The Forty Rules of Love

by Elif Shafak

  “But I have abandoned that awful place,” she said. “I went to the public bath and washed myself forty times with forty prayers. I took an oath to stay away from men. From now on, my life is dedicated to God.”

  Not knowing what to say, I stared into her wounded eyes and wondered how she, young and fragile as she was, had found the courage to abandon the only life she knew. I didn’t want to see a fallen woman anywhere near my house, but there was something about her that broke my heart, a kind of simplicity, almost innocence, I had never seen in anyone before. Her brown eyes reminded me of Mother Mary’s eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to shoo her away. I let her wait in the courtyard. That was the most I could do. She sat there by the wall, staring into space as motionless as a marble statue.

  An hour later, when Shams and Rumi returned from their walk, I rushed to tell them about the unexpected visitor.

  “Did you say there was a harlot in our courtyard?” Rumi asked, sounding puzzled.

  “Yes, and she says she has left the brothel to find God.”

  “Oh, that must be Desert Rose,” Shams exclaimed, his tone not so much surprised as pleased. “Why did you keep her outside? Bring her in!”

  “But what will our neighbors say if they learn we have a harlot under our roof?” I objected, my voice cracking with the tension.

  “Aren’t we all living under the same roof anyhow?” Shams said, pointing to the sky above. “Kings and beggars, virgins and harlots, all are under the same sky!”

  How could I argue with Shams? He always had a ready answer for everything.

  I ushered the harlot into the house, praying that the inquisitive eyes of the neighbors would not fall upon us. No sooner had Desert Rose entered the room than she ran to kiss the hands of Shams, sobbing.

  “I am so glad you are here.” Shams beamed as if talking to an old friend. “You won’t go back to that place ever again. That stage of your life is completely over. May God make your journey toward Truth a fruitful one!”

  Desert Rose commenced to cry harder. “But the patron will never leave me in peace. She will send Jackal Head after me. You don’t know how—”

  “Clear your mind, child,” Shams interrupted. “Remember another rule: While everyone in this world strives to get somewhere and become someone, only to leave it all behind after death, you aim for the supreme stage of nothingness. Live this life as light and empty as the number zero. We are no different from a pot. It is not the decorations outside but the emptiness inside that holds us straight. Just like that, it is not what we aspire to achieve but the consciousness of nothingness that keeps us going.”

  Late in the evening, I showed Desert Rose the bed where she would sleep. And when she fell asleep immediately, I returned to the main room, where I found Rumi and Shams talking.

  “You should come to our performance,” Shams said when he saw me coming.

  “What performance?” I asked.

  “A spiritual dance, Kerra, the likes of which you have never seen.”

  I looked at my husband in astonishment. What was going on? What dance were they talking about?

  “Mawlana, you are a respected scholar, not an entertainer. What will people think of you?” I asked, feeling my face growing hot.

  “Don’t you worry,” Rumi said. “Shams and I have been talking about this for a long time. We want to introduce the dance of the whirling dervishes. It is called the sema. Whoever yearns for Divine Love is more than welcome to join us.”

  My head started to ache madly, but the pain was slight compared to the torment in my heart.

  “What if people don’t like it? Not everyone thinks highly of dance,” I said to Shams, hoping this would have the effect of stopping whatever he was about to say next. “At least consider postponing this performance.”

  “Not everyone thinks highly of God,” Shams said without missing a beat. “Are we going to postpone believing in Him, too?”

  And that was the end of the argument. There were no more words to exchange, and the sound of the wind filled the house, bursting through the slats in the walls and pounding in my ears.

  Sultan Walad

  KONYA, JUNE 1246

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Shams kept saying. “Everybody will watch the same dance, but each will see it differently. So why worry? Some will like it, some won’t.”

  Yet on the evening of the sema, I told Shams I was worried that nobody would show up.

  “Don’t worry,” he said forcefully. “The townspeople might not like me, they might not even be fond of your father anymore, but they cannot possibly ignore us. Their curiosity will bring them here.”

  And just so, on the evening of the performance, I found the open-air hall packed. There were merchants, blacksmiths, carpenters, peasants, stonecutters, dye makers, medicine vendors, guild masters, clerks, potters, bakers, mourners, soothsayers, rat catchers, perfume sellers—even Sheikh Yassin had come with a group of students. Women were sitting in the rear.

  I was relieved to see the sovereign Kaykhusraw sitting with his advisers in the front row. That a man of such a high rank supported my father would keep tongues quiet.

  It took a long time for the members of the audience to settle down, and even after they had, the noise inside didn’t fully subside and there remained a murmur of heated gossip. In my itch to sit next to someone who would not speak ill of Shams, I sat next to Suleiman the Drunk. The man reeked of wine, but I didn’t mind.

  My legs were jumpy, my palms sweaty, and though the air was warm enough for us to take off our cloaks, my teeth chattered. This performance was so important for my father’s declining reputation. I prayed to God, but since I didn’t know what exactly to ask for, other than things turning out all right, my prayer sounded too lame.

  Shortly there came a sound, first from far away, and then it drew nearer. It was so captivating and moving that all held their breath, listening.

