The Book of Rumi, page 5
Why would the full moon, in all its glory, be bothered by the barking of moonstruck dogs? Does the moon even hear their noise? The beasts do their job while the moon does its own, spreading light all over the world. All things on earth and above do their own little task; running water does not lose its clarity or calm because of the straw and dust that float on its surface! The king, amused by his entertainers, drinks his wine by the stream until dawn, unaware of the cacophony of the frogs around.
Had the creditors collectively dug into their pockets to gather the half dinar that the shaykh owed the boy, they could have easily paid him off. Yet the will of the shaykh prevented them from exercising their generosity and the boy from receiving anything at all. Such, and much more, is the power and mystery of a Sufi.
At the next prayer time, a servant arrived with a covered tray sent by one of the shaykh's wealthy admirers who knew that he was unwell and didn't have much longer to live. The servant paid his respects and laid the tray before the shaykh, lifting the cover to expose a small banquet of exquisite sweets. Much to everyone's surprise, there lay four hundred dinars in a corner of the tray and half a dinar separately wrapped in a cloth by their side. The creditors gasped in awe, unable to fathom how the shaykh had managed to bring about such a miracle. Instantly they repented, ashamed to have ever doubted his powers, and begged his forgiveness.
“I forgive you all your doubts,” the shaykh replied. “Go in peace. I asked God to show me the right way, and thus He did! Although this half dinar is not worth much, to gain it depended on the tears of the child! Unless the sweet-seller boy cried his heart out, the doors of benevolence would not be flung open. My brothers, by the child I mean the child in your own eyes! Consider your needs fulfilled once you shed tears. If you want to be the recipient of unbounded generosity, make the child in your eyes cry for your earthly body.”
We cannot judge the behavior of mystics with our simple minds. Unless we suffer occasionally and express our hopelessness, the doors of grace cannot be opened to us; as in this case, the boy's tears were required before the gates of generosity could be unlatched.
The Sufi Who Lost His Donkey
A merchant darvish would travel for several days in a row, trading his goods in towns and villages that he passed through. One night after a long journey, he arrived at a remote town on the edge of the desert. As was customary for darvishes, he sought the nearest Sufi House to spend the night. When he located the establishment, he went directly to the stables to tend to his exhausted donkey, who had patiently carried the merchandise all day. He brought him plenty of water and hay, making sure that the animal lacked nothing for want. Just to be sure of his donkey's well-being, he tipped the young stableboy to take extra care of him.
The other darvishes who were staying in the Sufi House were mostly poor and hungry laborers, their hearts habitually on the verge of sin. When they realized that the newcomer had a donkey in the stables, they decided to take advantage of their sudden fortune. Unbeknown to the owner, they quickly sold the donkey to another guest who was leaving that very same night and spent the money buying food and candles for the evening.
As they began to prepare their meal, the men became progressively more agitated, excited that tonight everything was perfectly set for a grand feast. They extended much courtesy to the donkey's owner, bowing to him repeatedly and making him feel welcome. Meanwhile, among themselves, they silently celebrated the fact that they no longer needed to beg for a morsel of food, nor would they have to fast for lack of resources in the coming days. The owner, for his part, considered himself lucky to be at the Sufi House that evening and able to enjoy a tasty meal in the company of great, generous Sufis. Little did he know!
Eventually, the food was served, and all enjoyed themselves, eating to their hearts' delight. Soon after they finished their meal, the men began the sama.1 The dust rose under their feet, mingling with the smoke from the cooking, enveloping the whirlers in a mystic cloud. The Sufis sang and danced, raising their arms toward the sky, whirling round and round, stomping their feet then prostrating on the floor, sweeping it clean with their robes. As the sama gathered pace, the musicians picked up the beat and began to sing enthusiastically: “The ass is gone, the ass is gone!”
Arms in the air, the samazans2 repeated madly after the musicians: “The ass is gone, the ass is gone!”
The owner of the donkey, unaware that it was his donkey they were singing about, joined in passionately and sang along with them: “The ass is gone, the ass is gone!”
