The Forty Rules of Love (30 page)

Suleiman the Drunk

KONYA, JUNE 1246

Blood and thunder! What an unforgettable evening! I still have not recovered from its effects. And of all the things that I have witnessed tonight, the most startling was the finale.

After the
sema,
the great Kaykhusraw II stood up, his eyes ranging round the room imperiously. In consummate smugness he approached the stage, and after giving a great whoop of laughter, he said, “Congratulations, dervishes! I was impressed by your performance.”

Rumi gracefully thanked him, and all the dervishes onstage did the same. Then the musicians stood up together and greeted the sovereign with ultimate respect. His face brimming with satisfaction, Kaykhusraw signaled to one of his guards, who immediately handed him a velvet pouch. Kaykhusraw bounced the pouch in his palm several times to show how heavy it was with golden coins and then flung it onto the stage. People around me sighed and applauded. So deeply were we moved by the generosity of our ruler.

Content and confident, Kaykhusraw turned to leave. But no sooner had he taken a step toward the exit than the very pouch he’d flung on the stage was tossed back at him. The coins landed under his feet, jingling like a new bride’s bracelets. Everything had happened so fast that for a full minute we all stood still and perplexed, unable to make sense of what was going on. But no doubt the one who was most shocked was Kaykhusraw himself. The insult was so obvious and definitely too personal to be forgivable. He looked over his shoulder with unbelieving eyes to see who could have done such a horrible thing.

It was Shams of Tabriz. All heads turned toward him as he stood onstage arms akimbo, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

“We don’t dance for money,” he boomed in a deep voice. “The
sema
is a spiritual dance performed for love and love alone. So take back your gold, sovereign! Your money is no good here!”

A dreadful silence descended upon the hall. Rumi’s elder son looked so shaken that all the blood had been drained from his young face. Nobody dared to make a sound. Without a sigh, without a gasp, we all held our breaths. As if the skies had been waiting for this signal, it started to rain, sharp and stinging. The raindrops drowned everything and everyone in their steady sound.

“Let’s go!” Kaykhusraw yelled to his men.

His cheeks wobbling with humiliation, his lips quivering uncontrollably, and his shoulders visibly slumped, the sovereign headed for the exit. His many guards and servants scurried behind him one by one, stomping on the spilled coins on the floor with their heavy boots. People rushed to scoop up the coins, pushing and pulling one another.

As soon as the sovereign had left, a murmur of disapproval and disappointment rippled through the audience.

“Who does he think he is!” some people burst out.

“How dare he insult our ruler?” others joined in. “What if Kaykhusraw makes the whole town pay the price now?”

A group of people stood up, shaking their heads in disbelief, and stalked toward the exit in a clear sign of protest. At the head of the protesters were Sheikh Yassin and his students. To my great surprise, I noticed among them two of Rumi’s old disciples—and his own son Aladdin.

Aladdin

KONYA, JUNE 1246

By Allah, I had never been so embarrassed in my life. As if it weren’t shameful enough to see my own father in cahoots with a heretic, I had to suffer the mortification of watching him lead a dance performance. How could he disgrace himself like that in front of the whole town? On top of this, I was utterly appalled when I heard there was among the audience a harlot from the brothel. As I sat there wondering how much more madness and destruction my father’s love for Shams could cause us all, for the first time in my life I wished to be the son of another man.

To me the entire performance was sheer sacrilege. But what happened afterward was far beyond the pale. How could that insolent man find the nerve to pour scorn on our ruler? He is very lucky that Kaykhusraw didn’t have him arrested on the spot and sent to the gallows.

When I saw Sheikh Yassin walk out after Kaykhusraw, I knew I had to do the same. The last thing I wanted was for the townspeople to think that I was on the side of a heretic. Everyone had to see once and for all that, unlike my brother, I wasn’t my father’s puppet.

