The Forty Rules of Love (23 page)

Kerra

KONYA, OCTOBER 22, 1245

Beyond the closed door, Shams and Rumi were talking fervently about God knows what the other day. I knocked and entered without waiting for a response, carrying a tray with a plate of halva. Normally Shams doesn’t say anything when I am around, as if my presence forces him into silence. And he never comments upon my cooking skills. He eats very little anyhow. Sometimes I have the impression it makes no difference to him whether I serve a fabulous dinner or dry bread. But this time as soon as he took a bite from my halva, his eyes lit up.

“This is delicious, Kerra. How did you make it?” he asked.

I don’t know what came over me. Instead of seeing the compliment for what it was, I heard myself retort, “Why are you asking? Even if I told you how, you couldn’t make it.”

Shams locked a level gaze into my eyes and nodded slightly, as if he agreed with what I’d said. I waited for him to say something in return, but he just stood there, mute and calm.

In a little while, I left the room and returned to the kitchen, thinking the incident was left behind. And I probably would not have remembered it again, had it not been for what transpired this morning.

I was churning butter by the hearth in the kitchen when I heard strange voices out in the courtyard. I rushed outside, only to witness the craziest scene ever. There were books everyplace, piled up in rickety towers, and still more books floating inside the fountain. From all the ink dissolving in it, the water in the fountain had turned a vivid blue.

With Rumi standing right there, Shams picked a book from the pile—
The Collected Poems of al-Mutanabbi
—eyed it with a grim expression, and tossed it into the water. No sooner had the book submerged than he reached for another. This time it was Attar’s
The Book of Secrets.

I gasped in horror. One by one, he was destroying Rumi’s favorite books! The next to be hurled into the water was
The Divine Sciences
by Rumi’s father. Knowing how much Rumi adored his father and doted upon this old manuscript, I looked at him, expecting him to throw a fit.

Instead I found Rumi standing aside, his face pale as wax, his hands trembling. I couldn’t understand for the life of me why he didn’t say anything. The man who once had reprimanded me for just dusting his books was now watching a lunatic destroy his entire library, and yet he didn’t even utter a word. It wasn’t fair. If Rumi wasn’t going to intervene, I would.

“What are you doing?” I asked Shams. “These books have no other copies. They are very valuable. Why are you throwing them into the water? Have you lost your mind?”

Instead of an answer, Shams cocked his head toward Rumi. “Is that what you think, too?” he asked.

Rumi pursed his lips and smiled faintly but remained silent.

“Why don’t you say anything?” I yelled at my husband.

At this, Rumi approached me and held my hand tightly. “Calm down, Kerra, please. I trust in Shams.”

Giving me a glance over his shoulder, relaxed and confident, Shams rolled up his sleeves and started to pull the books out of the water. To my amazement, every single book he took out was as dry as a bone.

“Is this magic? How did you do that?” I asked.

“But why are you asking?” Shams said. “Even if I told you how, you couldn’t do it.”

Trembling with anger, choking back sobs, I ran to the kitchen, which has become my sanctuary these days. And there, amid pots and pans, stacks of herbs and spices, I sat down and cried my heart out.

Rumi

KONYA, DECEMBER 1245

Bent on praying the morning prayer together in the open air, Shams and I left the house shortly after dawn. We rode our horses for a while, through meadows and valleys and across ice-cold streams, enjoying the breeze on our faces. Scarecrows in wheat fields greeted us with an eerie poise, and newly washed clothes in front of a farmhouse fluttered madly in the breeze as we passed by, pointing in all directions into the semidarkness.

On the way back, Shams pulled at the reins of his horse and pointed to a massive oak tree outside the town. Together we sat under the tree, the sky hanging above our heads in shades of purple. Shams placed his cloak on the ground, and as calls to prayer echoed from mosques near and far, we prayed there together.

“When I first came to Konya, I sat under this tree,” Shams said. He smiled at a distant memory, but then grew pensive and said, “A peasant gave me a ride. He was a great admirer of yours. He told me your sermons cured sadness.”

“They used to call me the Wizard of Words,” I said. “But it all feels so far away now. I don’t want to give sermons anymore. I feel like I am done.”

