The Forty Rules of Love: a novel of Rumi

Sultan Walad
KONYA, JUNE 1246
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Shams kept saying. “Everybody will watch the same dance, but
each will see it differently. So why worry? Some will like it, some won’t.”
Yet on the evening of the sema, I told Shams I was worried that nobody would show up.
“Don’t worry,” he said forcefully. “The townspeople might not like me, they might not even be fond of
your father anymore, but they cannot possibly ignore us. Their curiosity will bring them here.”
And just so, on the evening of the performance, I found the open-air hall packed. There were merchants,
blacksmiths, carpenters, peasants, stonecutters, dye makers, medicine vendors, guild masters, clerks,
potters, bakers, mourners, soothsayers, rat catchers, perfume sellers—even Sheikh Yassin had come with
a group of students. Women were sitting in the rear.
I was relieved to see the sovereign Kaykhusraw sitting with his advisers in the front row. That a man of
such a high rank supported my father would keep tongues quiet.
It took a long time for the members of the audience to settle down, and even after they had, the noise
inside didn’t fully subside and there remained a murmur of heated gossip. In my itch to sit next to someone
who would not speak ill of Shams, I sat next to Suleiman the Drunk. The man reeked of wine, but I didn’t
mind.
My legs were jumpy, my palms sweaty, and though the air was warm enough for us to take off our
cloaks, my teeth chattered. This performance was so important for my father’s declining reputation. I
prayed to God, but since I didn’t know what exactly to ask for, other than things turning out all right, my
prayer sounded too lame.
Shortly there came a sound, first from far away, and then it drew nearer. It was so captivating and
moving that all held their breath, listening.
“What kind of an instrument is this?” Suleiman whispered with a mixture of awe and delight.
“It is called the ney,” I said, remembering a conversation between my father and Shams. “And its sound
is the sigh of the lover for the beloved.”
When the ney abated, my father appeared onstage. With measured, soft steps, he approached and
greeted the audience. Six dervishes followed him, all my father’s disciples, all wearing long white
garments with large skirts. They crossed their hands on their chests, bowing in front of my father to get his
blessing. Then the music started, and, one by one, the dervishes began to spin, first slowly, then with
breathtaking speed, their skirts opening up like lotus flowers.
It was quite a scene. I couldn’t help but smile with pride and joy. Out of the corner of my eye, I checked
the reaction of the audience. Even the nastiest gossipers were watching the performance with visible
admiration.
The dervishes whirled and whirled for what seemed like an eternity. Then the music rose, the sound of
a 
rebab
from behind a curtain catching up with the ney and the drums. And that was when Shams of
Tabriz entered the stage, like the wild desert wind. Wearing a darker robe than everyone else and looking
taller, he was also spinning faster. His hands were wide open toward the sky, as was his face, like a
sunflower in search of the sun.
I heard many people in the audience gasp with awe. Even those who hated Shams of Tabriz seemed to
have fallen under the spell of the moment. I glanced at my father. While Shams spun in a frenzy and the
disciples whirled more slowly in their orbits, my father remained as still as an old oak tree, wise and

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calm, his lips constantly moving in prayer.
Finally the music slowed down. All at once the dervishes stopped whirling, each lotus flower closing
up into itself. With a tender salute, my father blessed everyone onstage and in the audience, and for a
moment it was as if we were all connected in perfect harmony. A thick, sudden silence ensued. Nobody
knew how to react. Nobody had seen anything like this before.
My father’s voice pierced the silence. “This, my friends, is called the sema—the dance of the whirling
dervishes. From this day on, dervishes of every age will dance the sema. One hand pointed up to the sky,
the other hand pointing down to earth, every speck of love we receive from God, we pledge to distribute
to the people.”
The audience smiled and mumbled in agreement. There was a warm, friendly commotion all over the
hall. I was so touched by seeing this affirming response that tears welled up in my eyes. At long last my
father and Shams were beginning to receive the respect and love that they most certainly deserved.
The evening could have ended on that warm note and I could have gone home a happy man, feeling
confident that things were improving, had it not been for what happened next, ruining everything.

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