  “What kind of an instrument is this?” Suleiman whispered with a mixture of awe and delight.

  “It is called the ney,” I said, remembering a conversation between my father and Shams. “And its sound is the sigh of the lover for the beloved.”

  When the ney abated, my father appeared onstage. With measured, soft steps, he approached and greeted the audience. Six dervishes followed him, all my father’s disciples, all wearing long white garments with large skirts. They crossed their hands on their chests, bowing in front of my father to get his blessing. Then the music started, and, one by one, the dervishes began to spin, first slowly, then with breathtaking speed, their skirts opening up like lotus flowers.

  It was quite a scene. I couldn’t help but smile with pride and joy. Out of the corner of my eye, I checked the reaction of the audience. Even the nastiest gossipers were watching the performance with visible admiration.

  The dervishes whirled and whirled for what seemed like an eternity. Then the music rose, the sound of a rebab from behind a curtain catching up with the ney and the drums. And that was when Shams of Tabriz entered the stage, like the wild desert wind. Wearing a darker robe than everyone else and looking taller, he was also spinning faster. His hands were wide open toward the sky, as was his face, like a sunflower in search of the sun.

  I heard many people in the audience gasp with awe. Even those who hated Shams of Tabriz seemed to have fallen under the spell of the moment. I glanced at my father. While Shams spun in a frenzy and the disciples whirled more slowly in their orbits, my father remained as still as an old oak tree, wise and calm, his lips constantly moving in prayer.

  Finally the music slowed down. All at once the dervishes stopped whirling, each lotus flower closing up into itself. With a tender salute, my father blessed everyone onstage and in the audience, and for a moment it was as if we were all connected in perfect harmony. A thick, sudden silence ensued. Nobody knew how to react. Nobody had seen anything like this before.

  My father’s voice pierced the silence. “This, my friends, is called the sema—the
dance of the whirling dervishes. From this day on, dervishes of every age will dance the sema. One hand pointed up to the sky, the other hand pointing down to earth, every speck of love we receive from God, we pledge to distribute to the people.”

  The audience smiled and mumbled in agreement. There was a warm, friendly commotion all over the hall. I was so touched by seeing this affirming response that tears welled up in my eyes. At long last my father and Shams were beginning to receive the respect and love that they most certainly deserved.

  The evening could have ended on that warm note and I could have gone home a happy man, feeling confident that things were improving, had it not been for what happened next, ruining everything.

  Suleiman the Drunk

  KONYA, JUNE 1246

  Blood and thunder! What an unforgettable evening! I still have not recovered from its effects. And of all the things that I have witnessed tonight, the most startling was the finale.

  After the sema, the great Kaykhusraw II stood up, his eyes ranging round the room imperiously. In consummate smugness he approached the stage, and after giving a great whoop of laughter, he said, “Congratulations, dervishes! I was impressed by your performance.”

  Rumi gracefully thanked him, and all the dervishes onstage did the same. Then the musicians stood up together and greeted the sovereign with ultimate respect. His face brimming with satisfaction, Kaykhusraw signaled to one of his guards, who immediately handed him a velvet pouch. Kaykhusraw bounced the pouch in his palm several times to show how heavy it was with golden coins and then flung it onto the stage. People around me sighed and applauded. So deeply were we moved by the generosity of our ruler.

  Content and confident, Kaykhusraw turned to leave. But no sooner had he taken a step toward the exit than the very pouch he’d flung on the stage was tossed back at him. The coins landed under his feet, jingling like a new bride’s bracelets. Everything had happened so fast that for a full minute we all stood still and perplexed, unable to make sense of what was going on. But no doubt the one who was most shocked was Kaykhusraw himself. The insult was so obvious and definitely too personal to be forgivable. He looked over his shoulder with unbelieving eyes to see who could have done such a horrible thing.

  It was Shams of Tabriz. All heads turned toward him as he stood onstage arms akimbo, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

  “We don’t dance for money,” he boomed in a deep voice. “The sema is a spiritual dance performed for love and love alone. So take back your gold, sovereign! Your money is no good here!”

  A dreadful silence descended upon the hall. Rumi’s elder son looked so shaken that all the blood had been drained from his young face. Nobody dared to make a sound. Without a sigh, without a gasp, we all held our breaths. As if the skies had been waiting for this signal, it started to rain, sharp and stinging. The raindrops drowned everything and everyone in their steady sound.

  “Let’s go!” Kaykhusraw yelled to his men.

  His cheeks wobbling with humiliation, his lips quivering uncontrollably, and his shoulders visibly slumped, the sovereign headed for the exit. His many guards and servants scurried behind him one by one, stomping on the spilled coins on the floor with their heavy boots. People rushed to scoop up the coins, pushing and pulling one another.

  As soon as the sovereign had left, a murmur of disapproval and disappointment rippled through the audience.

  “Who does he think he is!” some people burst out.

  “How dare he insult our ruler?” others joined in. “What if Kaykhusraw makes the whole town pay the price now?”

