The Book of Rumi, page 9
The jackals circled around him and asked: “If not a jackal, then what should we call you?”
“I'm the exquisite male peacock, as lustrous as Jupiter!”
“If you're a peacock, then let's hear your unrivaled, piercing song,” they demanded shrewdly.
“No, no, no! Singing I cannot do!”
The jackals all burst into loud laughter and walked away from the delusional painted jackal, shaking their heads in amusement at his inept mind.
Elephant in the Dark
In a faraway region, there was a remote town built purely by the sweat of its inhabitants' brows. The people of this town had never seen an elephant before, and when Hindus arrived with their majestic animal, it was indeed a novel event. The elephant was a prized possession, and the Hindu owners insisted that he be kept indoors to spare him from the cold desert night. Thus, the glorious animal was kept in the largest structure the inhabitants could provide.
The townspeople were thrilled when they discovered that the owners of the noble beast had brought him to put on a show in every town they passed through. They insisted on seeing the elephant that same evening despite the owners' emphatic insistence that the animal could not be viewed properly in the dark. However, the townspeople did not mind the darkness, and they were willing to pay extra. They were adamant that they couldn't wait until the following morning and had to see the animal that very first night. At last the owners relented and allowed the people to enter the stable but insisted that they had to go inside one by one, as the elephant was taking up most of the space inside the structure.
The first viewer walked in cautiously and felt the elephant's trunk. “This animal resembles a pipe!” he declared when he stepped outside.
The second person stepped in and began to caress the elephant's ear. “No, this beast is like a big fan!” he reported.
The third curious person walked in and pressed his palms against the elephant's strong and sturdy legs, exclaiming as he stepped out: “What fan? This elephant is as robust as a pillar!”
The fourth man, who was very tall, entered the enclosure and began to run his hands over the elephant's back. “This creature is as flat as a bed!” he said with disappointment.
As more and more people walked inside the dark room, each one came out with a different understanding of the phenomenon they had encountered. None of them were able to truly find out what the elephant actually looked like, for they were in the dark and had to rely on the acute limitations of their imperfect senses.
The Grey Beard
The barber had just opened his shop and was sweeping the floor when a man rushed in and demanded to be served.
“Good morning, my good sir,” said the barber politely. “How can I be of service?”
“Good morning,” hurried the man. “Please, quickly, can you separate and cut out the white hairs in my beard? I've just taken a young bride, and she doesn't like my gray look.”
The barber took a quick look at the customer, who had already sat down in the barber's chair, ready for his shave. He noticed that the man's beard was not just “salt and peppery” but in fact nearly all white. He took out his razor and shaved the man's entire beard off in one quick motion, then laid it before him, commenting disdainfully: “Here's your beard; you can separate the gray yourself! I've got work to do.”
The barber then turned his back on the customer and continued with his sweeping.
The Sound of the Slap
A man was sitting quietly on a bench, minding his own business, when a younger man plopped himself down heavily beside him. Before the first man could turn to see who had just sat down, the other man slapped him loudly on the back of the neck. The first man was outraged and instinctively turned to defend himself by tackling his assailant, when the young man said philosophically: “Please, please, wait a second before you slap me back! Can you just tell me something: when I slapped you, did you hear how loud it was? So, do you suppose that the sound came from my hand, which delivered the slap, or was it your neck that made that loud sound?”
The first man grew even more furious and snapped back: “You idiot, who cares?” He continued, hot with impatience: “I'm twisting and burning with pain, and you're wondering where the sound came from? Have you got nothing better to do than make a nuisance of yourself and waste people's time?”
Wisely deciding not to waste his own time with such a fool, he stood up from the bench, threw one last disdainful look at the useless philosophizing stranger, and walked away, rubbing his neck tenderly.
The Love Letter
A young couple in love had been separated from each other for over a year. The young man had suffered greatly and written many long, heart-wrenching letters to his beloved, complaining about his sorry state of mind and heart. One early morning, he walked into a lush garden near the girl's home and, as luck would have it, the girl was there, too. He didn't miss a beat and quickly approached her, noting that her old nanny, who usually accompanied her, was absent.
Thrilled that after so long a time he was able to sit by her side and hold her soft gaze, he took out copies of his love letters, which he carried with him at all times, and began to read them out loud. He recounted over and over again how much he had suffered day and night, how his lips had not touched a morsel of food, how his eyes had been wet with tears every single day. The girl took a few minutes to gather her thoughts and realized what her beloved was doing.
“When you've already written all these words to me, why are you repeating yourself and wasting our precious little time together?” she said with obvious pain in her tone. “I'm sitting here next to you, and you're reading love letters to me? This isn't the behavior of someone in love!”
The boy, taken aback, responded in disbelief: “I don't seem to recognize the same girl I knew last year! I drank from her fresh spring a year ago and bathed my eyes and heart in her crystal-clear water. I can still see the spring, but there's no water! Has a thief perhaps redirected the stream?”
