The Forty Rules of Love (18 page)

Aladdin

KONYA, DECEMBER 16, 1244

By the fates I wasn’t there when the dervish crossed my father’s path. I had gone deer hunting with several friends and came back only the next day. By then my father’s encounter with Shams of Tabriz was the talk of the town. Who was this dervish, people gossiped, and how come an erudite man like Rumi had taken him seriously, to the point of bowing down to him?

Ever since I was a boy, I had watched people kneel in front of my father and had never imagined that it could be any other way—that is, unless the other person was a king or a grand vizier. So I refused to believe half the things I heard and didn’t let the gossip get under my skin, until I arrived home and Kerra, my stepmother, who never lies and never exaggerates, confirmed the whole story. Yes, it was true, a wandering dervish named Shams of Tabriz had challenged my father in public, and, what’s more, he was now staying in our house.

Who was this stranger who had plummeted into our lives like a mysterious rock hurled from the sky? Eager to see him with my own eyes, I asked Kerra, “So where is this man?”

“Be quiet,” Kerra whispered, a little nervously. “Your father and the dervish are in the library.”

We could hear the far hum of their voices, though it was impossible to make out what they were talking about. I headed in that direction, but Kerra stopped me.

“I am afraid you will have to wait. They asked not to be disturbed.”

For the whole day, they didn’t come out of the library. Neither the next day nor the one following. What could they possibly be talking about? What could someone like my father and a simple dervish have in common?

A week passed, then another. Every morning Kerra prepared breakfast and left it on a tray in front of their door. No matter what delicacies she prepared for them, they refused it all, content with only a slice of bread in the morning and a glass of goat’s milk in the evening.

Perturbed, jittery, I was grabbed by an ill mood during this period. At various hours throughout the day, I tried every hole and crack in the door to peep inside the library. Never minding what would happen if they suddenly opened the door and found me eavesdropping there, I spent a lot of time hunched over, trying to comprehend what they were talking about. But all I could hear was a low murmuring. I couldn’t see much either. The room was shadowy, on account of the curtains being half closed. Without much to see or hear, I allowed my mind busily to fill in the silences, fabricating the conversations they must be having.

Once Kerra found me with my ear to the door, but she didn’t say anything. By this time she was more desperate than I to learn what was going on. Women can’t help their curiosity; it is in their nature.

But it was a different story when my brother, Sultan Walad, caught me eavesdropping. He gave me a burning look, his face turning sour.

“You have no right to spy on other people, especially not on your father,” he reprimanded.

I shrugged. “Honestly, brother, doesn’t it bother you that our father spends his time with a stranger? It has been more than a month now. Father has brushed his family aside. Doesn’t that upset you?”

“Our father hasn’t brushed anyone aside,” my brother said. “He found a very good friend in Shams of Tabriz. Instead of nagging and complaining like a toddler, you should be happy for our father. If you truly love him, that is.”

That was the sort of thing only my brother could say. I was used to his peculiarities, so I did not take umbrage at his scathing remarks. Always the nice boy, he was the darling of the family and the neighborhood, my father’s favorite son.

Exactly forty days after my father and the dervish had cloistered themselves in the library, something strange happened. I was crouched at the door again, eavesdropping on a thicker silence than usual, when all of a sudden I heard the dervish speak up.

“It has been forty days since we retreated here. Every day we discussed another of The Forty Rules of the Religion of Love. Now that we are done, I think we’d better go out. Your absence might have upset your family.”

My father objected. “Don’t worry. My wife and sons are mature enough to understand that I might need to spend some time away from them.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about your wife, but your two boys are as different as night and day,” Shams responded. “The older one walks in your footsteps, but the younger one, I am afraid, marches to a different drummer altogether. His heart is darkened with resentment and envy.”

My cheeks burned with anger. How could he say such awful things about me when we hadn’t even met?

“He thinks I don’t know him, but I do,” said the dervish a little while later. “While he was crouching with his ear to the door, watching me through peepholes, I was watching him, too.”

I felt a sudden chill pass across me as every hair on my arms stood on end. Without giving it another thought, I thrust the door open and stomped into the room. My father’s eyes widened with incomprehension, but it didn’t take long for his shock to be replaced by anger.

“Aladdin, have you lost your mind? How dare you disturb us like this!” my father thundered.

Ignoring that question, I pointed at Shams and exclaimed, “Why don’t you first ask him how he dares to talk about me like that?”

My father didn’t say a word. He just looked at me and drew in a deep breath, as if my presence were a heavy burden on his shoulders.

“Please, Father, Kerra misses you. And so do your students. How can you turn your back on all your loved ones for a lousy dervish?”

As soon as those words came out of my mouth, I regretted them, but it was too late. My father stared at me with disappointment in his eyes. I had never seen him like this before.

“Aladdin, do yourself a favor. Get out of here—this minute,” my father said. “Go into a quiet place and think about what you did. Do not talk to me until you have looked inside and recognized your mistake.”

“But, Father—”

“Just get out!” my father repeated, turning away from me.

With a sinking heart, I left the room, my palms wet, my knees trembling.

At that moment it dawned upon me that in some incomprehensible way our lives had changed, and nothing would be the same again. Since the death of my mother eight years ago, this was the second time I had felt abandoned by a parent.

Rumi

KONYA, DECEMBER 18, 1244

B
atm Allah—the hidden face of God. Open my mind so I may see the Truth.

