might have chosen to stay. But she said none of this. In any case, my father was convinced that the hermit
had a point, and within a few days so was I.
Shortly after, my father and I traveled to Konya. We waited for Rumi outside the
madrassa
where he
taught. When he walked out, I was too embarrassed to look up at him. Instead I looked at his hands. His
fingers were long, supple, and slender, more like an artisan’s than a scholar’s.
My father shoved me
toward him.
“My daughter is very gifted. But I am a simple man, and so is my wife. We have been told you are the
most learned man in the region. Would you be willing to teach her?”
Even without looking at his face, I could sense that Rumi wasn’t surprised. He must have been used to
such requests. While he and my father engaged in a conversation, I walked toward the yard, where I saw
several boys but no girls. But on the way back, I was pleasantly surprised when I spotted a young woman
standing in a corner by herself, her round face still and white as if carved of marble. I waved at her. She
looked stunned, but after a brief hesitation she returned my wave.
“Hello, little girl, can you see me?” she asked.
When I nodded, the woman broke into a smile, clapping her hands. “That’s wonderful! No one else
can.”
We walked back toward my father and Rumi. I thought they would stop talking when they noticed her,
but she was right—they couldn’t see her.
“Come here, Kimya,” said Rumi. “Your father informs me you love to study. Tell me, what is it in
books that you like so much?”
I swallowed hard, unable to answer, paralyzed.
“Come on, sweetheart,” my father said, sounding disappointed.
I wanted to answer correctly, with a response that would make my father proud of me, except I didn’t
know what that was. In my anxiety the only sound that came out of my mouth was a desperate gasp.
My father and I would have gone back to our village empty-handed
had the young woman not
intervened then. She held my hand and said, “Just tell the truth about yourself. It’s going to be fine, I
promise.”
Feeling better, I turned to Rumi and said, “I’d be honored to study the Qur’an with you, Master. I’m not
afraid of hard work.”
Rumi’s face brightened up. “That’s very good,” he said, yet then
he paused as if he had just
remembered a nasty detail. “But you are a girl. Even if we study intensely and make good progress, you’ll
soon get married and have children. Years of education will be of no use.”
Now I didn’t know what to say and felt disheartened, almost guilty. My father, too, seemed troubled,
suddenly inspecting his shoes. Once again it was the young woman who came to my help. “Tell him his
wife always wanted to have a little girl and now she would be happy to see him educate one.”
Rumi laughed when I conveyed the message. “So I see you have visited my house and talked to my
wife. But let me assure you, Kerra doesn’t get involved in my teaching responsibilities.”
Slowly, forlornly, the young woman shook her head and whispered in my ear, “Tell him you were not
talking about Kerra, his second wife. You were talking about Gevher, the mother of his two sons.”
“I was talking about Gevher,” I said, pronouncing the name carefully. “The mother of your sons.”
Rumi’s face turned pale. “Gevher is dead, my child,” he said dryly. “But what do you know about my
late wife? Is this a tasteless joke?”
My father stepped in. “I’m sure she didn’t mean ill, Master. I can assure you Kimya is a serious child.
She never disrespects her elders.”
I realized I had to tell the truth. “Your late wife is here. She is holding my hand and encouraging me to
speak. She has dark brown almond eyes, pretty freckles, and she wears a long yellow robe.… ”
I paused as I noticed the young woman gesture to her slippers. “She wants me to tell you about her
slippers. They are made of bright orange silk and embroidered with small red flowers. They are very
pretty.”
“I brought her those slippers from Damascus,” Rumi said, his eyes filling with tears. “She loved them.”
Upon saying that, the
scholar lapsed into silence, scratching his beard, his expression solemn and
distant. But when he spoke again, his voice was gentle and friendly, without a trace of gloom.
“Now I understand why everyone thinks your daughter is gifted,” Rumi said to my father. “Let’s go to
my house. We can talk about her future over dinner. I’m sure she’ll make an excellent student. Better than
many boys.”
Rumi then turned to me and asked, “Will you tell this to Gevher?”
“There is no need, Master.
She has heard you,” I said. “She says she needs to go now. But she is
always watching you with love.”
Rumi smiled warmly. So did my father. There was now an easiness hanging in the air that hadn’t been
there before. At that moment, I knew my encounter with Rumi was going to have far-reaching
consequences. I had never been close to my mother, but as if to compensate for her lack, God was giving
me two fathers, my real father and my adopted father.
That is how I arrived in Rumi’s house eight years ago, a timid child hungry for knowledge. Kerra was
loving and compassionate, more so than my own mother, and Rumi’s sons were welcoming, especially his
elder son, who in time became a big brother to me.
In the end the hermit was right. As much as I missed my father and siblings, there hasn’t been a single
moment when I regretted coming to Konya and joining Rumi’s family. I spent many happy days under this
roof.
That is, until Shams of Tabriz came. His presence changed everything.