The Book of Rumi, page 15
This time, Majnoun pushed his way straight through the group of men while holding his head high, more ecstatic in his love for Laily than ever before.
The Muezzin Caller
There was a town in the Levant where most of the inhabitants had not yet converted to Islam. In this town lived a muezzin caller who was cursed with the most exceptionally discordant voice. When he began the call to prayer, everyone in the vicinity fled so as not to be within earshot. The elders in the town were constantly pleading with the man to quit, believing that, instead of calling people to prayer, he might actually be scaring them away. Regardless, the man paid no heed to people's opinions. Every day, he climbed up the minaret and transmitted his ear-piercing call, sending people scurrying to shield themselves from the unbearable noise.
One early dawn, a well-dressed man holding a tray full of sweets and lit candles came to the center of the town and asked people how to find the muezzin. When people asked why, he said it was because the muezzin had brought much comfort and calm to his household.
“How could his awful voice bring comfort to anyone?” one townsperson asked.
“I have a beautiful, delicate daughter who's been wanting to convert to Islam for some time now,” the well-dressed man replied. “We've been trying to dissuade her, but to no avail. It's as if love for Islam had penetrated her soul and sunk its roots firm and deep.”
He took a long breath and gathered his composure, as he noticed that everyone was eager to hear his story and wanted him to continue. “I was devastated, knowing that if she changed her faith, we would lose her. I didn't want to lose my child but couldn't figure out what to do!”
“So, what made you look for the muezzin caller?” one onlooker asked impatiently.
“It wasn't until she heard the muezzin that everything changed!” he said with a grin on his face. “When she heard him for the first time, she was surprised, because she'd never heard such a horrible sound before. She couldn't believe that this noise was actually the Moslem call to prayer, so she asked her sister, who confirmed her worst doubts. But she still wasn't convinced and asked several others, who all said the same thing. When she finally was forced to accept that this was indeed the prayer call, all the attraction she had felt for Islam vanished! She simply couldn't reconcile that the beautiful faith she had fallen in love with could include such an uncouth element. For the first time in ages I've been able to sleep soundly at night, and I owe it to the muezzin caller!”
The father then spotted the man himself, who was making his way to the mosque, and approached him, gratefully offering the gifts he had brought.
“At last you've put my mind to rest! You've given me back my daughter. If I were a wealthier man, I would lay greater treasure before your feet without a second thought. I'm forever indebted to you.”
Having expressed his gratitude, the father gave the tray of sweets and candles to the muezzin caller and then hurried back home before the man could begin his abrasive call.
The Jester and the Chess Game
Seyyed Ajal,4 the powerful ruler of the province of Termez, had a great love for the game of chess. One day, relaxing in his opulent palace, he summoned the court jester to set up the chessboard, as he fancied a challenge. Happy to comply, the jester eagerly prepared the board and sat before his master, ready to begin. Only a few minutes into the game, though, the jester suddenly jumped up and shouted, “Checkmate! Checkmate!” signaling that he had beaten the ruler at his favorite game.
Seyyed Ajal was a sore loser and did not appreciate being embarrassed. On this occasion, his anger got the better of him, and he began to hurl the chess pieces at the jester. “All right, you won!” he screamed. “Here's your reward, you lowlife good-for-nothing.”
Seyyed Ajal cursed and threw every object within his reach at the poor, innocent jester, who begged for forgiveness. But soon the Seyyed's anger subsided and boredom got the better of him; he decided that he wanted another game and so beckoned the jester back. The frightened man approached the chessboard apprehensively but sat down to play. Once again, he beat his sovereign in a blink of any eye and had to call out the customary “Checkmate! Checkmate!” But before he did, he ran to an adjacent room and hid underneath several layers of bedding to save himself from Seyyed Ajal's anticipated blows.
“What are you doing? Why are you hiding?” asked the ruler, when he eventually located the jester.
“Checkmate! Checkmate! Checkmate!” called out the jester in fright. “While in your service, this is the only way I dare to announce my win, my lord!”
Such is the predicament of those who must live under unjust rulers with no respect for their subjects, whom they are supposed to be protecting.
4 The name “Seyyed” indicates a descendant of the prophet Mohammad.
Guest on a Rainy Night
It was a rainy night, and a traveler found himself stranded in an unfamiliar neighborhood. He had walked all day and was exhausted, hardly able to focus, yet he suddenly realized that the door in front of him looked familiar. He approached the house apprehensively and knocked gently, hoping that he was not mistaken. When an old friend indeed opened the door and invited him in warmly, his relief knew no bounds.
That evening down the street, the neighbors were having a circumcision party for their youngest son, and the owner of the house and his wife had been invited. Quietly, the couple decided between themselves that the husband should stay behind and catch up with his friend while she would go to the party. They also agreed that she should prepare the friend's bedding well apart from their own bedroom. The wife left the two men chatting away, reminiscing about the past as they sipped tea.
