The Forty Rules of Love (22 page)

Kimya

KONYA, AUGUST 17, 1245

Breathlessly I wait for a summons, but Rumi doesn’t have time to study with me anymore. As much as I miss our lessons and feel neglected, I am not upset with him. Maybe it’s because I love Rumi too much to get cross with him. Or maybe it’s because I can understand better than anyone else how he feels, for deep inside I, too, am swept up by the bewildering current that is Shams of Tabriz.

Rumi’s eyes follow Shams the way a sunflower follows the sun. Their love for each other is so visible and intense, and what they have is so rare, that one can’t help feeling despondent around them, seized by the realization that a bond of such magnitude is missing in one’s own life. Not everyone in the house can tolerate this, starting with Aladdin. So many times I’ve caught him looking daggers at Shams. Kerra, too, is ill at ease, but she never says anything and I never ask. We are all sitting on a powder keg. Strangely, Shams of Tabriz, the man who is responsible for all the tension, either is unaware of the situation or simply doesn’t care.

Part of me is bitter at Shams for taking Rumi away from us. Another part of me, however, is dying to get to know him better. I have been struggling with these mixed feelings for some time now, but today, I am afraid, I might have given myself away.

Late in the afternoon, I took out the Qur’an hanging on the wall, determined to study it on my own. In the past, Rumi and I had always followed the order in which the verses were handed down to us, but now that there was nobody guiding me and our lives had been turned topsy-turvy, I saw no harm in reading without an order. So I haphazardly opened a page and put my finger on the first verse that came up. It turned out to be al-Nisa, the one verse in the whole book that has troubled me the most. With its unpromising teachings on women, I found the Nisa hard to understand and harder to accept. As I stood there reading the verse one more time, it occurred to me to ask for help. Rumi might be skipping our lessons, but there was no reason I couldn’t ask him questions. So I grabbed my Qur’an and went to his room.

To my surprise, instead of Rumi I found Shams there, sitting by the window with a rosary in his hand, the dying light of the setting sun caressing his face. He looked so handsome I had to avert my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I was looking for Mawlana. I’ll come later.”

“Why the rush? Stay,” Shams said. “You seem to have come here to ask something. Perhaps I could be of help.”

I saw no reason not to share it with him. “Well, there is this verse in the Qur’an that I find a bit hard to understand,” I said tentatively.

Shams murmured, as if talking to himself, “The Qur’an is like a shy bride. She’ll open her veil only if she sees that the onlooker is soft and compassionate at heart.” Then he squared his shoulders and asked, “Which verse is it?”

“Al-Nisa,” I said. “There are some parts in it where men are said to be superior to women. It even says men can beat their wives.… ”

“Is that so?” Shams asked with such exaggerated interest that I couldn’t be sure whether he was serious or teasing me. After a momentary silence, he broke into a soft smile and out of memory recited the verse.

“Men are the maintainers of women because Allah has made some of them to excel others and because they spend out of their property; the good women are therefore obedient, guarding the unseen as Allah has guarded; and (as to) those on whose part you fear desertion, admonish them, and leave them alone in the sleeping-places and beat them; then if they obey you, do not seek a way against them; surely Allah is High, Great.”

When he finished, Shams closed his eyes and recited the same verse, this time in a different translation.

“Men are the support of women as God gives some more means than others, and because they spend of their wealth (to provide for them). So women who are virtuous are obedient to God and guard the hidden as God has guarded it. As for women you feel are averse, talk to them suasively; then leave them alone in bed (without molesting them) and go to bed with them (when they are willing). If they open out to you, do not seek an excuse for blaming them. Surely God is sublime and great.

“Do you see any difference between the two?” Shams asked.

“Yes I do,” I said. “Their whole texture is different. The former sounds as if it gives consent to married men to beat their wives, whereas the latter advises them to simply walk away. I think that is a big difference. Why is that?”

“Why is that? Why is that?” Shams echoed several times, as if enjoying the question. “Tell me something, Kimya. Have you ever gone swimming in a river?”

I nodded as a childhood memory returned to me. The cold, thirst-quenching streams of the Taurus Mountains crossed my mind. Of the younger girl who had spent many happy afternoons in those streams with her sister and her friends, there was now little left behind. I turned my face away as I didn’t want Shams to see the tears in my eyes.

“When you look at a river from a distance, Kimya, you might think there is only one watercourse. But if you dive into the water, you’ll realize there is more than one river. The river conceals various currents, all of them flowing in harmony and yet completely separate from one another.”

Upon saying that, Shams of Tabriz approached me and held my chin between his two fingers, forcing me to look directly into his deep, dark, soulful eyes. My heart skipped a beat. I couldn’t even breathe.

“The Qur’an is a gushing river,” he said. “Those who look at it from a distance see only one river. But for those swimming in it, there are four currents. Like different types of fish, some of us swim closer to the surface while some others swim in deep waters down below.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said, although I was beginning to.

“Those who like to swim close to the surface are content with the outer meaning of the Qur’an. Many people are like that. They take the verses too literally. No wonder when they read a verse like the Nisa, they arrive at the conclusion that men are held superior to women. Because that is exactly what they want to see.”

“How about the other currents?” I asked.

Shams sighed softly, and I couldn’t help noticing his mouth, as mysterious and inviting as a secret garden.

“There are three more currents. The second one is deeper than the first, but still close to the surface. As your awareness expands, so does your grasp of the Qur’an. But for that to happen, you need to take the plunge.”

Listening to him, I felt both empty and fulfilled at the same time. “What happens when you take the plunge?” I asked cautiously.

“The third undercurrent is the esoteric,
batini,
reading. If you read the Nisa with your inner eye open, you’ll see that the verse is not about women and men but about
womanhood
and
manhood.
And each and every one of us, including you and me, has both femininity and masculinity in us, in varying degrees and shades. Only when we learn to embrace both can we attain harmonious Oneness.”

“Are you telling me that I have manliness inside me?”

“Oh, yes, definitely. And I have a female side, too.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “And Rumi? How about him?”

Shams smiled fleetingly. “Every man has a degree of womanliness inside.”

“Even the ones who are manly men?”

“Especially those, my dear,” Shams said, garnishing his words with a wink and dropping his voice to a whisper, as if sharing a secret.

I stifled a giggle, feeling like a little girl. That was the impact of having Shams so close. He was a strange man, his voice oddly charming, his hands lithe and muscular, and his stare like a crease of sunlight, making everything that it fell upon look more intense and alive. Next to him I felt my youth in all its fullness, and yet somewhere inside me a maternal instinct sprawled, exuding the thick, milky scent of motherhood. I wanted to protect him. How or from what, I could not tell.

Shams put his hand on my shoulder, his face so close to mine that I could feel the warmth of his breath. There was now a new, dreamy gaze to his eyes. He held me captive with his touch, caressing my cheeks, his fingertips as warm as a flame against my skin. I was flabbergasted. Now his finger moved down, reaching my bottom lip. Baffled and giddy, I closed my eyes, feeling a lifetime’s worth of excitement welling up in my stomach. But no sooner had he touched my lips than Shams drew his hand back.

“You should go now, dear Kimya,” Shams murmured, making my name sound like a sad word.

I walked out, my head dizzy and my cheeks flushed.

Only after I went to my room, reclined on my back on the sleeping mat, and stared up at the ceiling, wondering how it would feel to be kissed by Shams, did it dawn upon me that I had forgotten to ask him about the fourth undercurrent in the stream—the deeper reading of the Qur’an. What was it? How could one ever achieve that kind of depth?

And what happened to those who took the plunge?

Sultan Walad

KONYA, SEPTEMBER 4, 1245

Being his older brother, I have always worried for Aladdin, but never as much as I do now. He has always had a quick temper, even as a toddler, but lately he is more quarrelsome and easily incensed. Ready to squabble over almost anything, no matter how senseless or small, he is so petulant these days that even the children on the street take fright when they see him coming. Only seventeen, he has creases around his eyes from frowning and squinting too much. Just this morning I noticed a new wrinkle next to his mouth from holding it in a tight line all the time.

I was busy writing on sheepskin parchment when I heard a faint rattling sound behind me. It was Aladdin, his lips set in a tense scowl. God knows how long he had been standing there like that, watching me with a strained look in his brown eyes. He asked me what I was doing.

“I’m copying an old lecture of our father’s,” I said. “It’s good to have an extra copy of every one of them.”

“What’s the use of it?” Aladdin exhaled loudly. “Father has stopped giving lectures or sermons. In case you haven’t noticed, he doesn’t teach at the madrassa either. Don’t you see he has thrust aside all his responsibilities?”

“This is a temporary situation,” I said. “He’ll soon start teaching again.”

“You are only fooling yourself. Don’t you see that our father doesn’t have time for anything or anyone other than Shams? Isn’t that funny? The man is supposed to be a wandering dervish, but he has taken root in our house.”

Aladdin emitted a chuckle, waiting for me to agree with him, but when I said nothing, he started pacing the room. Even without looking at him, I could feel the angry blaze in his eyes.

“People are gossiping,” Aladdin went on morosely. “They are all asking the same question: How can a respected scholar let himself be manipulated by a heretic? Our father’s reputation is like ice melting under the sun. If he doesn’t get a hold of himself soon, he might never be able to find students again in this town. Nobody would want him as a teacher. And I wouldn’t blame them.”

I placed the parchment aside and looked at my brother. He was only a boy, really, although his every gesture and expression said he felt on the edge of manhood. He had changed a lot since last year, and I was beginning to suspect he could be in love. Just who the girl could be, I didn’t know, and his close friends wouldn’t tell me.

“Brother, I realize you don’t like Shams, but he is a guest in our house and we ought to respect him. Don’t listen to what others say. Honestly, we shouldn’t make a mountain out of a molehill.”

As soon as these words came from my mouth, I regretted my patronizing tone. But it was too late. Like bone-dry wood, Aladdin easily catches fire.

“A molehill?!” Aladdin snorted. “Is that what you call this calamity that has befallen us? How can you be so blind?”

I took out another parchment, caressing its delicate surface. It always gave me tremendous pleasure to reproduce my father’s words and to think that in doing so I was helping them to last longer. Even after a hundred years passed, people could read my father’s teachings and be inspired by them. To play a role in this transmission, however small a role it might be, made me proud.

Still complaining, Aladdin stood next to me and glanced at my work, his eyes brooding and bitter. For a fleeting moment, I saw a longing in his eyes and recognized the face of a boy in need of his father’s love. With a plunging heart, I realized it wasn’t Shams he was truly angry at. It was my father.

Aladdin was angry at my father for not loving him enough and for being who he was. My father could be distinguished and famous, but he had also been utterly helpless in the face of the death that had taken our mother at such a tender age.

“They say Shams put a spell on our father,” Aladdin said. “They say he was sent by the Assassins.”

“The Assassins!” I protested. “That is nonsense.”

The Assassins were a sect famous for their meticulous killing methods and extensive use of poisonous substances. Targeting influential people, they murdered their victims in public, so as to plant fear and panic in people’s hearts. They had gone as far as leaving a poisoned cake in Saladin’s tent with a note that said
You are in our hands.
And Saladin, this great commandeer of Islam who had fought bravely against the Christian Crusaders and recaptured Jerusalem, had not dared to fight against the Assassins, preferring to make peace with them. How could people think Shams could be linked with this sect of terror?

I put my hand on Aladdin’s shoulder and forced him to look at me. “Besides, don’t you know the sect is not what it used to be? They are barely more than a name now.”

Aladdin briefly considered this possibility. “Yes, but they say there were three very loyal commandeers of Hassan Sabbah. They left the castle of Alamut, pledging to spread terror and trouble wherever they went. People suspect that Shams is their leader.”

I was starting to lose patience. “God help me! And could you please tell me why a Hashshashin would want to kill our father?”

“Because they hate influential people and love to create chaos, that’s why,” Aladdin responded. So agitated was he by his conspiracy theories that red blotches had formed on his cheeks.

I knew I had to handle this more carefully. “Look, people say all sorts of things all the time,” I said. “You can’t take these awful rumors seriously. Clear your mind of spiteful thoughts. They are poisoning you.”

Aladdin groaned resentfully, but I continued nonetheless. “You might not like Shams personally. You do not have to. But for Father’s sake you ought to show him some respect.”

Aladdin looked at me with bitterness and contempt. I understood that my younger brother was not only cross with our father and infuriated at Shams. He was also disappointed in me. He saw my appreciation of Shams as a sign of weakness. Perhaps he thought that in order to earn my father’s favor, I was being subservient and spineless. It was only a suspicion on my part, but one that hurt me deeply.

Still, I could not get angry at him, and even if I did, my anger would not last very long. He was my little brother. To me he would always be that boy running after street cats, getting his feet dirty in rain puddles, and nibbling slices of bread topped with yogurt all day long. I couldn’t help seeing in his face the boy he once had been, a bit on the plump side and a tad short for his age, the boy who took the news of the death of his mother without shedding a tear. All he did was to look down at his feet as if suddenly ashamed of his shoes and purse his bottom lip until its color was gone. Neither a word nor a sob had come out of his mouth. I wish he would have cried.

“Do you remember the time you got into a fight with some neighboring kids?” I asked. “You came home crying, with a bloody nose. What did our mother tell you then?”

Aladdin’s eyes first narrowed and then grew in recognition, but he didn’t say anything.

“She told you that whenever you got angry with someone, you should replace the face of that person in your mind with the face of someone you love. Have you tried replacing Shams’s face with our mother’s face? Perhaps you could find something to like in him.”

A furtive smile, as swift and timid as a passing cloud, hovered over Aladdin’s lips, and I was amazed at how much it softened his expression.

“Perhaps I could,” he said, all anger draining out of his voice now.

My heart melted. I gave my brother a hug, unsure of what else to say. As he hugged me back, I felt confident that he would repair his relationship with Shams and the harmony in our house would soon be restored.

Given the course of events that followed, I couldn’t have been more mistaken.