Elif Shafak is one of Turkey’s most acclaimed and outspoken novelists

Shams 
KONYA, FEBRUARY 1246
Bidding fair to be an eventful day, the morning proceeded faster than usual, and the sky hung 
low and gray. Late in the afternoon, I found Rumi in his room sitting by the window, his 
forehead creased in contemplation, his fingers moving restlessly over rosary beads. The room 
was dim on account of the heavy velvet curtains being half closed, and there was a strange 
wedge of daylight that fell upon the spot where Rumi sat, giving the whole scene a dreamy 
quality. I couldn’t help but wonder whether Rumi would see the real intention behind what I was 
about to ask him to do, or would he be shocked and upset? 
As I stood there absorbing the serenity of the moment, but also feeling slightly nervous, I had a 
glimpse of a vision. I saw Rumi, a much older and frailer version of himself, clad in a dark green 
robe and sitting in exactly the same spot, looking more compassionate and generous than ever, 
but with a permanent scar on his heart in the shape of me. I understood two things at once: That 
Rumi would spend his old age here in this house. And that the wound left by my absence would 
never heal. Tears pricked in my eyes. 
“Are you all right? You look pale,” said Rumi. 
I forced myself to smile, but the burden of what I was planning to say next weighed heavily on 
my shoulders. My voice came out a bit cranky and less forceful than I intended. “Not really. I am 
very thirsty, and there is nothing in this house to quench my thirst.” 
“Would you like me to ask Kerra what she can do about it?” Rumi asked. 
“No, because what I need is not in the kitchen. It is in the tavern. I am in the mood to get drunk, 
you see.” 
I pretended not to notice the shadow of incomprehension that crossed Rumi’s face, and I 
continued. “Instead of going to the kitchen for water, would you go to the tavern for wine?” 
“You mean, you want me to get you wine?” Rumi asked, pronouncing the last word cautiously, 
as if afraid of breaking it. 

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“That’s right. I’d so much appreciate it if you would get us some wine. Two bottles would be 
enough, one for you, one for me. But do me a favor, please. When you go to the tavern, don’t 
just simply get the bottles and come back. Stay there for a while. Talk to the people. I’ll be 
waiting here for you. No need to rush.” 
Rumi gave me a look that was half irritated, half bewildered. I recalled the face of the novice in 
Baghdad who had wanted to accompany me but cared too much about his reputation to take the 
plunge. His concern for the opinions of others had held him back. Now I wondered if his 
reputation was going to hold Rumi back, too. 
But to my great relief, Rumi stood up and nodded. 
“I have never been to a tavern before and have never consumed wine. I don’t think drinking is 
the right thing to do. But I trust you fully, because I trust the love between us. There must be a 
reason you have asked me to do such a thing. I need to find out what that reason is. I’ll go and 
bring us wine.” 
With that, he said good-bye and walked out. 
As soon as he was out of the room, I fell to the ground in a state of profound ecstasy. Grabbing 
the amber rosary Rumi had left behind, I thanked God over and over again for giving me a true 
companion and prayed that his beautiful soul would never sober up from the drunkenness of 
Divine Love.