It was nearly midnight when the guest thanked his hospitable friend and went directly to the couple's bedroom, crept underneath the covers, and instantly fell asleep. The host, much too exhausted and far too embarrassed to wake his friend and tell him to change beds, snuck to the bed intended for their guest and also fell asleep immediately.
Not long past midnight, the wife returned from the party all jovial and excited. She quickly undressed and writhed her way underneath the covers next to the man she thought was her husband. She caressed and kissed him a few times and whispered in his ear: “My darling, I was so anxious that because of this horrid rain that seemed to never end, we'd be stuck with this man all night without a moment's peace.”
The guest, now suddenly wide awake, heard her unkind words and, not losing another minute, sprang out of the bed furiously. “I have sturdy shoes and don't fear the rain or the mud!” he exclaimed. “I'm out of here! You keep your precious home for yourselves. A soul never rests while traveling!”
As he headed toward the door, the woman, feeling ashamed, grabbed for his legs and begged him to stay, hoping that he would change his mind and not leave her home with such animosity. But to no avail; it was too late for regrets. The husband also awoke during the commotion, and the couple watched the man as he walked into the darkness, his face illuminating the empty space before him and for miles ahead, like a ferociously burning candle. They could hear his voice in their heads, saying to them: “I am the prophet Kidr, and I have copious spiritual treasures to impart. I had intended to gift some of them to you, but it wasn't meant to be!”
The next day, the couple converted their home into a guesthouse, welcoming every traveler who came to their town, hoping that perhaps one more time the prophet Kidr might appear at their humble abode.
Father's Will
A father loved his stunningly beautiful daughter deeply and held her in high regard. He also knew that she had to get married soon; otherwise, her reputation might suffer. He felt that he had to protect her against the fathomless jealousy of the town's women, so when the girl, still young, came of age, he agreed to marry her off. He bestowed her to a man whom he was not convinced was the best choice; the man was not of the same social class, nor was he financially in a superior position. But the father had made up his mind that the sooner the girl was married, the safer was her future.
“My darling daughter,” he advised her, “I've no choice but to give you away to someone who's not of the same stature as you. You can't be sure of him, so it would be best to avoid getting pregnant for some time yet.”
“Yes, sir, I'll do as you wish,” the girl agreed obediently, trusting that her father knew best.
Because the newly married couple lived not far from the girl's father, he saw her often and never failed to repeat his advice every time they met; and the girl would show him her flat stomach to put his mind at rest. But then, one day, the girl became pregnant! She cunningly hid her condition from her father for a good six months until it was no longer possible to hide her bump.
“What is this?” scowled the father. “Didn't I tell you to keep well away from him? Or was my advice just some passing wind that never crossed your threshold?” The father was beside himself, knowing that his daughter no longer had a way out.
“Father, please,” begged the girl. “You know that man and woman are like cotton and fire! How could I have avoided him forever? How was I to flee the fire?”
“I told you not to go to his bed!” the father bellowed. “And if he comes to you, make sure that he doesn't impregnate you! I told you to pull away when you thought he was at the height of his pleasure!”
“How am I supposed to know when he's about to peak?”
“When he becomes blurry eyed with a soft gaze, of course!” the father almost shrieked.
“But, father, before his eyes go soft, both of my eyes have already gone blind!”
The father knew well that his advice, albeit offered with what he thought were the best of intentions, was only so much hot air, blowing by gently and penetrating no one.
Poet in Aleppo
In bygone days, the people of Aleppo were mainly Shiite Moslems, and during the mourning month of Muharram, they held many heart-wrenching, tear-jerking, back- and chest-beating ceremonies. Men and women alike gathered every year at the city's Antioch Gate to mourn the brutal massacre of Hossein, the prophet's brave grandson, and his men by the cruel caliph Yazid. The eerie sound of the mourners' wailing could be heard well into the night, reaching far into the desert and rising to the skies in heaven.
One year, a poet had traveled to Aleppo on the night of the ceremony, the Ashura. When he heard the screams and mourning of the crowd, having no clue what was going on, he followed the sound to Antioch Gate to see for himself. When he saw the enormity of the gathering, he realized that the event must be for an exceptional figure.
“Who's this person whom you revere so much?” he inquired. “Tell me about him, for I'm a poet, and I'd like to write a poem in his honor!”
“Are you mad? You're obviously not a Shiite!” snapped one of the mourners with animosity. “How can you not know that today is the anniversary of the death of Hossein, one of the most cherished figures in our history? For a true Moslem, today is even more important than the day of Noah's storm.”
“I do know about Ashura,” the poet defended himself. “But the age of Yazid is long gone! How come you've only heard about this calamity now? Everyone else in the world has heard of this disaster, even the blind and the deaf. Has your lot been asleep all this time that you've only begun mourning for him now?” The poet was genuinely perplexed. The mourners, for their part, simply stared at the man, speechless.