When Shams of Tabriz asked me that question about the Prophet Muhammad and the Sufi Bistami, I felt as though we were the only two people left on the face of the earth. In front of us extended the seven stages on the Path to Truth—seven
maqamat
every ego had to go through in order to attain Oneness.

The first stage is the
Depraved Nafs,
the most primitive and common state of being, when the soul is entrapped in worldly pursuits. Most human beings are stuck there, struggling and suffering in the service of their ego but always holding others responsible for their continuing unhappiness.

If and when a person becomes aware of the ego’s abased situation, by starting to work on himself, he can move to the next stage, which in a way is the opposite of the previous one. Instead of blaming other people all the time, the person who has reached this stage blames himself, sometimes to the point of self-effacement. Herein the ego becomes the
Accusing Nafs
and thus starts the journey toward inner purification.

In the third stage, the person is more mature and the ego has evolved into the
Inspired Nafs.
It is only at this level, and not anytime before, that one can experience the true meaning of the word “surrender” and roam the Valley of Knowledge. Anyone who has made it this far will possess and display patience, perseverance, wisdom, and humility. The world will feel new and full of inspiration. Nevertheless, many of the people who reach the third level feel an urge to dwell here, losing the will or the courage to go further. That is why, as beautiful and blessed as it is, the third stage is a trap for the one who aims higher.

Those who manage to go further reach the Valley of Wisdom and come to know the
Serene Nafs
. Here the ego is not what it used to be, having altered into a high level of consciousness. Generosity, gratitude, and an unwavering sense of contentment regardless of the hardships in life are the main characteristics accompanying anyone who has arrived here. Beyond that lies the Valley of Unity. Those who are here will be pleased with whatever situation God places them in. Mundane matters make no difference to them, as they have achieved the
Pleased Nafs
.

In the next stage, the
Pleasing Nafs,
one becomes a lantern to humanity, radiating energy to everyone who asks for it, teaching and illuminating like a true master. Sometimes such a person can also have healing powers. Wherever he goes, he will make a big difference in other people’s lives. In everything he does and aspires to do, his main goal is to serve God through serving others.

Finally, in the seventh stage, one attains the
Purified Nafs
and becomes
Insan-i Kâmil
, a perfect human being. But nobody knows much about that state, and even if a few ever did, they wouldn’t speak of it.

The stages along the path are easy to summarize, difficult to experience. Adding to the obstacles that appear along the way is the fact that there is no guarantee of continuous progress. The route from the first to the last stage is by no means linear. There is always the danger of tumbling back into earlier stages, sometimes even from a superior stage all the way down to the first one. Given the many traps along the way, it is no wonder that in every century only a few people manage to reach the final stages.

So when Shams asked me that question, it wasn’t simply a comparison that he was after. He wanted me to consider how far I was willing to go to efface my personality in order to be absorbed in God. There was a second question hidden within his first question.

“How about you, great preacher?” he was asking me. “Of the seven stages, which stage are you at? And do you think you have the heart to go further, till the very end? Tell me, how big is your cup?”

Kerra

KONYA, DECEMBER 18, 1244

Bemoaning my fate does me no good, I know. Yet I cannot help but wish that I were more knowledgeable in religion, history, and philosophy and all the things Rumi and Shams must be talking about day and night. There are times I want to rebel against having been created a woman. When you are born a girl, you are taught how to cook and clean, wash dirty clothes, mend old socks, make butter and cheese, and feed babies. Some women are also taught the art of love and making themselves attractive to men. But that’s about it. Nobody gives women books to open their eyes.

In the first year of our marriage, I used to sneak into Rumi’s library at every opportunity. I would sit there amid the books he loved so much, breathing in their dusty, moldy smells, wondering what mysteries they hid inside. I knew how much Rumi adored his books, most of which had been handed down to him by his late father, Baha’ al-Din. Of those, he was particularly fond of the
Ma’arif.
Many nights he would stay awake until dawn reading it, although I suspected he knew the whole text by heart.

“Even if they paid me sacks of gold, I would never exchange my father’s books,” Rumi used to say. “Each of these books is a priceless legacy from my ancestors. I took them from my father, and I will pass them on to my sons.”

I learned the hard way just how much his books meant to him. Still in our first year of marriage, while I was alone at home one day, it occurred to me to dust the library. I took out all the books from the shelves and wiped their covers with a piece of velvet dabbed in rosewater. The locals believe that there is a kind of juvenile djinn by the name of Kebikec who takes a twisted pleasure in destroying books. In order to ward him off, it is the custom to write a note of warning inside each book:
“Stand thou still, Kebikec, stay away from this book!”
How was I to know that it wasn’t only Kebikec who was supposed to stay away from my husband’s books, but me as well?

That afternoon I dusted and cleaned every book in the library. As I kept working, I read from Ghazzali’s
Vivification of the Religious Sciences.
Only when I heard a dry, distant voice behind me did I realize how much time I had spent there.

“Kerra, what do you think you are doing here?”

It was Rumi, or someone who resembled him—the voice was harsher in tone, sterner in expression. In all our eight years of marriage, that was the only time he’d spoken to me like that.

“I am cleaning,” I muttered, my voice weak. “I wanted to make it a surprise.”

Rumi responded, “I understand, but please do not touch my books again. In fact, I’d rather you did not enter this room at all.”

After that day I stayed away from the library even when there was no one at home. I understood and accepted that the world of books was not and never had been, nor ever would be, for me.

But when Shams of Tabriz came to our house, and he and my husband locked themselves in the library for forty days, I felt an old resentment boil up inside me. A wound that I didn’t even know I had began to bleed.