“I'm not the one you love, my dear!” exclaimed the girl downheartedly. “I belong to one side of the world and you to the other. You're only in love with the state of being in love, not with me! You're attached to me hoping to experience that state once again. This isn't true love. The true lover is as one with his beloved; his beginning and end are contained in her beginning and end. They're one and the same. If you truly seek pure love, keep on searching, for that's the only water that will quench your thirst for a lifetime. That is the original fountain of purity that your soul has been reaching for, not me !”
She stood up, took one last look at the young man's stunned face, and quietly walked away.
Students and Teacher
The students were exasperated by their dreadfully strict teacher, who never allowed them a moment's respite. Every day, they conjured up naughty plans to distract him but somehow never managed to fool him. One day, the cleverest of the boys, who was also the most streetwise, came up with a brilliant plan. As his classmates gathered around him after school, he explained to them:
“Tomorrow morning when we come to school, I'll approach the master first and ask him how he feels and why he's looking so pale. I'll wish him well and say that he should take better care of himself. Then, you all should follow my lead and one after the other repeat the same questions so that we can instill doubt in his heart. After the fifth or sixth person, surly he must begin to wonder whether we've got a point or not. When thirty of us have told him the same thing, he'll have no choice but to believe us and let us off school at least for a couple of days.”
The boys were all excited and commended the clever boy for his astute idea. The boy made them all promise not to tell their parents and stick to their scheme. The next morning, the students were all on time and awaited the arrival of the clever boy, for they could not begin their plot without him. As soon as he arrived, they nodded to each other and one by one entered the classroom.
“Good morning to you, sir. Are you all right sir? Why do you seem so pale this fine morning?” said the clever boy to the teacher cunningly.
“I'm perfectly fine. What are you blabbering about? Go sit down in your seat,” the teacher ordered the boy in his usual abrasive manner.
The first seed of doubt had been planted. The students then walked into the classroom one after the other and each addressed the teacher in turn, commenting with concern on the latter's health. Despite his repeated denials, the teacher slowly began to believe the boys, as he had heard the same remark about his pale countenance thirty times. He began to shiver and actually feel feverish. Soon, he was hastily packing his papers and books and hurrying home, with thirty boys in tow.
All the way home, he was thinking about how his wife had recently been neglecting him, and how despite all his kindness and generosity she'd been wishing him ill. Entertaining these negative thoughts about his innocent wife, the teacher hastened through the narrow backstreets to his humble home, while the boys followed him closely every step of the way.
He slammed the front door noisily, intending thus to announce his untimely arrival to his wife as he entered their house. When she saw that he had returned from school so early, she quickly approached him and inquired about his health.
“Are you blind? Don't you see how sick I am? You're such a hypocrite! You can very well see how awful I'm feeling, yet you pretend that nothing's the matter with me!” he retorted.
“My darling, what are you saying? You must be suffering from delusions. Nothing is the matter with you!” his wife said, trying to appease his anger.
“You're despicable; you're a horrid woman! Can't you see my sorry state? Is it my fault that you're blind and deaf to my needs?” he continued, cruelly slandering his wife.
“I'm going to bring you the mirror so you can see for yourself that nothing's the matter with you.”
“To hell with your mirror! You've always hated me and wished me the worst. Go and prepare my bed, I need to rest!”
The woman was stunned, unable to move or decide what she should do, when her husband screamed at her: “Get going, you good-for-nothing! Do you want me to pass out right here?”
The woman decided to remain quiet and do as he asked; otherwise, he might indeed think that she had foul intentions, and he could truly turn nasty. Thus, she prepared his bedding on the floor and left him with his students, who had accompanied him into the house. The boys gathered around his bed and began to review their lesson loudly, having been instructed by their ringleader to make as much noise as possible to exacerbate their teacher's fantasy headache.
“Quiet!” snapped the teacher. “Quiet, I said! Go home. Leave me in peace.”
The students were free at last; wishing their teacher all the health in the world, they practically flew out of his house. They didn't go home, though, and instead remained in the streets, playing various games that they'd long fantasized about. Their mothers, however, soon found out that their sons had skipped school, and when they found them on the streets they reprimanded them, refusing to accept that they'd been excused by their teacher. They threatened to visit the teacher's home the next day and find out the truth. And so they did. They found the poor man lying miserably under several duvets, sweating like a pig and moaning in pain.
“Dear sir, forgive us, for we didn't believe our sons,” confessed the women. “Now we can see for ourselves how ill you really are! May God grant you a long, healthy life.”
“I'm actually grateful to your perceptive sons for having detected my malady,” said the teacher gratefully. “I was so intent on teaching them that I had totally ignored my own health. If it hadn't been for them, I'd have soon been dead for certain!”
And such was the fate of the ignorant teacher, who'd been fooled by baseless repetition and indoctrination conducted by mere children.
