With Rumi standing right there, Shams picked a book from the pile—The Collected Poems of al-Mutanabbi—eyed it with a grim expression, and tossed it into the water. No sooner had the book submerged than he reached for another. This time it was Attar’s The Book of Secrets.
I gasped in horror. One by one, he was destroying Rumi’s favorite books! The next to be hurled into the water was The Divine Sciences by Rumi’s father. Knowing how much Rumi adored his father and doted upon this old manuscript, I looked at him, expecting him to throw a fit.
Instead I found Rumi standing aside, his face pale as wax, his hands trembling. I couldn’t understand for the life of me why he didn’t say anything. The man who once had reprimanded me for just dusting his books was now watching a lunatic destroy his entire library, and yet he didn’t even utter a word. It wasn’t fair. If Rumi wasn’t going to intervene, I would.
“What are you doing?” I asked Shams. “These books have no other copies. They are very valuable. Why are you throwing them into the water? Have you lost your mind?”
Instead of an answer, Shams cocked his head toward Rumi. “Is that what you think, too?” he asked.
Rumi pursed his lips and smiled faintly but remained silent.
“Why don’t you say anything?” I yelled at my husband.
At this, Rumi approached me and held my hand tightly. “Calm down, Kerra, please. I trust in Shams.”
Giving me a glance over his shoulder, relaxed and confident, Shams rolled up his sleeves and started to pull the books out of the water. To my amazement, every single book he took out was as dry as a bone.
“Is this magic? How did you do that?” I asked.
“But why are you asking?” Shams said. “Even if I told you how, you couldn’t do it.”
Trembling with anger, choking back sobs, I ran to the kitchen, which has become my sanctuary these days. And there, amid pots and pans, stacks of herbs and spices, I sat down and cried my heart out.
Rumi
KONYA, DECEMBER 1245
Bent on praying the morning prayer together in the open air, Shams and I left the house shortly after dawn. We rode our horses for a while, through meadows and valleys and across ice-cold streams, enjoying the breeze on our faces. Scarecrows in wheat fields greeted us with an eerie poise, and newly washed clothes in front of a farmhouse fluttered madly in the breeze as we passed by, pointing in all directions into the semidarkness.
On the way back, Shams pulled at the reins of his horse and pointed to a massive oak tree outside the town. Together we sat under the tree, the sky hanging above our heads in shades of purple. Shams placed his cloak on the ground, and as calls to prayer echoed from mosques near and far, we prayed there together.
“When I first came to Konya, I sat under this tree,” Shams said. He smiled at a distant memory, but then grew pensive and said, “A peasant gave me a ride. He was a great admirer of yours. He told me your sermons cured sadness.”
“They used to call me the Wizard of Words,” I said. “But it all feels so far away now. I don’t want to give sermons anymore. I feel like I am done.”
“You are the Wizard of Words,” Shams said determinedly. “But instead of a preaching mind, you have a chanting heart now.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that, and I didn’t ask. The dawn had erased what remained of the night before, turning the sky into a blameless orange. Far ahead of us, the town was waking up, crows were diving into vegetable gardens to peck at whatever they could steal, doors were screeching, donkeys braying, and stoves burning as everyone got ready for a brand-new day.
“People everywhere are struggling on their own for fulfillment, but without any guidance as to how to achieve it,” murmured Shams with a shake of his head. “Your words help them. And I’ll do everything in my power to help you. I am your servant.”
“Don’t say that,” I protested. “You are my friend.”
Oblivious to my objection, Shams continued. “My only concern is the shell you have been living in. As a famous preacher, you have been surrounded by fawning admirers. But how well do you know common people? Drunks, beggars, thieves, prostitutes, gamblers—the most inconsolable and the most downtrodden. Can we love all of God’s creatures? It is a difficult test, and one that only a few can pass.”
As he kept speaking, I saw gentleness and concern in his face, and something else that looked almost like maternal compassion.
“You are right,” I conceded. “I have always lived a protected life. I don’t even know how ordinary people live.”
Shams picked up a lump of soil, and as he crumbled it between his fingers, he added softly, “If we can embrace the universe as a whole, with all its differences and contradictions, everything will melt into One.”