The sama continued long into the night, lasting until dawn. At sunrise, the men left one by one on their separate ways, bidding each other warm farewells. The owner of the donkey wiped the dust off his clothes and gathered his belongings, getting ready for another working day. Hurrying to catch up with his newfound darvish friends, he rushed to the stables but did not see his four-legged companion. He thought that the stableboy must have taken the animal to the stream to let him drink; perhaps he hadn't had enough water the night before. When the young boy finally appeared, the owner asked him about his donkey's whereabouts. The boy was confounded and told him that he had no idea what he was talking about. The owner became furious and grabbed him by the throat, threatening him with his life.
“I left my donkey in your care last night,” he screamed. “You were meant to look after him. Don't you dare give me excuses; quickly go and bring him to me—otherwise, I shall take you directly to the authorities!” he threatened.
“I was overpowered by the darvishes,” confessed the boy. “I feared for my life! They sold your donkey and used the money to purchase the feast last night. To leave a loaf of bread with a group of hungry men is like throwing a scrawny cat to a pack of wild dogs!” he exclaimed, trying to view the situation philosophically.
“Supposing they took him from you by force, shouldn't you have informed me that they were stealing my donkey? If you had, I could have at least bought him back from the buyer or got the money out of this unruly lot. Now that they've each gone their separate ways, how am I ever going to find them? What an irreparable injustice you've brought upon me!” he whimpered.
“I tried to warn you several times, I swear to God, but your enthusiasm was greater than all of theirs put together!” retorted the stableboy. “You sang even louder than the rest: ‘The ass is gone, the ass is gone!’ I thought for sure you must have given them your consent, being a mystic and privy to so many secrets!”
“I was excited, aroused by their enthusiasm,” agreed the darvish. “But I was foolish to imitate them. Imitation has destroyed me! I curse it a thousand times, for it has damaged me beyond repair!”
1 Spiritual whirling dance of Sufis.
2 Sufi whirlers.
The Man Who Killed His Mother
In one of the poor neighborhoods of town, a woman had been sleeping with every man who approached her. One day, her son, who could no longer bear the shame, stormed into her bedroom. He attacked her with his dagger, stabbing her repeatedly, making sure that she was dead.
His will was resolute, and he kept his head up as he staggered out of the house, his clothes stained with her blood. He walked purposelessly along the back streets of the neighborhood for several hours until a friend chanced upon him and soon heard his confession.
“But, my friend, why did you kill her? I don't understand,” the friend asked him, completely perplexed.
“She was a prostitute and shamed me every day!” blurted out the young man, angry that his friend had not understood his pure intention and was now questioning him.
“Why didn't you kill her lovers? Why kill her?” repeated the confused friend.
“I would've had to kill a man a day!” rationalized the troubled man. “This way her shame is buried with her for all time, and I don't ever have to commit another murder.”
Sound of the Splash
It had taken the villagers a long time and had cost them a fortune, but they reasoned that it had been necessary to build a wall to protect their water supply from possible theft by their neighbors in the next village. One hot summer day, a man was passing through the area, but his thirst overwhelmed him. As he staggered slowly along the wall, taking advantage of the little shade it provided, he hoped to find a way to the stream to sate his thirst.
The sound of the running water was unmistakable, and soon the poor, thirsty man was unable to take another step. He spent his last remaining strength to climb the wall to at least catch a glimpse of the running water on the other side. When he reached the top, he instinctively scooped up a handful of mud from the wall and tossed it into the stream. The sound of the splash was music to his ears, and his heart was lifted out of its desperate gloom. He was thus encouraged to continue scooping out more mud and chucking it into the water, just to hear the melodious sound of the splash. As he listened to the music of the water, a question arose in his mind: “What do you hope to achieve by throwing mud into the stream?”
“For a thirsty man, the sound of the splash is like the music that raises the dead on Judgment Day!” he replied to no one in particular. “It also reminds me of the sound of thunder, which announces the arrival of rain to a scorched garden; or the gracefulness of alms to the darvish; or even a prisoner's hope for freedom.”
Almost forgetting his thirst, the man continued to flip mud into the stream, enjoying the enchanting sound of the splash.
“Oh, and there's something else that's just as important!” he seemed to remember. “I'm no engineer, but I can see that with every handful that I dig, the wall gets lower, allowing me to get closer to the water! Slowly but surely, this tall, sturdy wall is going down, and in no time, I'll be only a stone's throw away from the object of my desire, namely that stream of fresh, running water, which is my life!”
Thorny Shrubs
In the past, desert towns and villages were connected by long and circuitous dirt roads. In one such village, there lived a vicious man who cared for no one, not even for his immediate family. He seemed to be always in conflict, mostly with himself; one could gauge his mood simply by watching whether he was involved in some vindictive activity.