  A group of people stood up, shaking their heads in disbelief, and stalked toward the exit in a clear sign of protest. At the head of the protesters were Sheikh Yassin and his students. To my great surprise, I noticed among them two of Rumi’s old disciples—and his own son Aladdin.

  Aladdin

  KONYA, JUNE 1246

  By Allah, I had never been so embarrassed in my life. As if it weren’t shameful enough to see my own father in cahoots with a heretic, I had to suffer the mortification of watching him lead a dance performance. How could he disgrace himself like that in front of the whole town? On top of this, I was utterly appalled when I heard there was among the audience a harlot from the brothel. As I sat there wondering how much more madness and destruction my father’s love for Shams could cause us all, for the first time in my life I wished to be the son of another man.

  To me the entire performance was sheer sacrilege. But what happened afterward was far beyond the pale. How could that insolent man find the nerve to pour scorn on our ruler? He is very lucky that Kaykhusraw didn’t have him arrested on the spot and sent to the gallows.

  When I saw Sheikh Yassin walk out after Kaykhusraw, I knew I had to do the same. The last thing I wanted was for the townspeople to think that I was on the side of a heretic. Everyone had to see once and for all that, unlike my brother, I wasn’t my father’s puppet.

  That night I didn’t go home. I stayed at Irshad’s house with a few friends. Overcome with emotion, we talked about the day’s events and discussed at great length what to do.

  “That man is a terrible influence on your father,” said Irshad tautly. “And now he has brought a prostitute into your house. You need to clean your family’s name, Aladdin.”

  As I stood listening to the things they said, my face burning with a scalding shame, one thing was clear to me: Shams had brought us nothing but misery.

  In unison we reached the conclusion that Shams had to leave this town—if not willingly, then by force.

  The next day I went back home determined to talk to Shams of Tabriz man to man. I found him alone in the courtyard, playing the ney, his head bowed, his eyes closed, his back turned to me. Fully immersed in his music, he hadn’t noticed my presence. I approached as quiet as a mouse, taking the opportunity to observe him and get to know my enemy better.

  After what seemed like several minutes, the music stopped. Shams raised his head slightly, and without looking in my direction, he mumbled flatly, as if talking to himself, “Hey there, Aladdin, were you looking for me?”

  I didn’t say a word. Knowing of his ability to see through closed doors, it didn’t surprise me that he had eyes in the back of his head.

  “So did you enjoy the performance yesterday?” Shams asked, now turning his face toward mine.

  “I thought it was disgraceful,” I answered at once. “Let’s get something straight, shall we? I don’t like you. I never have. And I’m not going to let you ruin my father’s reputation any more than you have already.”

  A spark flickered in his eyes as Shams put his ney aside and said, “Is that what this is about? If Rumi’s reputation is ruined, people won’t look up to you as the son of an eminent man anymore. Does that scare you?”

  Determined not to let him get under my skin, I ignored his mordant remarks. Still, it was a while before I could say anything.

  “Why don’t you go and leave us in peace? We were so good before you came,” I shot back. “My father is a respected scholar and a family man. You two have nothing in common.”

  His neck craned forward, his brow furrowed in mighty concentration, Shams drew in a deep breath. Suddenly he looked old and vulnerable. It flashed through my mind that I could slug him, beat him to a pulp, before anyone could run to his rescue. The thought was so dreadful and malevolent, and yet frighteningly seducing, that I had to avert my eyes.

  When I stared back at him, I found Shams inspecting me, his gaze avid, bright. Could he be reading my mind? A creepy feeling got hold of me, spreading from my hands to my feet, as if I were being pricked by a thousand needles, and my knees felt wobbly, unwilling to carry me. It must have been black magic. I had no doubt that Shams excelled in the darkest forms of sorcery.

  “You are scared of me, Aladdin,” Shams said after a pause. “You know who you remind me of? The cross-eyed assistant!”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “It’s a story. Do you l
ike stories?”

  I shrugged. “I have no time for them.”

  A flicker of condescension crossed Shams’s lips. “A man who has no time for stories is a man who has no time for God,” he said. “Don’t you know that God is the best storyteller?”

  And without waiting for me to say anything, he told me this story:

  Once there was an artisan who had a bitter assistant, who was cross-eyed to boot. This assistant always saw double. One day the artisan asked him to bring a jar of honey from storage. The assistant came back empty-handed. “But, Master, there are two jars of honey there,” he complained. “Which one do you want me to bring?” Knowing his assistant too well, the artisan said, “Why don’t you break one of the jars and bring me the other one?”

  Alas, the assistant was too shallow to understand the wisdom behind these words. He did as told. He broke one of the jars and was very surprised to see the other one break, too.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” I asked. To display my temper in front of Shams was a mistake, but I couldn’t help it. “You and your stories! Damn it! Can’t you ever talk straight?”

  “But it is so clear, Aladdin. I am telling you that like the cross-eyed assistant you see dualities everywhere,” Shams said. “Your father and I are one. If you break me, you’ll break him as well.”

  “You and my father have nothing in common,” I riposted. “If I break the second jar, I’ll set the first one free.”