“You
are
the Wizard of Words,” Shams said determinedly. “But instead of a preaching mind, you have a chanting heart now.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that, and I didn’t ask. The dawn had erased what remained of the night before, turning the sky into a blameless orange. Far ahead of us, the town was waking up, crows were diving into vegetable gardens to peck at whatever they could steal, doors were screeching, donkeys braying, and stoves burning as everyone got ready for a brand-new day.

“People everywhere are struggling on their own for fulfillment, but without any guidance as to how to achieve it,” murmured Shams with a shake of his head. “Your words help them. And I’ll do everything in my power to help
you.
I am your servant.”

“Don’t say that,” I protested. “You are my friend.”

Oblivious to my objection, Shams continued. “My only concern is the shell you have been living in. As a famous preacher, you have been surrounded by fawning admirers. But how well do you know common people? Drunks, beggars, thieves, prostitutes, gamblers—the most inconsolable and the most downtrodden. Can we love all of God’s creatures? It is a difficult test, and one that only a few can pass.”

As he kept speaking, I saw gentleness and concern in his face, and something else that looked almost like maternal compassion.

“You are right,” I conceded. “I have always lived a protected life. I don’t even know how ordinary people live.”

Shams picked up a lump of soil, and as he crumbled it between his fingers, he added softly, “If we can embrace the universe as a whole, with all its differences and contradictions, everything will melt into One.”

With this, Shams picked up a dead branch and drew a large circle around the oak tree. When he was done, he raised his arms toward the sky, as if wishing to be pulled up by an invisible rope, and uttered the ninety-nine names of God. At the same time, he began to whirl inside the circle, first slowly and tenderly but then accelerating steadily, like a late-afternoon breeze. Soon he was whirling with the speed and might of gusty winds. So captivating was his frenzy that I couldn’t help but feel as if the whole universe—the earth, the stars, and the moon—spun with him. I watched this most unusual dance, letting the energy it radiated envelop my soul and body.

Finally Shams slowed down to a halt, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath, his face white, his voice suddenly deep, as if coming from a distant place.
“The universe is one being. Everything and everyone is interconnected through an invisible web of stories. Whether we are aware of it or not, we are all in a silent conversation. Do no harm. Practice compassion. And do not gossip behind anyone’s back—not even a seemingly innocent remark! The words that come out of our mouths do not vanish but are perpetually stored in infinite space, and they will come back to us in due time. One man’s pain will hurt us all. One man’s joy will make everyone smile,”
he murmured. “This is what one of the forty rules reminds us.”

Then he turned his inquisitive gaze to me. There was a shadow of despair in the bottomless depths of his eyes, a wave of sorrow that I had never seen in him before.

“One day you will be known as the Voice of Love,” Shams remarked. “East and West, people who have never seen your face will be inspired by your voice.”

“How is that going to happen?” I asked incredulously.

“Through your words,” Shams answered. “But I am not talking about lectures or sermons. I am talking about poetry.”

“Poetry?” My voice cracked. “I don’t write poetry. I am a scholar.”

This elicited a subtle smile from Shams. “You, my friend, are one of the finest poets the world will ever come to know.”

I was about to protest, but the determined look in Shams’s eyes stopped me. Besides, I didn’t feel like arguing. “Even so, whatever needs to be done, we will do it together. We will walk on this path together.”

Shams nodded absently and lapsed into an eerie silence, gazing at the fading colors in the horizon. When he finally spoke, he uttered those ominous words that have never left me, scarring my soul permanently: “As much as I would love to join you, I’m afraid you will have to do it alone.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going?” I asked.

With a wistful pucker of the lips, Shams lowered his gaze. “It is not in my hands.”

A sudden wind blew in our direction, and the weather turned chilly, as if warning us that the fall would soon be over. It began to rain out of the clear blue sky, in light, warm drops, as faint and delicate as the touch of butterflies. And that was the first time the thought of Shams’s leaving me hit me like a sharp pain in the chest.

Sultan Walad

KONYA, DECEMBER 1245

Banter to some, but it pains me to hear the gossip. How can people be so disdainful and scornful with regard to things they know so little about? It is queer, if not frightening, how out of touch with truth people are! They don’t understand the depth of the bond between my father and Shams. Apparently they haven’t read the Qur’an. Because if they had, they would know that there are similar stories of spiritual companionship, such as the story of Moses and Khidr.

It is in the verse al-Kahf, clear and plain. Moses was an exemplary man, great enough to become a prophet someday, as well as a legendary commander and lawmaker. But there was a time when he sorely needed a spiritual companion to open his third eye. And that companion was no other than Khidr, the Comforter of the Distressed and Dejected.