For some time, this man had been planting small, thorny shrubs along the road from his village to the next. These bushes grew slowly but sturdily and scratched against the feet and legs of whoever walked on the path, turning their journey into absolute torture. Every day, he planted new shrubs despite the complaints of other townsfolk; he offhandedly turned a deaf ear to the village headman's order to stop his spiteful planting.
Although he regularly promised to pull out the thornbushes, he never complied, and they grew sturdier and thicker, cutting the skin of people using the footpath and causing bleeding infections. At last, the selfish man was called to court.
“I've asked you many times to stop your unreasonable planting,” gushed the headman. “Why do you insist on hurting everyone around you? Every day you break your promise to pull out the thornbushes, you lazy good-for-nothing! I've ordered you to pull out the nasty plants but instead you leave them to grow, further strengthening their roots; and you add more every single day! You grow older and weaker each day as they grow stronger and taller. Either you cut them from the roots this very morning or turn them all into rose bushes! Tell me, can you do that?”
The headman had legally challenged the scofflaw at last, but he didn't have much hope, nearly certain that his words would have little impact. He knew that it was probably too late for this damaged soul to change his deeply ingrained ways, and he watched the man in despair as he left the courtroom in a careless clamor, plainly indicating with his disregard that he had no intention of heeding the court order.
Zolnoun in the Hospital
The great Egyptian Sufi Zolnoun had apparently gone insane. His unbounded excitability had become disturbing to everyone close to him. Yet his devotees were tolerant and put up with his increasingly unbearable behavior, until it reached a point that he truly became quite insufferable. When his fiery madness became contagious and affected the behavior of the citizens he regularly came across, it became evident to his friends and devotees that Zolnoun had to be admitted to a sanatorium.
Although, truthfully, the great Sufi could have easily controlled and repressed his impulsive behavior and avoided being taken forcefully to a prison-like hospital, he refused to submit to the will of those around him, who simply did not possess his depth of insight. Zolnoun, who had literally been driven to insanity by the sheer number of people who surrounded him at all times, was in fact thrilled to find peace and quiet at last in the hospital. He spent his days silently reading and studying his favorite texts, happy to be left to his own devices. However, his peaceful state did not last long, and soon those of his followers who considered themselves his close friends and companions could not bear his absence any longer and decided to pay him a visit.
Zolnoun was sitting peacefully in the garden of the sanatorium reading when he saw these men he knew approaching. In the blink of an eye, the calm and composed Zolnoun of the past weeks was transformed into a screaming and cursing madman. His friends were not at first too concerned, as they believed they'd already seen him in this insane state and thought nothing of it.
The old Sufi, however, noticed that his usual ranting was no longer working and decided to test his so-called friends even further. He began to run around the garden spitting and cursing, gathering up rocks and sticks and hurling them at the men. At first they thought that this frantic behavior could not continue for long, but they soon discovered that Zolnoun, although feeble looking, was indeed stronger and more energetic than even they, who were still young men.
It didn't take long for Zolnoun to achieve his purpose, which was ultimately to scare the men and drive them off the grounds of the sanatorium. He laughed out loud as he watched the men hurry to save themselves from the projectiles he'd thrown at them. Waving his arms frantically about him, he screamed after them: “I spit on you and your so-called friendship! A true friend tolerates any kind of behavior; he doesn't give up on you after only a few foul words and some stone throwing! How could anyone consider the likes of you to be friends? Be gone and good riddance to you all!”
Once alone again, Zolnoun sat quietly on his favorite bench in the garden of the sanatorium, reading his favorite treatises on friendship.
Loghman and His Master
In ancient times, wealthy people owned slaves, and Loghman belonged to a kind and loving master. The master had witnessed his devoted slave perform his duties without fail and with total honesty and loyalty through the years. He was as devoted to Loghman as the slave was devoted to him, to such an extent that the master thought he might even love his slave more than his own children.
Although Loghman was only a slave, he had many qualities of a highly spiritual person. His master was so fond of him that he refused to touch any food before allowing Loghman to taste it first. If the slave didn't eat what was offered to him, the master would throw the food away without touching it. One day, an acquaintance brought a gift of rare melons from his farm. It was the end of the summer but still hot, and Loghman decided to submerge a couple of the melons in a shallow pool to cool them before serving them to his master that afternoon.
