoped or expected that he would invite me to some place. But he didn't, he just continued on his way.
(from an interview with Wali Ali)
Vintage postcard of Ankara Palas
The King of Afghanistan
In 1928 I was staying at Ankara Palace, a superb - and only - inn in the just-then-emerging capital of the "Young Turks". One morning as I was relaxing in this unobtrusive elegance, the hotel manager approached me, bowing ingratiatingly: His Majesty the King of Afghanistan would arrive this afternoon, and, with his retinue, occupy the entire inn. Would I please, kindly, find other quarters?
My shock was as if the Empire State Building in New York had suddenly blown down with all the chunks and pieces falling on my head. How did one go about finding "quarters" in this less-than-half-finished emerging capital?
In a daze I gathered my things and took off in a taxi.
It was late in the afternoon when I discovered that my only pair of decent shoes had been left at the hotel. I returned, knocked at the door of my old room and - since there was no answer - entered. The room was half dark and seemed to be empty. I headed straight for my bed, bowed down and peeked under it. I sensed more than saw that I had company. I turned and saw an extremely dignified elderly gentleman on his knees, helping me to peek. As we both found nothing there, we looked at each other quizzically. I hastily explained that I had occupied this room until this morning, had been told to leave because the King of Afghanistan was expected and in a hurry had forgotten my best shoes.
The gentleman nodded, with a troubled look. "You know," he said, "that was not very nice to ask you to leave just because a king was coming. Kings ought to be told more frequently what inconvenience they cause."
The gentleman helped me search the room, stood on tip-toe looking on top of shelves, came down on his knees peeking under chairs. Finally, he looked searchingly at my feet.
"You know," he said, "it just seems to me you must use the same size of shoes as myself and it just so happens that I have more of them than I really care for and can use at the moment."
He opened a monogrammed leather suitcase and there were six pairs of various types, neatly stacked inside.
"Do you think any of these will do?"
"No, no, thank you; I wouldn't dream of…"
But he had already taken out a luxurious pair, set me down in a chair and tried them on me. From his kneeling position he smiled up at me, “A perfect fit."
At that moment there was a pefunctory knock at the door and a splendidly uniformed dignitary entered. He eyed the kneeling figure at my side and exploded, "But your maj - ma - jesty!"
I walked out from that hotel on air, in a King's shoes . . .
(From Planet Earth Demands)
How is the Next World?
One is reminded of two young men studying for the priesthood and beset by curiosity: how is the next world? They agreed that the one who died first should come back and tell. Well, there was an accident and one departed.
For a long time there was no message. Then one day the departed one came rushing in, “Just wanted to tell you it is entirely different from what we thought … impossible to describe … well, I am very, very busy; must be on my way …” and off he rushed and evaporated into thin air.
(From the article, Phase-Out)
Photo above by Zekeriya Sen on Unsplash. Photos of Dervishes and Umbrella Street from Wikipedia. Ankara Palas from Bitmezat.
The Shamcher Bulletin brings you snippets from Shamcher’s writings that might help frame and context our experience of the world we live in today. In every issue, the text is as originally written, with only a few editorial tweaks if necessary.
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The Shamcher Bulletin is edited by Carol Sill, whose newsletter, Personal Papers, is HERE.
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This comment from Hafizullah: A shamshīr شَمْشِير (“lion’s fang”) is a kind of cutlass, and Westernized to “scimitar.” “Shamcher” is a European spelling of شَمْشِير.
And the King’s adab was most impeccable.