بخش 78

کتاب: ملت عشق / فصل 78

بخش 78

توضیح مختصر

  • زمان مطالعه 7 دقیقه
  • سطح سخت

دانلود اپلیکیشن «زیبوک»

این فصل را می‌توانید به بهترین شکل و با امکانات عالی در اپلیکیشن «زیبوک» بخوانید

دانلود اپلیکیشن «زیبوک»

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متن انگلیسی فصل

Rumi

KONYA, AUGUST 1246

Barren is the world, devoid of sun, since Shams is gone. This city is a sad, cold place, and my soul is empty. I can’t sleep at night, and during the day I only wander around. I am here and I am not here—a ghost among people. I can’t help feeling cross at everyone. How can they go on living their lives as if nothing has changed? How can life be the same without Shams of Tabriz?

Every day from dusk to dawn, I sit in the library on my own and think of nothing but Shams. I remember what he, with a touch of harshness in his voice, had once told me: “Someday you will be the voice of love.” I don’t know about that, but it is true that I find silence painful these days. Words give me openings to break through the darkness in my heart. This was what Shams had wanted all along, wasn’t it? To make a poet out of me!

Life is about perfection. Every incident that happens, no matter how colossal or small, and every hardship that we endure is an aspect of a divine plan that works to that end. Struggle is intrinsic to being human. That is why it says in the Qur’an, Certainly we will show Our ways to those who struggle on Our way. There is no such thing as coincidence in God’s scheme. And it was no coincidence that Shams of Tabriz crossed my path on that day in October almost two years ago.

“I didn’t come to you because of the wind,” Shams had said.

And then he had told me a story.

Once there was a Sufi master who was so knowledgeable that he had been given the breath of Jesus. He had only one student, and he was quite happy with what he was given. But his disciple was of a different mind. In his desire to see everyone else marvel at the powers of his master, he kept begging him to take on more followers.

“All right,” the master finally agreed. “If it will make you happy, I’ll do as you say.”

They went to the market that day. In one of the stalls, there were bird-shaped candies. As soon as the master blew upon them, the birds came alive and flew away with the wind. Speechless, the townspeople immediately gathered around him with admiration. From that day on, everyone in town was singing the master’s praises. Soon there were so many followers and admirers around him that his old disciple couldn’t see him much anymore.

“Oh, Master, I was wrong. It was much better in the old days,” the disciple moaned forlornly. “Do something. Make them all go away, please.”

“All right. If it will make you happy, I’ll shoo them away.”

The next day while he was preaching, the master broke wind. His followers were appalled. One by one, they turned and walked away from him. Only his old disciple remained.

“Why didn’t you leave with the others?” the master asked.

And the disciple answered, “I didn’t come to you because of the first wind, nor would I leave you because of the last.”

Everything Shams did, he did for my perfection. This is what the townspeople could never understand. Shams deliberately fanned the flames of gossip, touched raw nerves, and spoke words that sounded like blasphemy to ordinary ears, shocking and provoking people, even those who loved him. He threw my books into water, forcing me to unlearn all that I knew. Though everyone had heard that he was critical of sheikhs and scholars, very few people knew how capable of tafsir he was. Shams had deep knowledge in alchemy, astrology, astronomy, theology, philosophy, and logic, but he kept his knowledge hidden from ignorant eyes. Though he was a faqih, he acted as if he were a faqir.

He opened our doors to a prostitute and made us share our food with her. He sent me to the tavern and encouraged me to talk to drunks. Once he made me beg across from the mosque where I used to preach, forcing me to put myself in the shoes of a leper beggar. He cut me off first from my admirers, then from the ruling elite, bringing me in touch with the common people. Thanks to him I came to know persons I would have otherwise never met. In his belief that all idols that stood between the individual and God had to be demolished, including fame, wealth, rank, and even religion, Shams cut loose all the moorings that tied me to life as I knew it. Wherever he saw any kind of mental boundary, a prejudice or a taboo, he took the bull by the horns and confronted it.

For him I went through trial and tests, states and stages, each of which made me look more deranged in the eyes of even my most loyal followers. Before, I had plenty of admirers; now I have gotten rid of the need for an audience. Blow after blow, Shams managed to ruin my reputation. Because of him I learned the value of madness and have come to know the taste of loneliness, helplessness, slander, seclusion, and, finally, heartbreak.

Whatever you see as profitable, flee from it!

Drink poison and pour away the water of life!

Abandon security and stay in frightful places!

Throw away reputation, become disgraced and shameless!

At the end of the day, aren’t we are all put on trial? Every day, every passing minute, God asks us, Do you remember the covenant we made before you were sent to this world? Do you understand your role in revealing My treasure?

Most of the time, we are not ready to answer these questions. They are too frightening. But God is patient. He asks again and again.

And if this heartache, too, is part of a trial, my only wish is to find Shams at the end of it. My books, sermons, family, wealth, or name—I am ready to give up anything and everything, just to see his face one more time.

The other day Kerra said I was turning into a poet, almost despite myself. Though I have never thought highly of poets, I wasn’t surprised to hear that. At any other time, I might have objected to what she said, but not anymore.

My mouth is spewing out lines of poetry, constantly and involuntarily, and, listening to them, one might conclude that I am becoming a poet indeed. The Sultan of Language! But the truth, insofar as I am able to tell, is that the poems do not belong to me. I am only a vehicle for letters that are placed in my mouth. Like a pen that writes down the words it is ordered to inscribe or a flute that plays the notes blown into it, I, too, am simply doing my part.

Marvelous sun of Tabriz! Where are you?

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