The Forty Rules of Love: a novel of Rumi

Rumi
KONYA, DECEMBER 1245
Bent on praying the morning prayer together in the open air, Shams and I left the house shortly after dawn.
We rode our horses for a while, through meadows and valleys and across ice-cold streams, enjoying the
breeze on our faces. Scarecrows in wheat fields greeted us with an eerie poise, and newly washed
clothes in front of a farmhouse fluttered madly in the breeze as we passed by, pointing in all directions
into the semidarkness.
On the way back, Shams pulled at the reins of his horse and pointed to a massive oak tree outside the
town. Together we sat under the tree, the sky hanging above our heads in shades of purple. Shams placed
his cloak on the ground, and as calls to prayer echoed from mosques near and far, we prayed there
together.
“When I first came to Konya, I sat under this tree,” Shams said. He smiled at a distant memory, but then
grew pensive and said, “A peasant gave me a ride. He was a great admirer of yours. He told me your
sermons cured sadness.”
“They used to call me the Wizard of Words,” I said. “But it all feels so far away now. I don’t want to
give sermons anymore. I feel like I am done.”
“You are the Wizard of Words,” Shams said determinedly. “But instead of a preaching mind, you have
a chanting heart now.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that, and I didn’t ask. The dawn had erased what remained of the night
before, turning the sky into a blameless orange. Far ahead of us, the town was waking up, crows were
diving into vegetable gardens to peck at whatever they could steal, doors were screeching, donkeys
braying, and stoves burning as everyone got ready for a brand-new day.
“People everywhere are struggling on their own for fulfillment, but without any guidance as to how to
achieve it,” murmured Shams with a shake of his head. “Your words help them. And I’ll do everything in
my power to help you. I am your servant.”
“Don’t say that,” I protested. “You are my friend.”
Oblivious to my objection, Shams continued. “My only concern is the shell you have been living in. As
a famous preacher, you have been surrounded by fawning admirers. But how well do you know common
people? Drunks, beggars, thieves, prostitutes, gamblers—the most inconsolable and the most
downtrodden. Can we love all of God’s creatures? It is a difficult test, and one that only a few can pass.”
As he kept speaking, I saw gentleness and concern in his face, and something else that looked almost
like maternal compassion.
“You are right,” I conceded. “I have always lived a protected life. I don’t even know how ordinary
people live.”
Shams picked up a lump of soil, and as he crumbled it between his fingers, he added softly, “If we can
embrace the universe as a whole, with all its differences and contradictions, everything will melt into
One.”
With this, Shams picked up a dead branch and drew a large circle around the oak tree. When he was
done, he raised his arms toward the sky, as if wishing to be pulled up by an invisible rope, and uttered the
ninety-nine names of God. At the same time, he began to whirl inside the circle, first slowly and tenderly
but then accelerating steadily, like a late-afternoon breeze. Soon he was whirling with the speed and
might of gusty winds. So captivating was his frenzy that I couldn’t help but feel as if the whole universe—

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the earth, the stars, and the moon—spun with him. I watched this most unusual dance, letting the energy it
radiated envelop my soul and body.
Finally Shams slowed down to a halt, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath, his face
white, his voice suddenly deep, as if coming from a distant place. “The universe is one being.
Everything and everyone is interconnected through an invisible web of stories. Whether we are aware
of it or not, we are all in a silent conversation. Do no harm. Practice compassion. And do not gossip
behind anyone’s back—not even a seemingly innocent remark! The words that come out of our mouths
do not vanish but are perpetually stored in infinite space, and they will come back to us in due time.
One man’s pain will hurt us all. One man’s joy will make everyone smile,”  he murmured. “This is what
one of the forty rules reminds us.”
Then he turned his inquisitive gaze to me. There was a shadow of despair in the bottomless depths of
his eyes, a wave of sorrow that I had never seen in him before.
“One day you will be known as the Voice of Love,” Shams remarked. “East and West, people who
have never seen your face will be inspired by your voice.”
“How is that going to happen?” I asked incredulously.
“Through your words,” Shams answered. “But I am not talking about lectures or sermons. I am talking
about poetry.”
“Poetry?” My voice cracked. “I don’t write poetry. I am a scholar.”
This elicited a subtle smile from Shams. “You, my friend, are one of the finest poets the world will
ever come to know.”
I was about to protest, but the determined look in Shams’s eyes stopped me. Besides, I didn’t feel like
arguing. “Even so, whatever needs to be done, we will do it together. We will walk on this path
together.”
Shams nodded absently and lapsed into an eerie silence, gazing at the fading colors in the horizon.
When he finally spoke, he uttered those ominous words that have never left me, scarring my soul
permanently: “As much as I would love to join you, I’m afraid you will have to do it alone.”
“What do you mean? Where are you going?” I asked.
With a wistful pucker of the lips, Shams lowered his gaze. “It is not in my hands.”
A sudden wind blew in our direction, and the weather turned chilly, as if warning us that the fall would
soon be over. It began to rain out of the clear blue sky, in light, warm drops, as faint and delicate as the
touch of butterflies. And that was the first time the thought of Shams’s leaving me hit me like a sharp pain
in the chest.

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