whole story. Yes, it was true, a wandering dervish named Shams of Tabriz had challenged my
father in public, and, what’s more, he was now staying in our house.
Who was this stranger who had plummeted into our lives like a mysterious rock hurled from the
sky? Eager to see him with my own eyes, I asked Kerra, “So where is this man?”
“Be quiet,” Kerra whispered, a little nervously. “Your father and the dervish are in the library.”
We could hear the far hum of their voices, though it was impossible to make out what they were
talking about. I headed in that direction, but Kerra stopped me.
“I am afraid you will have to wait. They asked not to be disturbed.”
For the
whole day, they didn’t come out of the library. Neither the next day nor the one
following. What could they possibly be talking about? What could someone like my father and a
simple dervish have in common?
A week passed, then another. Every morning Kerra prepared breakfast and left it on a tray in
front of their door. No matter what delicacies she prepared for them, they refused it all, content
with only a slice of bread in the morning and a glass of goat’s milk in the evening.
Perturbed, jittery, I was grabbed by an ill mood during this period. At various hours throughout
the day, I tried every hole and crack in the door to peep inside the library. Never minding what
would happen if they suddenly opened the door and found me eavesdropping there, I spent a lot
of time hunched over, trying to comprehend what they were talking about. But
all I could hear
was a low murmuring. I couldn’t see much either. The room was shadowy, on account of the
curtains being half closed. Without much to see or hear, I allowed my mind busily to fill in the
silences, fabricating the conversations they must be having.
Once Kerra found me with my ear to the door, but she didn’t say anything. By this time she was
more desperate than I to learn what was going on. Women can’t help their curiosity; it is in their
nature.
But it was a different story when my brother,
Sultan Walad, caught me eavesdropping. He gave
me a burning look, his face turning sour.
“You have no right to spy on other people, especially not on your father,” he reprimanded.
I shrugged. “Honestly, brother, doesn’t it bother you that our father spends his time with a
stranger? It has been more than a month now. Father has brushed his family aside. Doesn’t that
upset you?”
“Our father hasn’t brushed anyone aside,” my brother said. “He found a very good friend in
Shams of Tabriz. Instead of nagging and complaining like a toddler, you should be happy for our
father. If you
truly love him, that is.”
That was the sort of thing only my brother could say. I was used to his peculiarities, so I did not
take umbrage at his scathing remarks. Always the nice boy, he was the darling of the family and
the neighborhood, my father’s favorite son.
Exactly forty days after my father and the dervish had cloistered themselves in the library,
something strange happened. I was crouched at the door again, eavesdropping on a thicker
silence than usual, when all of a sudden I heard the dervish speak up.
“It has been forty days since we retreated here. Every day we discussed another of The Forty
Rules of the Religion of Love. Now that we are done, I think we’d better go out.
Your absence
might have upset your family.”
My father objected. “Don’t worry. My wife and sons are mature enough to understand that I
might need to spend some time away from them.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about your wife, but your two boys are as different as night and
day,” Shams responded. “The older one walks in your footsteps, but the younger one, I am
afraid, marches to a different drummer altogether. His heart is darkened with resentment and
envy.”
My cheeks burned with anger. How could he say such awful things about me when we hadn’t
even met?
“He thinks I don’t know him, but I do,” said the dervish a little while later. “While he was
crouching with his ear to the door,
watching me through peepholes, I was watching him, too.”
I felt a sudden chill pass across me as every hair on my arms stood on end. Without giving it
another thought, I thrust the door open and stomped into the room. My father’s eyes widened
with incomprehension, but it didn’t take long for his shock to be replaced by anger.
“Aladdin, have you lost your mind? How dare you disturb us like this!” my father thundered.
Ignoring that question, I pointed at Shams and exclaimed, “Why don’t you first ask him how he
dares to talk about me like that?”
My father didn’t say a word. He just looked at me and drew in a deep breath, as if my presence
were a heavy burden on his shoulders.
“Please, Father, Kerra misses you. And so do your students. How can you
turn your back on all
your loved ones for a lousy dervish?”
As soon as those words came out of my mouth, I regretted them, but it was too late. My father
stared at me with disappointment in his eyes. I had never seen him like this before.
“Aladdin, do yourself a favor. Get out of here—this minute,” my father said. “Go into a quiet
place and think about what you did. Do not talk to me until you have looked inside and
recognized your mistake.”
“But, Father—”
“Just get out!” my father repeated, turning away from me.
With a sinking heart, I left the room, my palms wet, my knees trembling.
At that moment it dawned upon me that in some incomprehensible way our lives had changed,
and nothing would be the same again. Since the death of my mother eight years ago, this was the
second time I had felt abandoned by a parent.
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