That night I didn’t go home. I stayed at Irshad’s house with a few friends. Overcome with emotion, we talked about the day’s events and discussed at great length what to do.

“That man is a terrible influence on your father,” said Irshad tautly. “And now he has brought a prostitute into your house. You need to clean your family’s name, Aladdin.”

As I stood listening to the things they said, my face burning with a scalding shame, one thing was clear to me: Shams had brought us nothing but misery.

In unison we reached the conclusion that Shams had to leave this town—if not willingly, then by force.

The next day I went back home determined to talk to Shams of Tabriz man to man. I found him alone in the courtyard, playing the
ney
, his head bowed, his eyes closed, his back turned to me. Fully immersed in his music, he hadn’t noticed my presence. I approached as quiet as a mouse, taking the opportunity to observe him and get to know my enemy better.

After what seemed like several minutes, the music stopped. Shams raised his head slightly, and without looking in my direction, he mumbled flatly, as if talking to himself, “Hey there, Aladdin, were you looking for me?”

I didn’t say a word. Knowing of his ability to see through closed doors, it didn’t surprise me that he had eyes in the back of his head.

“So did you enjoy the performance yesterday?” Shams asked, now turning his face toward mine.

“I thought it was disgraceful,” I answered at once. “Let’s get something straight, shall we? I don’t like you. I never have. And I’m not going to let you ruin my father’s reputation any more than you have already.”

A spark flickered in his eyes as Shams put his
ney
aside and said, “Is that what this is about? If Rumi’s reputation is ruined, people won’t look up to you as the son of an eminent man anymore. Does that scare you?”

Determined not to let him get under my skin, I ignored his mordant remarks. Still, it was a while before I could say anything.

“Why don’t you go and leave us in peace? We were so good before you came,” I shot back. “My father is a respected scholar and a family man. You two have nothing in common.”

His neck craned forward, his brow furrowed in mighty concentration, Shams drew in a deep breath. Suddenly he looked old and vulnerable. It flashed through my mind that I could slug him, beat him to a pulp, before anyone could run to his rescue. The thought was so dreadful and malevolent, and yet frighteningly seducing, that I had to avert my eyes.

When I stared back at him, I found Shams inspecting me, his gaze avid, bright. Could he be reading my mind? A creepy feeling got hold of me, spreading from my hands to my feet, as if I were being pricked by a thousand needles, and my knees felt wobbly, unwilling to carry me. It must have been black magic. I had no doubt that Shams excelled in the darkest forms of sorcery.

“You are scared of me, Aladdin,” Shams said after a pause. “You know who you remind me of? The cross-eyed assistant!”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“It’s a story. Do you like stories?”

I shrugged. “I have no time for them.”

A flicker of condescension crossed Shams’s lips. “A man who has no time for stories is a man who has no time for God,” he said. “Don’t you know that God is the best storyteller?”

And without waiting for me to say anything, he told me this story:

Once there was an artisan who had a bitter assistant, who was cross-eyed to boot. This assistant always saw double. One day the artisan asked him to bring a jar of honey from storage. The assistant came back empty-handed. “But, Master, there are two jars of honey there,” he complained. “Which one do you want me to bring?” Knowing his assistant too well, the artisan said, “Why don’t you break one of the jars and bring me the other one?”

Alas, the assistant was too shallow to understand the wisdom behind these words. He did as told. He broke one of the jars and was very surprised to see the other one break, too.

“What are you trying to tell me?” I asked. To display my temper in front of Shams was a mistake, but I couldn’t help it. “You and your stories! Damn it! Can’t you ever talk straight?”

“But it is so clear, Aladdin. I am telling you that like the cross-eyed assistant you see dualities everywhere,” Shams said. “Your father and I are one. If you break me, you’ll break him as well.”

“You and my father have nothing in common,” I riposted. “If I break the second jar, I’ll set the first one free.”

I was so full of rage and resentment that I didn’t consider the ramifications of my words. Not then. Not until much later.

