Free of All Bonds: Mishkín-Qalam

*A retelling based on **Memorials of the Faithful** by 'Abdu'l-Bahá, His first-hand reminiscences of the early believers. Phrases in quotation marks are 'Abdu'l-Bahá's own words as preserved in that book.*

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There are kinds of detachment that cost a person nothing, because there was little to give up. And then there is the detachment of a man who had, within easy reach, every door the world can open — and walked away from all of them. Such a man was Mishkín-Qalam.

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His name means "the musk-scented pen," and he had earned it. He was, in 'Abdu'l-Bahá's account, "the leading calligrapher of Persia," a master of every style of that exquisite art, whose fame "reached out to every land" and whose work was "the wonder of all calligraphers." He was no obscure craftsman. He "enjoyed a special position among the court ministers" of Ṭihrán; he was "well known to all the great"; his renown spread across Asia Minor.

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A man with such a gift wanted for nothing. As 'Abdu'l-Bahá would later observe, wherever he went, his many styles of calligraphy "were a substantial capital," and his accomplishment "brought him attention and respect from rich and poor alike." The whole comfortable apparatus of worldly success — patronage, position, ease — was his for the taking, and largely already taken.

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Then he heard of the Cause of God in Iṣfáhán, and the pen that had served kings found a new Master. Mishkín-Qalam set out to find Bahá'u'lláh. He "crossed the great distances," 'Abdu'l-Bahá writes, "measured out the miles, climbing mountains, passing over deserts and over the sea," until he reached Adrianople and entered Bahá'u'lláh's presence. There "he drank the wine of certitude," and he was transformed.

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He turned the full power of his art to a single purpose: writing out the Most Great Name — "Yá Bahá'u'l-Abhá" — "with marvelous skill, in many different forms," and sending these masterpieces out into the world.

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The world repaid him as it so often repays the faithful. Sent on to Constantinople, he taught the Cause "boldly and eloquently," and the Persian ambassador moved against him, branding this gentle artist an agitator and a maker of mischief.

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'Abdu'l-Bahá is careful to record the truth of the man: he was, in fact, "occupied solely with his calligraphy and his worship of God," striving "not for sedition but fellowship and peace," "a refuge to the hapless and a horn of plenty to the poor." None of it mattered to his accusers.

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He was arrested, and then exiled to the island of Cyprus, where he was held prisoner in the citadel at Famagusta — a captivity that stretched on for roughly nine years.

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Here is the measure of the man. A celebrated artist, who could have lived in honour at any court, spent nearly a decade behind prison walls — and emerged not embittered but radiant. 'Abdu'l-Bahá tells us that even in captivity he was "at all times joyous of spirit, ashine with the love of God, like a candle burning its life away," and a consolation to all who shared his suffering.

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When Cyprus at last passed out of Turkish hands and he was freed, he made his way to Bahá'u'lláh in 'Akká, and went on serving — producing his marvelous calligraphs and sending them about, exactly as before.

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And after the ascension of Bahá'u'lláh, when the community was tested by those who broke the Covenant, Mishkín-Qalam's loyalty did not waver for an instant. "He remained loyal," 'Abdu'l-Bahá records, "solidly established in the Covenant. He stood before the violators like a brandished sword." The same soul that had let go of fame and fortune held, immovably, to the one thing it would never release: faithfulness to the centre of the Cause.

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'Abdu'l-Bahá's summary of him is among the most beautiful tributes in the book.

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He was, the Master says, "detached from the world," "always smiling," "spirit personified, love embodied." And then this: **"For the love of God, he left all good things behind; he closed his eyes to success, he wanted neither comfort nor rest, he sought no wealth, he wished only to be free from the defilement of the world."** Had he merely wished it, "every worldly pleasure could have been his." Instead, being "hopelessly enamored of man's one true Love," he "was free of all those other bonds, and could float and soar in the spirit's endless sky."

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That last image is the very meaning of the Feast of 'Alá' — Loftiness. The soul that has set down every earthly weight is the soul that can rise. Mishkín-Qalam gave away nothing less than the whole world that lay open to him, and received in exchange a freedom no prison wall could touch.

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*This is a retelling. For the fuller account, see **Memorials of the Faithful** by 'Abdu'l-Bahá.*

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