Khidr said to Moses, “I am a lifelong traveler. God has assigned me to roam the world and do what needs to be done. You say you want to join me in my journeys, but if you follow me, you must not question anything I do. Can you bear to accompany me without questioning? Can you trust me fully?”

“Yes, I can,” Moses assured him. “Let me come with you. I promise, I won’t ask you any questions.”

So they set out on the road, visiting various towns on the way. But when he witnessed Khidr perform senseless actions, like killing a young boy or sinking a boat, Moses could not hold his tongue. “Why did you do those awful things?” he asked desperately.

“What happened to your promise?” Khidr asked back. “Did I not tell you that you can ask me no questions?”

Each time Moses apologized, promising not to ask anything, and each time he broke his promise. In the end, Khidr explained the reason behind each and every one of his actions. Slowly but surely, Moses understood that things that can seem malicious or unfortunate are often a blessing in disguise, whereas things that might seem pleasant can be harmful in the long run. His brief companionship with Khidr was to be the most eye-opening experience in his life.

As in this parable, there are friendships in this world that seem incomprehensible to ordinary people but are in fact conduits to deeper wisdom and insight. This is how I regard Shams’s presence in my father’s life.

But I know that other people don’t see it in the same way, and I am worried. Unfortunately, Shams does not make it easy for people to like him. Sitting at the gate of the seminary in an embarrassingly tyrannical manner, he stops and interrogates everyone who wants to go in to talk to my father.

“What do you want to see the great Mawlana for?” he asks. “What did you bring as a gift?”

Not knowing what to say, people stammer and falter, even apologize. And Shams sends them away.

Some of these visitors return in a few days with presents, carrying dried fruits, silver dirhams, silk carpets, or newborn lambs. But seeing these goods annoys Shams even more. His black eyes aglow, his face glittering with fervor, he chases them away again.

One day a man got so upset with Shams he shouted, “What gives you the right to block Mawlana’s door? You keep asking everyone what they are bringing! How about you? What did
you
bring him?”

“I brought myself,” Shams said, just loud enough to be heard. “I sacrificed my head for him.”

The man trudged off, mumbling something under his breath, looking more confused than enraged.

The same day I asked Shams if it didn’t trouble him that he was so widely misunderstood and underappreciated. Scarcely able to contain my apprehension, I pointed out that he had gained many enemies lately.

Shams looked at me blankly, as if he had no idea what I was talking about. “But I have no enemies,” he said with a shrug. “The lovers of God can have critics and even rivals, but they cannot have enemies.”

“Yes, but you quarrel with people,” I objected.

Shams bristled with fervor. “I don’t quarrel with them, I quarrel with their ego. That’s different.”

Then he added softly, “It is one of the forty rules:
This world is like a snowy mountain that echoes your voice. Whatever you speak, good or evil, will somehow come back to you. Therefore, if there is someone who harbors ill thoughts about you, saying similarly bad things about him will only make matters worse. You will be locked in a vicious circle of malevolent energy. Instead for forty days and nights say and think nice things about that person. Everything will be different at the end of forty days, because you will be different inside.
”

“But people are saying all sorts of things about you. They even say for two men to be so fond of each other there has to be an unspeakable bond between them,” I said, my voice failing me toward the end.

Upon hearing this, Shams put his hand on my arm and smiled his usual calming smile. He then told me a story.

Two men were traveling from one town to another. They came to a stream that had risen due to heavy rainfall. Just when they were about to cross the water, they noticed a young, beautiful woman standing there all alone, in need of help. One of the men immediately went to her side. He picked the woman up and carried her in his arms across the stream. Then he dropped her there, waved good-bye, and the two men went their way.

During the rest of the trip, the second traveler was unusually silent and sullen, not responding to his friend’s questions. After several hours of sulking, unable to keep silent anymore, he said, “Why did you touch that woman? She could have seduced you! Men and women cannot come into contact like that!”

The first man responded calmly, “My friend, I carried the woman across the stream, and that is where I left her. It is you who have been carrying her ever since.”

“Some people are like that,” Shams said. “They carry their own fears and biases on their shoulders, crushed under all that weight. If you hear of anyone who cannot comprehend the depth of the bond between your father and me, tell him to wash his mind!”