The Wise Goldsmith
The goldsmith opened the shutters of his shop as usual, unlocked the door, and immediately began to sweep the floor. He hated having to work in a dusty environment, and it had become his habit for years to do one round of sweeping every morning, even though his assistant was responsible for the upkeep of the shop. That morning, shortly after he finished cleaning up, an old man walked in, a small pouch in his hand.
“Good morning, my good man. Can you please lend me your scale so I can weigh my gold scraps?” he asked politely.
“Go on your way, old man. I've no sieve, no broom, and no time to sift through your stuff!”
“What? Are you mocking me? I asked you for a simple scale,” retorted the old man.
“I told you, I've no broom nor a sieve in the shop.”
“I asked you for a scale. I didn't ask for a broom or a sieve! What are you rambling on about?”
The goldsmith, who was an old hand at his business, looked the old man in the eyes and tried his best to be kind:
“I heard you the first time, my dear fellow! I'm not deaf, and don't even think that I might be dumb. You, however, are old and your hands shake. Your gold is in small pieces, almost as fine as powder! With one errant shake of your hand, the whole batch will be on the floor. Then you'll ask me for a broom to sweep up the gold, which will now be mixed in with the dust from the floor. Next, you'll be asking me for a sieve to clear out the dust. From that very first moment you stepped into my shop, I could see the end result of our encounter! Please don't give me any trouble and go on your way!” concluded the wise goldsmith, who by now was holding the door open for the old man to take his leave.
The Basket Weaver
There was once a Sufi shaykh who had no arms, yet he managed to weave baskets for a living. He never shared his secret with anyone and generally remained aloof from people. He lived on his own, up in the mountains that loomed over the town. One day, as he was busily weaving a new basket—with both arms and hands intact—a man stumbled into his hut.
“Have you lost your mind?” the Sufi rebuked the intruder. “Why did you rush into my home like a madman? Who gave you permission to enter?”
“Forgive me, master, I was overawed and lost control!” replied the young seeker, obviously distressed that he had unsettled the old man.
The old basket weaver smiled gently and told him: “Now that you've seen my secret, promise me that until I die you'll never divulge it to anyone, be it friend or foe.”
As he uttered these words, he noticed a group of people hunched outside the window of his hut. They had heard him ask the young novice to keep his secret, and they had seen him weaving his basket using his own arms and hands. He knew that his secret was out but could not understand the reason for this intrusion into his quiet and devoted life. Trusting in God and His wisdom, the old man continued with his weaving, ignoring the intruders whenever they happened to walk by. His prayers for an explanation were soon answered through a revelation:
“As you quietly carried on with your work, a group of untrusting townsfolk circulated rumors that you are a liar and impostor. I did not wish them to be considered infidels and be accused of questioning God's miracles. Therefore, I made them privy to your secret. I wished them to see with their own eyes the miracle that you can weave with both hands, so that they always trust and believe in God and be spared from eternal ignorance.”
Relieved that he was safe in his solitude, the old master continued weaving his baskets until the day he died.
Not Mourning the Dead
Years ago, there was a Sufi shaykh, righteous and holy, who was revered by all. As it happened, an unknown illness took the lives of two of his children. His household, the entire neighborhood, indeed people from far and away mourned this calamity for weeks on end. The only person who never shed a tear was the shaykh himself. Much time passed, but still there were no tears, no signs of mourning. People were perplexed, unable to decipher what had happened to their favorite holy man. At last a devotee gently approached him: “Forgive my intrusion, great shaykh, but we're all in a state of disbelief,” she said sheepishly.
“How can I help you, my dear?” inquired the shaykh, looking up from his reading.
“How can you remain so aloof and unfeeling about the loss of your darling children, while grief over their tragedy has bent our backs in double? You're our leader and master whom we trust intrinsically, and we ultimately hope to find solace in you during our own illness and demise. Why this silence? Don't you feel any pain? Perhaps you've no compassion left in your heart! How can we continue to hope for your guidance in our hour of need?”
On and on she pestered the shaykh, who remained silent, allowing her to speak her mind and relieve herself of the disappointment she felt. When she finally finished, the shaykh gently explained: “My dear girl, don't imagine for a moment that I'm void of compassion and love. I feel empathy even for sinners; I've compassion even for rocks and stones, which can injure people! Even dogs who bite us get my sympathy, and I pray that God may relieve them of this particular foul habit!”
“When you feel such mercy for strangers and offer them guidance like the good shepherd you are, how come you don't mourn the loss of your own children? Tears are a sign of kindness and love, yet your eyes are never moist like ours.”
The shaykh turned his face to the woman and said: “My good woman, let me tell you, winter is not like the summer! Although my children are gone, they're not absent before my heart's eyes; in fact, they're very much alive. When I see them living joyfully like this, how can I scratch my eyes out like you do? They may not be present at this time, but I can see them playing all around me. They cry when they feel the separation between us, but I'm always with them. Some people may see them in their dreams, but I see them while I'm awake. I've let go of the senses and hide myself from the people of this world, and that's how I can observe everyone in silence. Having such a treasure, why should I be shedding tears needlessly?”
