The Forty Rules of Love: a novel of Rumi

Suleiman the Drunk
KONYA, JUNE 1246
Blood and thunder! What an unforgettable evening! I still have not recovered from its effects. And of all
the things that I have witnessed tonight, the most startling was the finale.
After the sema, the great Kaykhusraw II stood up, his eyes ranging round the room imperiously. In
consummate smugness he approached the stage, and after giving a great whoop of laughter, he said,
“Congratulations, dervishes! I was impressed by your performance.”
Rumi gracefully thanked him, and all the dervishes onstage did the same. Then the musicians stood up
together and greeted the sovereign with ultimate respect. His face brimming with satisfaction,
Kaykhusraw signaled to one of his guards, who immediately handed him a velvet pouch. Kaykhusraw
bounced the pouch in his palm several times to show how heavy it was with golden coins and then flung it
onto the stage. People around me sighed and applauded. So deeply were we moved by the generosity of
our ruler.
Content and confident, Kaykhusraw turned to leave. But no sooner had he taken a step toward the exit
than the very pouch he’d flung on the stage was tossed back at him. The coins landed under his feet,
jingling like a new bride’s bracelets. Everything had happened so fast that for a full minute we all stood
still and perplexed, unable to make sense of what was going on. But no doubt the one who was most
shocked was Kaykhusraw himself. The insult was so obvious and definitely too personal to be forgivable.
He looked over his shoulder with unbelieving eyes to see who could have done such a horrible thing.
It was Shams of Tabriz. All heads turned toward him as he stood onstage arms akimbo, his eyes wild
and bloodshot.
“We don’t dance for money,” he boomed in a deep voice. “The sema is a spiritual dance performed for
love and love alone. So take back your gold, sovereign! Your money is no good here!”
A dreadful silence descended upon the hall. Rumi’s elder son looked so shaken that all the blood had
been drained from his young face. Nobody dared to make a sound. Without a sigh, without a gasp, we all
held our breaths. As if the skies had been waiting for this signal, it started to rain, sharp and stinging. The
raindrops drowned everything and everyone in their steady sound.
“Let’s go!” Kaykhusraw yelled to his men.
His cheeks wobbling with humiliation, his lips quivering uncontrollably, and his shoulders visibly
slumped, the sovereign headed for the exit. His many guards and servants scurried behind him one by one,
stomping on the spilled coins on the floor with their heavy boots. People rushed to scoop up the coins,
pushing and pulling one another.
As soon as the sovereign had left, a murmur of disapproval and disappointment rippled through the
audience.
“Who does he think he is!” some people burst out.
“How dare he insult our ruler?” others joined in. “What if Kaykhusraw makes the whole town pay the
price now?”
A group of people stood up, shaking their heads in disbelief, and stalked toward the exit in a clear sign
of protest. At the head of the protesters were Sheikh Yassin and his students. To my great surprise, I
noticed among them two of Rumi’s old disciples—and his own son Aladdin.

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