The day had cooled down a little, and the master had awoken from his afternoon nap when Loghman quickly brought the cool melons for his delight. The master chose a long knife and cut a thin slice of the fruit, but as usual before tasting it he first offered it to his favorite slave. Loghman took the melon and gratefully bit into it, and in no time he finished it delectably. When the master saw how much he had enjoyed the first slice, he cut him another. Loghman ate the second slice with such craving that his master continued to give him more and more. Finally, there was only one last slice left, and the master thought he'd better taste it himself.
With great pleasure, the master took a bite of the delicious-looking melon, but before he could even begin to chew his mouth was on fire! The melon was so bitter that the master's mouth was immediately covered in blisters such that he could hardly breathe. It took over an hour for him to regain his composure and speak: “My dear man, how could you eat the entire melon, which was as bitter as poison, and smile at me with such joy in your eyes? Are you your own worst enemy?” he asked with great compassion in his words.
“My revered master, all my life you've fed me the most delectable foods. I was too ashamed to complain, as it was the first time that you'd given me something unpalatable. The reason for my whole existence is your benevolence; how could I possibly complain about one instance of being served inedible food?”
Moses and the Shepherd
It was almost sundown, and the heat of the day was abating. The shepherd had gathered his herd of goats and was heading home. A soft, cool breeze had begun to blow, making the thought of the imminent night even more delicious. The shepherd was in a good mood and was lovingly praising his beloved God, unaware that the prophet Moses was within earshot:
“Where are You, my one and only Beloved, so that I may serve You without fail, mend Your shoes when they're torn, comb Your locks when they're untidy, wash Your clothes when they're soiled, and pick the lice out of Your disheveled hair? My magnificent Beloved, I promise to always kiss Your hands with utter respect, bring You fresh milk every day, and rub Your tired feet when they're painfully sore. When it's time to sleep, I'll make Your bed and sweep Your room spotless. My life's Yours to do with as You wish; my goats, my entire livelihood, all belong to You, for You're my one and only Love.”
Moses patiently listened to the shepherd's blasphemous litany until he finally fell silent. Gravely he stepped forward and asked the simple shepherd with authority: “Who were you speaking to?”
“The One who created you and me, the earth and the sky,” replied the shepherd innocently, not recognizing Moses.
Had the creditors collectively dug into their pockets to gather the half dinar that the shaykh owed the boy, they could have easily paid him off. Yet the will of the shaykh prevented them from exercising their generosity and the boy from receiving anything at all. Such, and much more, is the power and mystery of a Sufi.
At the next prayer time, a servant arrived with a covered tray sent by one of the shaykh's wealthy admirers who knew that he was unwell and didn't have much longer to live. The servant paid his respects and laid the tray before the shaykh, lifting the cover to expose a small banquet of exquisite sweets. Much to everyone's surprise, there lay four hundred dinars in a corner of the tray and half a dinar separately wrapped in a cloth by their side. The creditors gasped in awe, unable to fathom how the shaykh had managed to bring about such a miracle. Instantly they repented, ashamed to have ever doubted his powers, and begged his forgiveness.
“I forgive you all your doubts,” the shaykh replied. “Go in peace. I asked God to show me the right way, and thus He did! Although this half dinar is not worth much, to gain it depended on the tears of the child! Unless the sweet-seller boy cried his heart out, the doors of benevolence would not be flung open. My brothers, by the child I mean the child in your own eyes! Consider your needs fulfilled once you shed tears. If you want to be the recipient of unbounded generosity, make the child in your eyes cry for your earthly body.”
We cannot judge the behavior of mystics with our simple minds. Unless we suffer occasionally and express our hopelessness, the doors of grace cannot be opened to us; as in this case, the boy's tears were required before the gates of generosity could be unlatched.
The Sufi Who Lost His Donkey
A merchant darvish would travel for several days in a row, trading his goods in towns and villages that he passed through. One night after a long journey, he arrived at a remote town on the edge of the desert. As was customary for darvishes, he sought the nearest Sufi House to spend the night. When he located the establishment, he went directly to the stables to tend to his exhausted donkey, who had patiently carried the merchandise all day. He brought him plenty of water and hay, making sure that the animal lacked nothing for want. Just to be sure of his donkey's well-being, he tipped the young stableboy to take extra care of him.