“You're truly ignorant!” the poet finally blurted, again unable to hold back his tongue. “You should be crying for yourselves, because this deep slumber of yours is worse than death itself! Those holy men were the kings of their faith, and the day that their spirits separated from their bodies should be a day for rejoicing! Had you any idea of their true nature, you would have known that today, for them, is a day of joyous celebration. You should all be mourning your own dead hearts instead, for you've no consciousness except for this earthly existence!”
Without further delay, the poet gathered up his pen and paper and hastily rode out of Aleppo, wary that if he remained one more hour in this town, he might lose his faith in humankind and human intelligence altogether.
Tolerance
A young novice darvish had heard unending praise about the renowned shaykh Abol-Hassan of Kharaghan, and he could not wait to meet him. One day, he decided to take the long journey to the eastern province to fulfill his enduring wish. The journey was arduous, and it took him weeks to reach his destination. As soon as he arrived, he began to inquire about the shaykh's residence, and after hours of searching in the town's back alleys, he found the house at last. His heart was brimming with excitement and hope as he timidly knocked on the door, waiting patiently for it to open.
“Who's there?” came the sound of a woman's voice.
“Hello; I've come to pay my respects to the revered shaykh, ma'am. I've come all the way from Taleghan,” he whimpered.
“What an idiot! You've endured such a grueling journey to this godforsaken town, and for what? Didn't you have anything better to do?” barked the woman. “What useless thoughts did you entertain in your empty head? Or perhaps it's the devil who's sent you here?”
There was no end to the woman's bickering. She went on and on, ridiculing and bad-mouthing the shaykh himself, trying her best to kill every hope in the young man's heart.
“Despite all, ma'am, can you please tell me where I can find the shaykh?” implored the murid, tears welling up in his eyes.
“So you're really looking for that charlatan, who plants lies in fools' hearts and ensnares them? He's trapped thousands of idiots like you already. You're better off never seeing him and going back home unharmed. Beware, he's a real charmer,” she warned him. “A sorcerer must have tricked you into seeking out this goat who resembles a man, and you and everyone else like you worship him like buffoons. Stop caressing his ego; don't encourage him further. Go on and get out of here now.”
The young Sufi couldn't believe his ears. He simply decided that the woman must be mad and that he need no longer bother with her incriminating description of his beloved spiritual master. He carefully backed out of the woman's view and decided to ask others about the shaykh's whereabouts.
But before he left, he couldn't help saying to the woman, whom he finally understood to be the shaykh's wife: “The light of your husband has reached East and West, yet you have no share of it. I will not return home because of your malicious words, and I will not give up my search for the shaykh. There are many bats like you who wish to smother the light of God, but I shall not fall for your false words. Farewell, and may God save your pitiful soul!”
Having vented some of his anger, the murid began asking everyone he came by for the shaykh's whereabouts. It took a while, but in the end one person was able to direct him to a nearby forest, where the shaykh was apparently gathering firewood. The young man hurried toward the woodland outside town while wondering why on earth the shaykh had married and remained married to such a vampire of a woman. He was baffled that two such opposite poles of the spectrum could live compatibly with each other.
However, he quickly extinguished this train of thought, as he felt that he was beginning to doubt the great man without knowing the full story. As he thus reasoned with himself, he suddenly saw an elderly man comfortably sitting on top of a heap of firewood that was in turn stacked on the back of a lion, using a huge snake as a whip to control the beast.
“Be careful, young man, to not let your thoughts wander too far from the truth,” said the old man, having read the novice's mind.
By the time the shaykh reached the murid, he could construe exactly what had been exchanged between him and his wife, and he recounted the conversation to the young man, who listened in awe.
“I don't tolerate her behavior simply to satisfy my own ego,” said the shaykh. “Had I less patience, how could I have tamed a lion? I'm not merely half-conscious of God's will, nor do I allow myself to be influenced by what people say or think. My entire being is under the command of the Almighty, and I give up my life gladly for Him. I don't tolerate her and others like her for worldly reasons; I put up with them so others may see how magnanimous my God has made me!”
Giving himself up completely to the will of his revered shaykh, the young murid felt his heart expand with light as he knelt before the great man and his obedient lion.
Camel, Bull, and Ram
For days, a starving camel, a bull, and a ram had roamed the prairie looking for anything green to eat, but they had not succeeded in finding a single morsel. The three kept each other company as they continued their search for food, hoping that by sticking to each other they might have a better chance. They searched under every rock and sniffed each dry bush that they thought might bear an edible surprise, until finally they found a small bit of wilting grass. They were overjoyed, hoping to feed their empty stomachs at last, albeit with a meager prize.
“This bit of grass is not going to suffice for the three of us if we share it. None of us will satisfy our hunger with this!” the ram said as he pointed toward the grass with his nose. “I've an idea though! Why don't we let the oldest of us feed on it, because respecting elders is a requirement in life. So let's each of us tell his age.”
Immediately after he had announced his plan, the ram volunteered his age: “I'm the twin brother of the ram that the prophet Abraham sacrificed instead of his son, Ishmael.”
“I'm the husband of the cow that Adam used to plough the fields after he was expelled from paradise!” said the bull in turn.
