Years ago, when, in my
courses on ethics, I was
explaining Aristotle’s theory of
moderation and speaking about
the vice of going to one extreme
or the other and the virtue of
“the just mean” - in those same
years, I also embarked on a
serious study of Mowlana
Jalaleddin Rumi’s Masnavi and
entrusted my heart to the
quintessence of that ardent
mystic’s teachings.
I
began with Book 1. I placed the
slave girl’s hands in the hands
of the king, and I fell into
step with the merchant as he
headed off to India. On the way
there, I recalled the lovelorn
songs and entreaties of the
merchant’s parrot who said: Oh,
while you’re there with the
truest love / Here, I sip from
the goblet of grief / Oh, where
are those pledges and promises?
/ Where are the vows from thine
sweet lips? / How I adore the
peevishness and the gentleness /
I, oddly, adore both the bitter
and the sweet / This is no
nightingale but a fire-eating
whale / and it feels as joys all
of love’s discontents
I could see that - through
love - the parrot was gradually
turning into a fire-eating
whale, burning the good and the
bad like a blaze, devouring the
big and the small like a whale,
and causing such scandal and
havoc as to bellow to itself:
Halt your deluge of words or
else / you’ll bring about
scandal and ruin
And then
it would reply to itself: Why
ever should I fear ruin or
wreckage / when beneath the
wreckage I’ll find the Lord’s
treasures? / How sweet to drown
once you sink into truth /
Churned over and under like a
crashing wave / Is it more
joyful on the sea’s surface or
well beneath? / Is its arrow
more piercing or its shield? /
O, surely the lover’s life lies
in death / he’ll only discover
his heart once he’s given it
away
It struck me that
this love truly caused
devastation and ruin, and that,
at the very least, it led to
ruin in the realm of ethics. If
Aristotle, the Greek ethicist,
was the wisest of the wise who
called for the pursuit of the
happy medium and the avoidance
of unseemly highs and lows, this
scorched swallow from Khorasan,
who was the past master of love,
was inviting people to drown and
to be churned over and under
unreservedly, and valued the
complete abandonment of
moderation above any
finely-measured etiquette.
Not just Aristotle’s wise
moderation, but also Al-Ghazzali’s
fearful resignation bore no
relationship to the brazenness
of the spiritual master from
Balkh, and his ardent
impertinence shattered in one
fell swoop both the ethics of
moderation and the cage of
resignation, and pointed the way
to a new morality.
Although this was my first
encounter with Rumi being
churned over and under, drowning
in and becoming at one with the
sea, uncaring whether he was
tossed up or down, abandoning
heart and soul to the waves,
becoming ravaged with love,
casting off all fear, ablaze
with restlessness, contemptuous
of moderation and recklessly
ravenous, it was not to be my
last encounter. The ambulant
storm in Jalaleddin’s being also
travelled through his tongue.
The churning over and under that
was a quality of his being was
also constantly on his lips, and
how can it ever be otherwise?
What happens in our being is
reflected in what we say. It was
not for nothing that the words
sugar and sweetness were also
always on Rumi’s lips; his whole
being was brimming with
sweetness and if they had spread
out the sweetness that existed
within him throughout the world,
the oceans would have turned
into sherbet: Thine sweet
coquetry and thine mock frown /
has sweetened the universe and
forever may it be so!
Surely an upheaval had to have
become insurgent in his being
for him to have uttered the
near-riotous expression “churned
over and under” so frequently. I
grew even more convinced of this
when I saw that Hafez, that
great master from Shiraz, had
only ever used this expression
in one single instance in his
poetry and that even this one
instance occurred in a cold,
preachy, non-evocative poem
which clearly bore the mark of
youth on its brow: O unknowing
one, strive to know, for / if
you don’t know the way, how can
you be a guide? /… / If the
light of truth shines on your
soul / by God, you’ll become
more pleasing than the sun / … /
When the foundations of your
being are churned over and under
/ Don’t imagine that things will
go all awry
I also
examined the works of 20 other
poets, ranging from Sa’di to
Anvari, Sana’i, Attar, Khaqani,
Sa’d-e Salman, Jaami, Forughi
and so on. Much as I churned
their works over and under, I
found no sign of “a discourse of
being churned over and under”.
It was as if the fire in Rumi’s
spirit and the burning in his
being had made the mad blood of
insurrection flow through his
works.
Rumi first learnt
of the quality of insurrection
and resurrection from the
Qur’an, which was an event that
“crushed and exalted”; that is
to say, it churned you over and
under, turned you upside down,
wrecked you and built you anew.
Then, Rumi experienced this
upheaval and resurrection in his
companionship with Shams-e
Tabrizi. He was dead and he came
to life. He was tears and he
became laughter. He was mortal
and he became eternal. And he
was so churned over and under
that, had he been Joseph, he
would have become fecund.
And then he saw this
insurgency in every mystic’s
being and realized that, until
someone underwent this
resurrection, rising anew from
the soil of their being and
being reborn, they would not
join the ranks of the friends
and companions of God: Within
them churns a hundred
resurrections / the very least
of which can inebriate every
neighbour / the noble bring us
light and heat / the abject
bring us disgrace and deceit
The very least benefit that
the insurrection burning in
mystics’ being can bring for
their cohorts and the people in
their vicinity is to inebriate
and warm them temporarily. Their
presence and their words have
such heat and sweetness that,
through the dense veil cast by
the passage of centuries, they
can still fill enthusiasts’
beings with joy and set them
whirling and dancing.
Rumi also saw the Prophet as
resurrection incarnate, so that
when people used to ask Prophet
Muhammad when the Day of
Resurrection was to occur, he
would reply, I am resurrection:
Why do you speak in the future
tense? / Why ask upheaval when
upheaval will occur?
This being churned over and
under and this experience, sight
and taste of resurrection so
enraptured Rumi that he never
stopped begging for it to be
repeated: Not a stream bubbles
out of my being / No lush green
revitalizes my body / Neither a
refreshing sip from the
cupbearer’s jug / nor a cry of
longing beckoning me / A
resurrection that brings
mountains crashing down / shuns
me and leaves me just as I am /
Where, oh, where is the zeal
that digs so deep / as to
shatter and level every peak?
Yes, seeing resurrection was
a precondition for tasting
resurrection and Rumi’s
collyrium-daubed eyes had
enabled him to see resurrection.
Look at Hafez and how he
uses “resurrection” as a steed
to take him to his poetic and
roguish destination: The fear of
resurrection of which the
preacher speaks / is the tale of
the horror that separation will
bring
Or: Tie a goblet to
my shroud so that on Judgment
Day / I can drink away the fear
that Resurrection conveys
Sa’di spoke in even more
diluted terms and with even
greater earthly distraction:
Would that I’d see her again on
Judgment Day / for her sins, I’d
gladly accept the punishment
Or: Shed blood though you
may, I’ll turn a blind eye on
Judgment Day / A friend’s a
friend, come what may
How
vast the distance between these
niceties and that insurgent
being, whose blood throbbed with
upheaval and whose words beat
with the pulse of life; whose
sweet existence chased all
bitterness away and made the
finest sugar grow.
Rumi’s
love, too, was a riotous love
that crushed and exalted. And
this lifted him above and
differentiated him from all
other lovers throughout the
ages. Shams-e Tabrizi gave him
the gift of the religion of love
and, from then on, like a cat in
a sack of love, he bounded high
and low, leapt here and there,
and stirred up a veritable
insurrection: I’m a cat set
loose in a sack of love / one
moment, I’m high up, and the
next, very low / lovers reel in
a torrential flood / where the
water takes them, that’s where
they go
The sack would on
occasion grow as vast as an
ocean and it would churn the
fleet-footed cat from Balkh over
and under like a big whale
caught in a tide, and give him a
taste of the riotous turbulence
and the contractions and
expansions of the ocean of love.
It is hardly surprising that the
fish was such a prominent image
in Rumi’s poetry, for, a fish is
the epitome of the absence of
attachments and total
abandonment to water. What could
better portray the undulating
and trusting being of Rumi, the
thirsty lover? And the ocean,
which was at times calm and
contracting, and, at times,
tumultuous and expanding, and
brimming with water, the source
of life and fish’s refuge, the
supplier of pearls and the
bringer of rain, immense and
unified, was like the purest
love that provided “bread,
water, garments, medicine and
sleep” to thousands of fish.
Love and resurrection are
most beautifully intertwined in
the story of “the lover from
Bokhara and Sadr-e Jahan”. It is
here that our mystic from
Khorasan first uses the
expression “insurgency of love”.
The story is an account of
Rumi’s frame of mind and a
full-length mirror of his tall
spirit. It is a tale of the
anxieties and passions of union
and separation, and the churning
over and under of his moods and
actions.
The lover from
Bokhara is Rumi himself, who
walks into the jaws of peril and
is not frightened by the
beloved’s heartlessness. He
tells the well-intentioned
people who counsel him against
foolhardiness: Heartless though
my beloved may be / Bokhara
beckons and back to it I must go
Rumi is the thirsty man,
crazed with dropsy, for whom
water equals, at one at the same
time, the quest and perdition:
As I’m dropsical, water will
kill me / ‘though I know this,
water draws me ever near /
though my hands and stomach may
become distended / my love of
water will in no way be lessened
Rumi is also the guest of
the mosque from which no one
emerges alive and the beggar who
has lofty aims: He said: I’ll
consider my body as lowly and
valueless / What matter if a
treasure chest is minus a single
pearl? / Mosque! If you become
my Karbala and resting place /
You’ll turn into the Ka’ba of my
every quest / Brother! I have no
fear of blazing flames / I’m not
a log that burns away and
perishes
And “the idiot”
who has set his heart on
perdition and submitted to the
imminence of death, the man who
has wisely fled danger but is
drawn again to love’s
providence, the trusted master
and the wealthy mufti who has
been humbled by love is Rumi
himself: You were the lord of
the land, a gentleman / you were
trusted, an engineer, a master
of every man / You fled danger
with a thousand tricks / Did
idiocy bring you back or
providence? / You, who studied
all of Mercury’s mysteries /
now, see providence make a
mockery of all intelligence
And the anguished lover, who
flees all the counsels, who has
abandoned his lessons on
jurisprudence for the anguish of
love and has fled all the
learned masters of Shafe’i and
Hanafi jurisprudence is, again,
Rumi himself: He said: Please
halt all your counsels / …/
Whilst my love pangs just grow
and grow / Of what use to me are
Shafe’i and Abu-Hanafi’s
lessons?
And, ultimately,
his meeting with the beloved
represents “the insurgency of
love” which he portrays with
fiery eloquence: O seraph of the
insurgency of love / O epitome
of love and lover of love / As I
hover between tears and speech /
Should I speak or should I weep?
/ If I speak, my tears might
vanish / But if I weep, how can
I praise and cherish? / Saying
this, the frail lover began to
weep / the sight of him bringing
tears to every lord and serf /
As his body was wracked by sob
after sob / the people of
Bokhara gathered round / some
spoke, some wept and some
laughed / man, woman and child
all gathered around / And the
sky gently whispered to the
earth / If you’ve never seen the
tumult of resurrection, look and
see / Resurrection Day’s roll
has now been unfurled / It’s
laid bare the secrets of the
universe / Reason is dumbfounded
at this ardour and passion /
incapable of judging what’s more
moving: union or separation
And this is only the first
staging post of the insurgency
of love. It contains seventy two
madnesses which, were they to be
revealed, would make the skies
tremble with entreaties and
prayers.
But one point
still remains. The insurgency of
love connects everything from
passion to resurrection to the
ocean to mountains, fish, cats,
whales, waves, drowning, and
highs and lows. It turns them
all into the members of a single
happy family. Be that as it may,
one guest still seems to be
missing and that is “sugar”.
This turbulent ocean which is
filled with whales that are
constantly being tossed and
turned; this foaming mass that
is bestirred and bestirring, is
neither salty nor bitter; it is
sugary through and through.
This tumultuous resurrection
not only turns death into life
but also sweetens all
bitterness. And Rumi was right
to say: Love is the master and,
I, the mastered / I’m the
sweetest sugar with the passion
of love
“Sugar”,
“sweetness” and “halva” are
recurring words in his poetry
and this can only be because the
poet himself had been filled
with a sweetness that seeped
into his words. How can a
grief-stricken mind produce
joyful poetry? How can sweetness
flow out of bitterness? Love had
daubed his eyes with a collyrium
that made him see the Master of
the world as a sweet-seller who
keeps dispensing sweets and
somehow never runs out: At dawn
your love took this tired heart
to a place / which lies beyond
dawn, beyond night, beyond day /
What a sweet-seller I have who
sells me sweets / And never
turns me away or runs out of
sweets
Even when lovers
are in low spirits and things
are in a state of contraction,
it is a sweet death and the
sweet-seller is never far away:
We are the foes and the beloved
is the one who kills us /
Drowning in the ocean, the waves
come and kills us / It is with
the sweetest pleasure that we
relinquish our lives / For it is
with halva and sugar that the
king kills us / Let the doubters
fear, the one who is pious knows
no fear / For he nails his self
to the cross like Jesus
One night I saw his churned-over
being, face aglow, laughing with
the most inebriated sweetness as
he returned from a nightly
banquet with the beloved.
Helplessly, I borrowed some of
his own verses and recited them
to him: What lies in your heart,
O, wonder, how sweet your smile
/ Who were you with last night
to be grinning like dawn? / It’s
true that, from the first, God
created you to smile / But,
today, your smile is like no
other smile / You’re the purest
musk perfuming the air / You’re
the sun, greeting the moon with
a smile / When all the trees are
autumnal and dead / From what
orchard are you with your
blossoming smile? / Sing me the
last few verses in your
inebriated way / You, who
bewitch me with your blameless
smile
So, if one night,
you, too, dream of an inebriated
whale, who is dancing about in a
tumultuous ocean made of the
sweetest wine like a
fleet-footed cat, now, bounding
up and, now, bounding down, who
is laughing and spreading
sweetness all around, there is
no need for you to go to an
interpreter of dreams. The
interpretation is “Rumi”!
“How lovely is the nod and
wink of a dream that is better
than wakefulness!”
Delivered at Maryland
University, USA, September 2007
**Translated from the
Persian by Nilou Mobasser
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