The Forty Rules of Love: a novel of Rumi

The Master
BAGHDAD, APRIL 1242
Baghdad took no note of the arrival of Shams of Tabriz, but I will never forget the day he came to our
modest dervish lodge. We had important guests that afternoon. The high judge had dropped by with a
group of his men, and I suspected there was more than cordiality behind his visit. Renowned for his
dislike of Sufism, the judge wanted to remind me that he kept an eye on us, just as he kept an eye on all the
Sufis in the area.
The judge was an ambitious man. He had a broad face, a sagging belly, and short, stubby fingers, each
with a precious ring. He had to stop eating so much, but I suspected that nobody had the courage to tell
him, not even his doctor. Coming from a long line of religious scholars, he was one of the most influential
men in the area. With one ruling he could send a man to the gallows, or he could just as easily pardon a
convict’s crimes, lifting him up from the darkest dungeons. Always dressed in fur coats and expensive
garments, he carried himself with the grandeur of someone who was sure of his authority. I did not
approve of his big ego, but for the well-being of our lodge I did my best to remain on good terms with this
man of influence.
“We live in the most magnificent city in the world,” the judge pronounced as he popped a fig into his
mouth. “Today Baghdad overflows with refugees running away from the Mongol army. We provide them
safe haven. This is the center of the world, don’t you think, Baba Zaman?”
“This city is a gem, no doubt,” I said carefully. “But let us not forget that cities are like human beings.
They are born, they go through childhood and adolescence, they grow old, and eventually they die. At this
moment in time, Baghdad is in its late youth. We are not as wealthy as we used to be at the time of Caliph
Harun ar-Rashid, though we can still take a measure of pride in being a center of trade, crafts, and poetry.
But who knows what the city will look like a thousand years from now? Everything might be different.”
“Such pessimism!” The judge shook his head as he reached out to another bowl and picked a date. “The
Abbasid rule will prevail, and we will prosper. That is, of course, if the status quo is not disrupted by the
traitors among us. There are those who call themselves Muslim, but their interpretation of Islam is far
more dangerous than threats from infidels.”
I chose to remain silent. It was no secret that the judge thought the mystics, with their individualistic
and esoteric interpretations of Islam, were troublemakers. He accused us of paying no heed to the 
sharia
and thus disrespecting the men of authority—men like him. Sometimes I had the feeling he would rather
have all Sufis kicked out of Baghdad.
“Your brotherhood is harmless, but don’t you think some Sufis are beyond the pale?” the judge asked,
stroking his beard.
I didn’t know how to respond to that. Thank God just then we heard a knock on the door. It was the
ginger-haired novice. He made a beeline toward me and whispered in my ear that we had a visitor, a
wandering dervish who insisted upon seeing me and refused to talk to anyone else.
Normally I would have asked the novice to take the newcomer to a quiet, welcoming room, give him
warm food, and make him wait until the guests had left. But as the judge was giving me a hard time, it
occurred to me that a wandering dervish could dispel the tension in the room by telling us colorful stories
from faraway lands. So I asked the novice to bring the man in.
A few minutes later, the door opened and in walked a man dressed head to toe in black. Lank, gaunt,
and of indeterminable age, he had a sharp nose, deeply set pitch-black eyes, and dark hair that fell over

