But the hermit didn’t waver. “Well, she could make an even better scholar someday. Obviously, God has not disfavored your daughter for being a girl and has bestowed many gifts upon her. Do you claim to know better than God?” he asked. “If there are no schools available, send her to a scholar to receive the education she deserves.”
My mother shook her head. But I could see that my father was of a different mind. Knowing his love for education and knowledge, and his appreciation of my abilities, it didn’t surprise me to hear him ask, “We don’t know of any scholars. Where am I going to find one?”
It was then that the hermit uttered the name that would change my life. He said, “I know a wonderful scholar in Konya named Mawlana Jalal ad-Din Rumi. He might be glad to teach a girl like Kimya. Take her to him. You won’t regret it.”
When the hermit was gone, my mother threw her arms up. “I am pregnant. Soon there will be another mouth to feed in this house. I need help. A girl doesn’t need books. She needs to learn housework and child care.”
I would have much preferred it if my mother had opposed my going away for other reasons. Had she said she would miss me and couldn’t bear to give me to another family, even if for a temporary period, I might have chosen to stay. But she said none of this. In any case, my father was convinced that the hermit had a point, and within a few days so was I.
Shortly after, my father and I traveled to Konya. We waited for Rumi outside the madrassa where he taught. When he walked out, I was too embarrassed to look up at him. Instead I looked at his hands. His fingers were long, supple, and slender, more like an artisan’s than a scholar’s. My father shoved me toward him.
“My daughter is very gifted. But I am a simple man, and so is my wife. We have been told you are the most learned man in the region. Would you be willing to teach her?”
Even without looking at his face, I could sense that Rumi wasn’t surprised. He must have been used to such requests. While he and my father engaged in a conversation, I walked toward the yard, where I saw several boys but no girls. But on the way back, I was pleasantly surprised when I spotted a young woman standing in a corner by herself, her round face still and white as if carved of marble. I waved at her. She looked stunned, but after a brief hesitation she returned my wave.
“Hello, little girl, can you see me?” she asked.
When I nodded, the woman broke into a smile, clapping her hands. “That’s wonderful! No one else can.”
We walked back toward my father and Rumi. I thought they would stop talking when they noticed her, but she was right—they couldn’t see her.
“Come here, Kimya,” said Rumi. “Your father informs me you love to study. Tell me, what is it in books that you like so much?”
I swallowed hard, unable to answer, paralyzed.
“Come on, sweetheart,” my father said, sounding disappointed.
I wanted to answer correctly, with a response that would make my father proud of me, except I didn’t know what that was. In my anxiety the only sound that came out of my mouth was a desperate gasp.
My father and I would have gone back to our village empty-handed had the young woman not intervened then. She held my hand and said, “Just tell the truth about yourself. It’s going to be fine, I promise.”
Feeling better, I turned to Rumi and said, “I’d be honored to study the Qur’an with you, Master. I’m not afraid of hard work.”
Rumi’s face brightened up. “That’s very good,” he said, yet then he paused as if he had just remembered a nasty detail. “But you are a girl. Even if we study intensely and make good progress, you’ll soon get married and have children. Years of education will be of no use.”
Now I didn’t know what to say and felt disheartened, almost guilty. My father, too, seemed troubled, suddenly inspecting his shoes. Once again it was the young woman who came to my help. “Tell him his wife always wanted to have a little girl and now she would be happy to see him educate one.”
Rumi laughed when I conveyed the message. “So I see you have visited my house and talked to my wife. But let me assure you, Kerra doesn’t get involved in my teaching responsibilities.”
Slowly, forlornly, the young woman shook her head and whispered in my ear, “Tell him you were not talking about Kerra, his second wife. You were talking about Gevher, the mother of his two sons.”
“I was talking about Gevher,” I said, pronouncing the name carefully. “The mother of your sons.”
Rumi’s face turned pale. “Gevher is dead, my child,” he said dryly. “But what do you know about my late wife? Is this a tasteless joke?”