Not until it was too late.

Shams

KONYA, JUNE 1246

By and large, the narrow-minded say that dancing is sacrilege. They think God gave us music—not only the music we make with our voices and instruments but the music underlying all forms of life, and then He forbade our listening to it. Don’t they see that all nature is singing? Everything in this universe moves with a rhythm—the pumping of the heart, the flaps of a bird’s wings, the wind on a stormy night, a blacksmith working iron, or the sounds an unborn baby is surrounded with inside the womb.… Everything partakes, passionately and spontaneously, in one magnificent melody. The dance of the whirling dervishes is a link in that perpetual chain. Just as a drop of seawater carries within it the entire ocean, our dance both reflects and shrouds the secrets of the cosmos.

Hours before the performance, Rumi and I retreated into a quiet room to meditate. The six dervishes who were going to whirl in the evening joined us. Together we performed our ablutions and prayed. Then we donned our costumes. Earlier we had talked at great length about what the proper attire should be and had chosen simple fabric and colors of the earth. The honey-colored hat symbolized the tombstone, the long white skirt the shroud, and the black cloak the grave. Our dance projected how Sufis discard the entire Self, like shedding a piece of old skin.

Before leaving the hall for the stage, Rumi recited a poem:

“The gnostic has escaped from the five senses

And the six directions and makes you aware of what is beyond them.”

With those feelings we were ready. First came the sound of the
ney
. Then Rumi entered the stage in his capacity as
semazenbashi
. One by one, the dervishes followed him, their heads bowed in modesty. The last to appear had to be the sheikh. As firmly as I resisted the suggestion, Rumi insisted on my performing that part tonight.

The
hafiz
chanted a verse from the Qur’an:
There are certainly Signs on earth for people with certainty; and in yourselves as well. Do you not see?

Then started the
kudüm
accompanying the piercing sound of
ney
and
rebab.

Listen to the reed and the tale it tells,

how it sings of separation:

Ever since they cut me from the reed bed,

my wail has caused men and women to weep.

Giving himself over to the hands of God, the first dervish started to whirl, the hems of his skirts gently swishing with a separate life of their own. We all joined in and whirled until there remained around us nothing but Oneness. Whatever we received from the skies, we passed on to the earth, from God to people. Each and every one of us became a link connecting the Lover to the Beloved. When the music ceased, we jointly bowed to the essential forces of the universe: fire, wind, earth, and water, and the fifth element, the void.

I don’t regret what transpired between me and Kaykhusraw at the end of the performance. But I am sorry for putting Rumi in a difficult position. As a man who has always enjoyed privilege and protection, he has never before felt estranged from a ruler. Now he has at least a smattering of insight into something that average people experience all the time—the deep, vast rift between the ruling elite and the masses.

And with that, I suppose I am nearing the end of my time in Konya.

Every true love and friendship is a story of unexpected transformation. If we are the same person before and after we loved, that means we haven’t loved enough.

With the initiation of poetry, music, and dance, a huge part of Rumi’s transformation is complete. Once a rigid scholar who disliked poetry and a preacher who enjoyed the sound of his own voice as he lectured others, Rumi is now turning into a poet himself, becoming the voice of pure emptiness, though he might not have realized this fully yet. As for me, I, too, have changed and am changing. I am moving from being into nothingness. From one season to another, one stage to the next, from life to death.

Our friendship was a blessing, a gift from God. We thrived, rejoiced, bloomed, and basked in each other’s company, savoring absolute fullness and felicity.

I remembered what Baba Zaman once told me. For the silk to prosper, the silkworm had to die. Sitting there all alone in the whirling hall after everyone had left and the hubbub had died away, I knew that my time with Rumi was coming to an end. Through our companionship Rumi and I had experienced an exceptional beauty and learned what it was like to encounter infinity through two mirrors reflecting each other endlessly. But the old maxim still applies: Where there is love, there is bound to be heartache.