---

his eyes in thick curls. He wore a long, hooded cloak, a wool garment, and sheepskin boots. There were a
number of charms around his neck. He held a wooden bowl in his hand of the sort that mendicant
dervishes carry to overcome their personal vanity and hubris by accepting the charity of others. I realized
that here was a man who did not pay much attention to the judgments of society. That people could
confuse him with some vagrant, or even a beggar, didn’t seem to bother him in the least.
As soon as I saw him standing there, awaiting permission to introduce himself, I sensed he was
different. It was in his eyes, in his elaborate gestures, written all over him. Like an acorn that might seem
modest and vulnerable to ignorant eyes but already heralds the proud oak tree that it will turn out to be, he
looked at me with those piercing black eyes and nodded silently.
“Welcome to our lodge, dervish,” I said as I motioned for him to take a seat on the cushions across
from me.
After greeting everyone, the dervish sat down, inspecting the people in the room, taking in every detail.
Finally his gaze stopped at the judge. The two men looked at each other for a full minute, without so much
as a word, and I couldn’t help wondering what each thought of the other, as they seemed so very opposite.
I offered the dervish warm goat milk, sweetened figs, and filled dates, all of which he politely refused.
When asked his name, he introduced himself as Shams of Tabriz and said he was a wandering dervish
searching for God high and low.
“And were you able to find Him?” I inquired.
A shadow crossed his face as the dervish nodded and said, “Indeed, He was with me all along.”
The judge interjected with a smirk he didn’t bother to hide, “I never understand why you dervishes
make life so complicated. If God was with you all along, why did you rummage around this whole time in
search of Him?”
Shams of Tabriz bowed his head pensively and remained silent for a moment. When he looked up
again, his face was calm, his voice measured. “Because although it is a fact that He cannot be found by
seeking, only those who seek can find Him.”
“Such wordplay,” the judge scoffed. “Are you trying to tell us that we cannot find God if we stay in the
same place all our lives? That’s nonsense. Not everyone needs to dress in tatters and hit the road like
you!”
There followed a ripple of laughter as the men in the room were eager to show their agreement with the
judge—high-pitched, unconfident, and unhappy laughs from people used to toadying to superiors. I felt
uneasy. Obviously it hadn’t been a good idea to bring the judge and the dervish together.
“Perhaps I was misunderstood. I didn’t mean to say one could not find God if he stayed in his
hometown. That is certainly possible,” conceded the dervish. “There are people who have never traveled
anywhere and yet have seen the world.”
“Exactly!” The judge grinned triumphantly—a grin that vanished upon hearing what the dervish uttered
next.
“What I meant to say, Judge, was that one could not find God if he stayed in the fur coat, silk garment,
and pricey jewelry that you are wearing today.”
A stunned silence descended upon the room, the sounds and sighs around us dissolving down to dust.
We all held our breath, as if expecting something bigger to happen, though what could have been more
shocking, I didn’t know.
“Your tongue is too sharp for a dervish,” the judge said.
“When something needs to be said, I’ll say it even if the whole world grabs me by the neck and tells me
to keep quiet.”
This was met with a frown from the judge, but then he shrugged dismissively. “Well, whatever,” he
said. “In any case, you are the man we need. We were just talking about the splendor of our city. You must
have seen many places. Is there a place more charming than Baghdad?”

---

Softly, his gaze moving from one man to another, Shams explained, “There is no question Baghdad is a
remarkable city, but no beauty on earth lasts forever. Cities are erected on spiritual columns. Like giant
mirrors, they reflect the hearts of their residents. If those hearts darken and lose faith, cities will lose their
glamour. It happens, and it happens all the time.”
I couldn’t help but nod. Shams of Tabriz turned to me, momentarily distracted from his thoughts, with a
friendly flicker in his eyes. I felt them on me like the heat of a sweltering sun. That was when I clearly
saw how he merited his name. This man was radiating vigor and vitality and burning within, like a ball of
fire. He was indeed Shams, “the sun.”
But the judge was of a different mind. “You Sufis make everything too complicated. The same with
philosophers and poets! Why the need for so many words? Human beings are simple creatures with
simple needs. It falls upon the leaders to see to their needs and make sure they do not go astray. That
requires applying the sharia to perfection.”
“The sharia is like a candle,” said Shams of Tabriz. “It provides us with much valuable light. But let us
not forget that a candle helps us to go from one place to another in the dark. If we forget where we are
headed and instead concentrate on the candle, what good is it?”
The judge grimaced, his face closing up. I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. Entering into a
discussion about the significance of the sharia with a man whose job was to judge, and often punish,
people according to the sharia was swimming in dangerous waters. Didn’t Shams know that?
Just as I was looking for an appropriate excuse to take the dervish out of the room, I heard him say,
“There is a rule that applies to this situation.”
“What rule?” asked the judge suspiciously.
Shams of Tabriz straightened up, his gaze fixed as if reading from an invisible book, and he
pronounced: