The Forty Rules of Love: a novel of Rumi

each created different and unique. No two people are alike. No two hearts beat to the same rhythm. If
God had wanted everyone to be the same, He would have made it so. Therefore, disrespecting
differences and imposing your thoughts on others is tantamount to disrespecting God’s holy scheme.”
“That sounds good,” I said, amazing myself by the ease in my voice. “But don’t you Sufis ever doubt

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anything about Him?”
Shams of Tabriz smiled a tired smile. “We do, and doubts are good. It means you are alive and
searching.”
He spoke in a lilting tone, exactly as if he were reciting from a book.
“Besides, one does not become a believer overnight. He thinks he is a believer; then something
happens in his life and he becomes an unbeliever; after that, he becomes a believer again, and then an
unbeliever again, and so on. Until we reach a certain stage, we constantly waver. This is the only way
forward. At each new step, we come closer to the Truth.”
“If Hristos heard you talk like this, he would tell you to watch your tongue,” I said. “He says not every
word is fit for every ear.”
“Well, he’s got a point.” Shams of Tabriz let out a brief laugh as he jumped to his feet. “Come on, let
me take you home. We need to tend to your wounds and make sure you get some sleep.”
He helped me get on my feet, but I could hardly walk. Without hesitation the dervish lifted me as though
I weighed nothing and took me on his back.
“I warn you, I stink,” I mumbled in shame.
“That’s all right, Suleiman, don’t worry.”
In this way, never minding the blood, urine, or stench, the dervish carried me along the narrow streets
of Konya. We passed by houses and shacks plunged in deep slumber. Dogs barked at us, loudly and
ferociously, from behind the garden walls, informing everyone of our presence.
“I have always been curious about the mention of wine in Sufi poetry,” I said. “Is it real or
metaphorical wine that the Sufis praise?”
“What difference does it make, my friend?” Shams of Tabriz asked before he dropped me off in front of
my house. “There is a rule that explains this: When a true lover of God goes into a tavern, the tavern
becomes his chamber of prayer, but when a wine bibber goes into the same chamber, it becomes his
tavern. In everything we do, it is our hearts that make the difference, not our outer appearances. Sufis
do not judge other people on how they look or who they are. When a Sufi stares at someone, he keeps
both eyes closed and instead opens a third eye—the eye that sees the inner realm.”
Alone in my house after this long and exhausting night, I pondered what had transpired. As miserable as
I felt, somewhere deep inside me there was a blissful tranquillity. For a fleeting moment, I caught a
glimpse of it and yearned to remain there forever. At that moment I knew there was a God after all, and
He loved me.
Though I was sore, sore all over, strangely enough I was not hurting anymore.

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