The other darvishes who were staying in the Sufi House were mostly poor and hungry laborers, their hearts habitually on the verge of sin. When they realized that the newcomer had a donkey in the stables, they decided to take advantage of their sudden fortune. Unbeknown to the owner, they quickly sold the donkey to another guest who was leaving that very same night and spent the money buying food and candles for the evening.
As they began to prepare their meal, the men became progressively more agitated, excited that tonight everything was perfectly set for a grand feast. They extended much courtesy to the donkey's owner, bowing to him repeatedly and making him feel welcome. Meanwhile, among themselves, they silently celebrated the fact that they no longer needed to beg for a morsel of food, nor would they have to fast for lack of resources in the coming days. The owner, for his part, considered himself lucky to be at the Sufi House that evening and able to enjoy a tasty meal in the company of great, generous Sufis. Little did he know!
Eventually, the food was served, and all enjoyed themselves, eating to their hearts' delight. Soon after they finished their meal, the men began the sama.1 The dust rose under their feet, mingling with the smoke from the cooking, enveloping the whirlers in a mystic cloud. The Sufis sang and danced, raising their arms toward the sky, whirling round and round, stomping their feet then prostrating on the floor, sweeping it clean with their robes. As the sama gathered pace, the musicians picked up the beat and began to sing enthusiastically: “The ass is gone, the ass is gone!”
Arms in the air, the samazans2 repeated madly after the musicians: “The ass is gone, the ass is gone!”
The owner of the donkey, unaware that it was his donkey they were singing about, joined in passionately and sang along with them: “The ass is gone, the ass is gone!”
The sama continued long into the night, lasting until dawn. At sunrise, the men left one by one on their separate ways, bidding each other warm farewells. The owner of the donkey wiped the dust off his clothes and gathered his belongings, getting ready for another working day. Hurrying to catch up with his newfound darvish friends, he rushed to the stables but did not see his four-legged companion. He thought that the stableboy must have taken the animal to the stream to let him drink; perhaps he hadn't had enough water the night before. When the young boy finally appeared, the owner asked him about his donkey's whereabouts. The boy was confounded and told him that he had no idea what he was talking about. The owner became furious and grabbed him by the throat, threatening him with his life.
“I left my donkey in your care last night,” he screamed. “You were meant to look after him. Don't you dare give me excuses; quickly go and bring him to me—otherwise, I shall take you directly to the authorities!” he threatened.
“I was overpowered by the darvishes,” confessed the boy. “I feared for my life! They sold your donkey and used the money to purchase the feast last night. To leave a loaf of bread with a group of hungry men is like throwing a scrawny cat to a pack of wild dogs!” he exclaimed, trying to view the situation philosophically.
“Supposing they took him from you by force, shouldn't you have informed me that they were stealing my donkey? If you had, I could have at least bought him back from the buyer or got the money out of this unruly lot. Now that they've each gone their separate ways, how am I ever going to find them? What an irreparable injustice you've brought upon me!” he whimpered.
“I tried to warn you several times, I swear to God, but your enthusiasm was greater than all of theirs put together!” retorted the stableboy. “You sang even louder than the rest: ‘The ass is gone, the ass is gone!’ I thought for sure you must have given them your consent, being a mystic and privy to so many secrets!”
“I was excited, aroused by their enthusiasm,” agreed the darvish. “But I was foolish to imitate them. Imitation has destroyed me! I curse it a thousand times, for it has damaged me beyond repair!”
1 Spiritual whirling dance of Sufis.
2 Sufi whirlers.
The Man Who Killed His Mother
In one of the poor neighborhoods of town, a woman had been sleeping with every man who approached her. One day, her son, who could no longer bear the shame, stormed into her bedroom. He attacked her with his dagger, stabbing her repeatedly, making sure that she was dead.
His will was resolute, and he kept his head up as he staggered out of the house, his clothes stained with her blood. He walked purposelessly along the back streets of the neighborhood for several hours until a friend chanced upon him and soon heard his confession.
“But, my friend, why did you kill her? I don't understand,” the friend asked him, completely perplexed.
“She was a prostitute and shamed me every day!” blurted out the young man, angry that his friend had not understood his pure intention and was now questioning him.
“Why didn't you kill her lovers? Why kill her?” repeated the confused friend.
