Forty Rules of Love(80)

There are people who heard Shams remark, “A scholar lives on the marks of a pen. A Sufi loves and lives on footprints!” Now, what does that mean? Apparently Shams thinks scholars talk the talk and Sufis walk the walk. But Rumi, too, is a scholar, isn’t he? Or does he not consider himself one of us anymore?

Should Shams enter my classroom, I would chase him away like a fly, never giving him the opportunity to sputter gibberish in my presence. Why can’t Rumi do the same? There must be something wrong with him. The man has a Christian wife, for starters. I don’t care if she has converted to Islam. It is in her blood and in the blood of her child. Unfortunately, the townspeople don’t take the threat of Christianity as seriously as they should, and they assume that we can live side by side. To those who are naïve enough to believe that, I always say, “Can water and oil ever mix? That is the extent to which Muslims and Christians can!”

Having a Christian for a wife and being notoriously soft toward minorities, Rumi was already an undependable man in my eyes, but when Shams of Tabriz started living under his roof, he totally deviated from the right path. As I tell my students every day, one needs to be alert against Sheitan. And Shams is the devil incarnate. I am sure it was his idea to send Rumi to the tavern. God knows how he convinced him. But isn’t beguiling righteous people into sacrilege what Sheitan excels at?

I understood Shams’s evil side right from the start. How dare he compare the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, with that irreligious Sufi Bistami? Wasn’t it Bistami who pronounced, “Look at me! How great is my glory!” Wasn’t it he who then said, “I saw the Kaaba walking around me”? The man went as far as stating, “I am the smith of my own self.” If this is not blasphemy, then what is? Such is the level of the man Shams quotes with respect. For just like Bistami, he, too, is a heretic.

The only good news is that the townspeople are waking up to the truth. Finally! Shams’s critics increase with each passing day. And the things they say! Even I am appalled sometimes. In the bathhouses and teahouses, in the wheat fields and orchards, people tear him apart.



I reached the madrassa later than usual, my mind heavy with these thoughts. As soon as I opened the door to my classroom, I sensed there was something unusual. My students were sitting in a perfect line, pale and oddly silent, as if they had all seen a ghost.

Then I understood why. Sitting there by the open window with his back resting against the wall, his hairless face lit with an arrogant smile, was none other than Shams of Tabriz.

“Selamun aleykum, Sheikh Yassin,” he said, staring hard at me across the room.

I hesitated, not knowing whether to greet him, and decided not to. Instead I turned to my students and inquired, “What is this man doing here? Why did you let him in?”

Dazed and uneasy, none of the students dared to answer. It was Shams himself who shattered the silence.

His tone insolent, his gaze unwavering, he said to me, “Don’t scold them, Sheikh Yassin. It was my idea. You see, I was in the neighborhood and said to myself, ‘Why don’t I stop by the madrassa and visit the one person in this town who hates me most?’ ”





Husam the Student





KONYA, FEBRUARY 1246

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, we were all sitting on the floor in the classroom when the door opened and in walked Shams of Tabriz. Everyone was stunned. Having heard so many bad and bizarre things about him, mostly from our teacher, I, too, couldn’t help but cringe upon seeing him in our classroom in the flesh. He, however, seemed relaxed and friendly. After greeting us all, he said he had come to have a word with Sheikh Yassin.

“Our teacher doesn’t like to have strangers in the classroom. Perhaps you should talk to him some other time,” I said, hoping to avoid a nasty encounter.

“Thanks for your concern, young man, but sometimes nasty encounters are not only inevitable, they are necessary,” Shams answered, as if he had read my thoughts. “Don’t you worry, though. It won’t take too long.”

Irshad, sitting next to me, muttered between clenched teeth, “Look at his nerve! He is the devil incarnate.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure Shams looked like the devil to me. Set against him as I was, I couldn’t help liking his forthrightness and audacity.

A few minutes later, Sheikh Yassin entered through the door, his brow furrowed in contemplation. He had taken no more than a few steps inside when he stopped and blinked distractedly in the direction of the uninvited visitor.

“What is this man doing here? Why did you let him in?”

My friends and I exchanged shocked glances and frightened whispers, but before anyone could muster the courage to say anything, Shams blurted out that he had been in the neighborhood and had decided to visit the one person in Konya who hated him most!