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I, Zhamir

Or, The Story of A Djinn Of Our Time

By Cristina CarvajalPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
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I, Zhamir, was not always a cat.

You might not believe me when I tell you this, and that is quite natural. I’ve grown fond of sunlit patches of grass and glass-stained windows, small boxes, and yarn. I believe I’ve adapted quite well to life as a four-legged lesser god, in fact. I’ve almost made such a behavior an art.

As I said, you might not believe me but what is it to me? The only reason why I’m speaking of this at all is so that you can understand the strange circumstances that led to the notebook rising up on Twitter as #1 trending and generating an insurmountable amount of Google searches. If you do not believe me, you will merely become a part of the thousands that are, and forever will be, unable to solve the mystery of the little notebook. A tragedy, especially for a life so ephemeral as your own.

So, yes. I was not born a cat. In fact, some will argue that I was not born at all, but those that would sit days and nights debating the logistics of my existence are long gone and buried and it would get us nowhere to try and follow their convoluted myths and stories.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Well, if birth can be said to be sparkling into existence then perhaps my birth happened in that very moment that the metalworker began to form my lamp with white fire and I sprung forth from the depths of the other world to be held captive within said artifice for an eternity.

Eternity sounds insurmountable to you humans. Could you perhaps imagine what eternity is to me, who actually understands the weight of it? I sometimes think that most, if not all, of human bravery, is due to the fact that you do not truly ever know the stakes. You believe you do, but a thousand or so years later, you discover you were wrong. Perhaps lead is not meant to serve as face-paint and salt cannot truly disinfect a wound. Knowledge is fickle, isn’t it?

If I was born to be a part of the lamp, then perhaps that is why I observed your fragile race so keenly. I was meant to be shackled to one or a thousand of you at some point. I might as well know what I’d be signing up for.

I would venture out in the market, out by the bay, whenever the seller that had bought me from the metalworker stopped by the beach and the ships were anchored. I learned ancient Sumerian, Greek, Latin, and whatever language it is that sirens speak. I could never get that last one quite right. In any case, I observed you, humanity, as a large, and I can say with certainty that I could not even pretend to understand you.

Humans weep, laugh, smile, and rage all in a day, as changing as an upcoming storm. They do not see it, but their hearts burn with light more often than not, and it is a wonder that they still walk around with lamps and lanterns when they do not need them. It baffles me that instead of using it they spend their whole lives trying to subdue it, mitigate it, and, in some cases, even successfully snuffing said light entirely.

To each their own.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. In those days, as I said, I tried to understand humanity. It would end up being an existence-long struggle for me ( seeing as I cannot truly die,) and for the first hundred or so years I made very little progress. Then, the day came when my current seller put me out in the marketplace, sold me for a hundred pieces of silver, and I was carried away by my very first owner.

We djinns do not really advertise our places of dwellings. This young man, who I shall not name, did not know what he had bought until he got home and got around to polishing my century-old home. The old magic sprang up and suddenly I was out of my home and visible and the young boy looked at me with eyes as wide as a full moon.

“My name is Zhamir,” I said, as I’d known I’d had to for a century. I was proud of how guttural my voice sounded. I had practiced it constantly. “And you are my master. Ask and I shall obey.”

My master looked at me and I looked at him and we looked at each other with equal mistrust. He seemed too young to even begin to understand what finding me implied but perhaps, in hindsight, his youth and heart were what saved him from making grave mistakes and me from a lifetime of servitude inside that crude metal.

Haven’t I mentioned it yet? I thought it was obvious, as have now taken the form of a cat. I am no longer inside the lamp. Haven’t been for about a millennia now.

My master didn’t ask for world-riches or three thousand camels. Instead, he asked for company and friendship. That puzzled me. I could conjure a thousand suns if he so asked. But I’d never known friendship.

So I learned. I’m not too proud to admit that I was embarrassingly clumsy at first. I stumbled upon my words. I tried summoning gifts from the four corners of the world when my master just wanted someone to play chess with. I could give a serpent wings but I could not, for the life of me, tell if my master’s soup was too cold or too hot when it was warming over the fire.

Thus, I learned that there’s a rare breed of humans that actually go to sleep contentedly without any lights on.

My master soon got old. Not too soon for him, I expect, but certainly too soon for me. At the time I did not know what grief was but when I explained it to him he told me I had all the symptoms. He asked if I would be left alone. I said I expected so. Then he asked if he could do anything for me.

I was startled into silence but my master repeated the question. He asked if I wanted to see the world. I told him that, in my own way, I already was.

He said he wanted to free me. I was too stunned to even utter a word.

And then he made his first and last wish. He asked for my freedom, and I, ironically enough, granted it.

Thus, I roamed the world.

You’re probably expecting to hear about the little black notebook, and I expect we’ll get to it soon. Be patient. Do you know how long it used to take for humans to carve their words into clay?

Anyway.

I soon began to notice, in my restless wanderings around the globe, that there’s a common theme to you humans. You call it love, and sing, write poetry and sail from Greece to Troy in its name ( though that last one is debatable.)

What is love? Is it the eternal question? And it is what got us here, isn’t it?

I, too, seek an answer to that question. Though my interest is largely scientific, I cannot help but wonder why the first hundred or so years before I met my master passed so rapidly and the ones that I’ve lived since seem so vacant.

So when that bald, pigeon-faced man at the museum crouched by me, petted me and fed me and asked to the air if he would ever be able to translate what could very well be the first record of a love letter in human history, I perked up my ears. For I too, you see, want to know the beginning of things and perhaps by it understand their essence.

So I set up to work at night and translated all the words he had detailed into his little black notebook. He woke up, read it and was absolutely elated. They are calling it a miracle now, or some sort of asleep-genius syndrome at work. Do not be fooled. The money they’ve won for their research; some 20,000 dollars will be well spent.

And yet, all of this is not as much of a miracle as the fact that you humans, as tiny and ephemeral as you are, have managed to dent and change me, an immortal being, and in doing so have given me a life. For I still don’t quite understand why I no longer recall any greek clearly and yet I recall each and every one of the times I laughed with my master.

That is, indeed, a miracle worthy of being admired and a question worthy of some rough translating and some starter money. For what could be more important?

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About the Creator

Cristina Carvajal

Cristina is a passionate traveler, writer and musician that hopes to one day plant her very own fig tree. Besides reading poetry and eating pomegranates she actively seeks to write pieces that are filled with soul and purpose.

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