“I would've had to kill a man a day!” rationalized the troubled man. “This way her shame is buried with her for all time, and I don't ever have to commit another murder.”
Sound of the Splash
It had taken the villagers a long time and had cost them a fortune, but they reasoned that it had been necessary to build a wall to protect their water supply from possible theft by their neighbors in the next village. One hot summer day, a man was passing through the area, but his thirst overwhelmed him. As he staggered slowly along the wall, taking advantage of the little shade it provided, he hoped to find a way to the stream to sate his thirst.
The sound of the running water was unmistakable, and soon the poor, thirsty man was unable to take another step. He spent his last remaining strength to climb the wall to at least catch a glimpse of the running water on the other side. When he reached the top, he instinctively scooped up a handful of mud from the wall and tossed it into the stream. The sound of the splash was music to his ears, and his heart was lifted out of its desperate gloom. He was thus encouraged to continue scooping out more mud and chucking it into the water, just to hear the melodious sound of the splash. As he listened to the music of the water, a question arose in his mind: “What do you hope to achieve by throwing mud into the stream?”
“For a thirsty man, the sound of the splash is like the music that raises the dead on Judgment Day!” he replied to no one in particular. “It also reminds me of the sound of thunder, which announces the arrival of rain to a scorched garden; or the gracefulness of alms to the darvish; or even a prisoner's hope for freedom.”
Almost forgetting his thirst, the man continued to flip mud into the stream, enjoying the enchanting sound of the splash.
“Oh, and there's something else that's just as important!” he seemed to remember. “I'm no engineer, but I can see that with every handful that I dig, the wall gets lower, allowing me to get closer to the water! Slowly but surely, this tall, sturdy wall is going down, and in no time, I'll be only a stone's throw away from the object of my desire, namely that stream of fresh, running water, which is my life!”
Thorny Shrubs
In the past, desert towns and villages were connected by long and circuitous dirt roads. In one such village, there lived a vicious man who cared for no one, not even for his immediate family. He seemed to be always in conflict, mostly with himself; one could gauge his mood simply by watching whether he was involved in some vindictive activity.
For some time, this man had been planting small, thorny shrubs along the road from his village to the next. These bushes grew slowly but sturdily and scratched against the feet and legs of whoever walked on the path, turning their journey into absolute torture. Every day, he planted new shrubs despite the complaints of other townsfolk; he offhandedly turned a deaf ear to the village headman's order to stop his spiteful planting.
Although he regularly promised to pull out the thornbushes, he never complied, and they grew sturdier and thicker, cutting the skin of people using the footpath and causing bleeding infections. At last, the selfish man was called to court.
“I've asked you many times to stop your unreasonable planting,” gushed the headman. “Why do you insist on hurting everyone around you? Every day you break your promise to pull out the thornbushes, you lazy good-for-nothing! I've ordered you to pull out the nasty plants but instead you leave them to grow, further strengthening their roots; and you add more every single day! You grow older and weaker each day as they grow stronger and taller. Either you cut them from the roots this very morning or turn them all into rose bushes! Tell me, can you do that?”
The headman had legally challenged the scofflaw at last, but he didn't have much hope, nearly certain that his words would have little impact. He knew that it was probably too late for this damaged soul to change his deeply ingrained ways, and he watched the man in despair as he left the courtroom in a careless clamor, plainly indicating with his disregard that he had no intention of heeding the court order.
Zolnoun in the Hospital
The great Egyptian Sufi Zolnoun had apparently gone insane. His unbounded excitability had become disturbing to everyone close to him. Yet his devotees were tolerant and put up with his increasingly unbearable behavior, until it reached a point that he truly became quite insufferable. When his fiery madness became contagious and affected the behavior of the citizens he regularly came across, it became evident to his friends and devotees that Zolnoun had to be admitted to a sanatorium.
Although, truthfully, the great Sufi could have easily controlled and repressed his impulsive behavior and avoided being taken forcefully to a prison-like hospital, he refused to submit to the will of those around him, who simply did not possess his depth of insight. Zolnoun, who had literally been driven to insanity by the sheer number of people who surrounded him at all times, was in fact thrilled to find peace and quiet at last in the hospital. He spent his days silently reading and studying his favorite texts, happy to be left to his own devices. However, his peaceful state did not last long, and soon those of his followers who considered themselves his close friends and companions could not bear his absence any longer and decided to pay him a visit.
