They went to the market that day. In one of the stalls, there were bird-shaped candies. As soon as
the master blew upon them, the birds came alive and flew away with the wind. Speechless, the
townspeople immediately gathered around him with admiration. From that day on, everyone in
town was singing the master’s praises. Soon there were so many followers and admirers around
him that his old disciple couldn’t see him much anymore.
“Oh, Master, I was wrong. It was
much better in the old days,” the disciple moaned forlornly.
“Do something. Make them all go away, please.”
“All right. If it will make you happy, I’ll shoo them away.”
The next day while he was preaching, the master broke wind. His followers were appalled. One
by one, they turned and walked away from him. Only his old disciple remained.
“Why didn’t you leave with the others?” the master asked.
And the disciple answered, “I didn’t come to you because of the first wind, nor would I leave
you because of the last.”
Everything Shams did, he did for my perfection. This is what the townspeople could never
understand. Shams deliberately fanned the flames of gossip, touched raw nerves, and spoke
words that sounded like blasphemy to
ordinary ears, shocking and provoking people, even those
who loved him. He threw my books into water, forcing me to unlearn all that I knew. Though
everyone had heard that he was critical of sheikhs and scholars, very few people knew how
capable of tafsir he was. Shams had deep knowledge in alchemy, astrology, astronomy, theology,
philosophy,
and logic, but he kept his knowledge hidden from ignorant eyes. Though he was a
faqih
, he acted as if he were a
faqir
.
He opened our doors to a prostitute and made us share our food with her. He sent me to the
tavern and encouraged me to talk to drunks. Once he made me beg across from the mosque
where I used to preach, forcing me to put myself in the shoes of a leper beggar. He cut me off
first from my admirers, then from the ruling elite, bringing me in touch with the common people.
Thanks to him I came to know persons I would have otherwise never met. In his belief that all
idols that stood between the individual and God had to be demolished,
including fame, wealth,
rank, and even religion, Shams cut loose all the moorings that tied me to life as I knew it.
Wherever he saw any kind of mental boundary, a prejudice or a taboo, he took the bull by the
horns and confronted it.
For him I went through trial and tests, states and stages, each of which made me look more
deranged in the eyes of even my most loyal followers. Before, I had plenty of admirers; now I
have gotten rid of the need for an audience. Blow after blow, Shams managed to ruin my
reputation. Because of him I learned the value of madness and have come
to know the taste of
loneliness, helplessness, slander, seclusion, and, finally, heartbreak.
Whatever you see as profitable, flee from it!
Drink poison and pour away the water of life!
Abandon security and stay in frightful places!
Throw away reputation, become disgraced and shameless!
At the end of the day, aren’t we are all put on trial? Every day, every passing minute, God asks
us, Do you remember the covenant we made before you were sent to this world? Do you
understand your role in revealing My treasure?
Most of the time, we are not ready to answer these questions. They are too frightening. But God
is patient. He asks again and again.
And if this heartache, too,
is part of a trial, my only wish is to find Shams at the end of it. My
books, sermons, family, wealth, or name—I am ready to give up anything and everything, just to
see his face one more time.
The other day Kerra said I was turning into a poet, almost despite myself. Though I have never
thought highly of poets, I wasn’t surprised to hear that. At any other time, I might have objected
to what she said, but not anymore.
My mouth is spewing out lines of poetry,
constantly and involuntarily, and, listening to them,
one might conclude that I am becoming a poet indeed. The Sultan of Language! But the truth,
insofar as I am able to tell, is that the poems do not belong to me. I am only a vehicle for letters
that are placed in my mouth. Like a pen that writes down the words it is ordered to inscribe or a
flute that plays the notes blown into it, I, too, am simply doing my part.
Marvelous sun of Tabriz! Where are you?
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: 