Zolnoun was sitting peacefully in the garden of the sanatorium reading when he saw these men he knew approaching. In the blink of an eye, the calm and composed Zolnoun of the past weeks was transformed into a screaming and cursing madman. His friends were not at first too concerned, as they believed they'd already seen him in this insane state and thought nothing of it.
The old Sufi, however, noticed that his usual ranting was no longer working and decided to test his so-called friends even further. He began to run around the garden spitting and cursing, gathering up rocks and sticks and hurling them at the men. At first they thought that this frantic behavior could not continue for long, but they soon discovered that Zolnoun, although feeble looking, was indeed stronger and more energetic than even they, who were still young men.
It didn't take long for Zolnoun to achieve his purpose, which was ultimately to scare the men and drive them off the grounds of the sanatorium. He laughed out loud as he watched the men hurry to save themselves from the projectiles he'd thrown at them. Waving his arms frantically about him, he screamed after them: “I spit on you and your so-called friendship! A true friend tolerates any kind of behavior; he doesn't give up on you after only a few foul words and some stone throwing! How could anyone consider the likes of you to be friends? Be gone and good riddance to you all!”
Once alone again, Zolnoun sat quietly on his favorite bench in the garden of the sanatorium, reading his favorite treatises on friendship.
Loghman and His Master
In ancient times, wealthy people owned slaves, and Loghman belonged to a kind and loving master. The master had witnessed his devoted slave perform his duties without fail and with total honesty and loyalty through the years. He was as devoted to Loghman as the slave was devoted to him, to such an extent that the master thought he might even love his slave more than his own children.
Although Loghman was only a slave, he had many qualities of a highly spiritual person. His master was so fond of him that he refused to touch any food before allowing Loghman to taste it first. If the slave didn't eat what was offered to him, the master would throw the food away without touching it. One day, an acquaintance brought a gift of rare melons from his farm. It was the end of the summer but still hot, and Loghman decided to submerge a couple of the melons in a shallow pool to cool them before serving them to his master that afternoon.
The day had cooled down a little, and the master had awoken from his afternoon nap when Loghman quickly brought the cool melons for his delight. The master chose a long knife and cut a thin slice of the fruit, but as usual before tasting it he first offered it to his favorite slave. Loghman took the melon and gratefully bit into it, and in no time he finished it delectably. When the master saw how much he had enjoyed the first slice, he cut him another. Loghman ate the second slice with such craving that his master continued to give him more and more. Finally, there was only one last slice left, and the master thought he'd better taste it himself.
With great pleasure, the master took a bite of the delicious-looking melon, but before he could even begin to chew his mouth was on fire! The melon was so bitter that the master's mouth was immediately covered in blisters such that he could hardly breathe. It took over an hour for him to regain his composure and speak: “My dear man, how could you eat the entire melon, which was as bitter as poison, and smile at me with such joy in your eyes? Are you your own worst enemy?” he asked with great compassion in his words.
“My revered master, all my life you've fed me the most delectable foods. I was too ashamed to complain, as it was the first time that you'd given me something unpalatable. The reason for my whole existence is your benevolence; how could I possibly complain about one instance of being served inedible food?”
Moses and the Shepherd
It was almost sundown, and the heat of the day was abating. The shepherd had gathered his herd of goats and was heading home. A soft, cool breeze had begun to blow, making the thought of the imminent night even more delicious. The shepherd was in a good mood and was lovingly praising his beloved God, unaware that the prophet Moses was within earshot:
“Where are You, my one and only Beloved, so that I may serve You without fail, mend Your shoes when they're torn, comb Your locks when they're untidy, wash Your clothes when they're soiled, and pick the lice out of Your disheveled hair? My magnificent Beloved, I promise to always kiss Your hands with utter respect, bring You fresh milk every day, and rub Your tired feet when they're painfully sore. When it's time to sleep, I'll make Your bed and sweep Your room spotless. My life's Yours to do with as You wish; my goats, my entire livelihood, all belong to You, for You're my one and only Love.”
Moses patiently listened to the shepherd's blasphemous litany until he finally fell silent. Gravely he stepped forward and asked the simple shepherd with authority: “Who were you speaking to?”
“The One who created you and me, the earth and the sky,” replied the shepherd innocently, not recognizing Moses.
