by Brad Gooch
My sun and moon has come, my sight and hearing has come
My silver one has come, my mine of gold has come.
My ecstasy has come; the light of my life has come
Whatever you may name has come; my wish has come.
My highway robber has come; my parole breaker has come
That fair-skinned Joseph, suddenly by my side, has come.
Today is better than yesterday, my dear old friend,
Last night I was ecstatic, hearing news that he had come.
The one I was looking for last night with lantern in hand
Today, like a basket of flowers strewn on my way, has come . . .
Now is the time to rise up, as morning rises in the world
Now is the time to roar, because my lion has come.
The peaceable community to which Shams returned held together without unraveling for several months. During the first weeks, different members of Rumi’s circle hosted parties that included music, poetry, prayer, and sama dancing in their private homes, celebrating Shams’s return. Eventually he began teaching again, speaking to the newly respectful students about a theme close to his heart—the beauty of the world, accessible beyond our confining minds. “The heart is wider than the heavens,” Shams taught them, “and subtler and brighter than the starry skies. Why squeeze your heart with thoughts and whispering doubts? Why make this joyous world into a narrow prison? Like a caterpillar, we weave a cocoon of thoughts, doubts, and fantasies, slowly suffocating ourselves.” He added, “I never struggle with sayings of the Prophet, except ‘This world is the prison of the believer.’ But I don’t see any prison. I ask you, ‘Where is the prison?’”
While Shams did not pride himself on being a poet, and did not work at the craft, he did have poetic talent and accented these talks with couplets of his own that he recited spontaneously. “Tolerate me for just two or three more days—in the book of my life, only a single page remains,” he said, sighing aloud in a rhyme one day, expressing a sentiment eerily hinting at an imminent ending. Many of these lines show up in Rumi’s later poems, either because he memorized them, or he pored over the pages of Shams’s transcribed talks, as he had pored over his father’s pages—often in poems revolving around Shams:
In the book of my life, only a single page remains.
His sweet jealousy has left my soul restless
In my book, he wrote words sweeter than sugar,
Words that would make the shy moon blush.
Under no illusion about the display of newfound respect among the students of Rumi, Shams knew that much of their warmth was contrived. He was too observant not to realize that theirs was a calculated reverence, and, with his uncensored frankness, he said as much in public. “They felt jealous in the past because they supposed, ‘If he were not here, Mowlana would be happy with us,’” Shams summarized the matter. “Then they experienced that things became worse, but Rumi gave them no consolation. Whatever they had in the beginning, they lost, and then even all the passion they held about the situation dissipated. So now they are happy and they honor me and they pray for me.”
After his return Shams and Rumi resumed their intense companionship. According to the early biographer Sepahsalar, who presented himself as having been by Rumi’s side from the earliest days, “Mowlana became even more involved with Shamsoddin, even more than the first time they met each other. They became more united than ever. Day and night they talked to each other, and they sank into each other.” Yet even with the lighter atmosphere in the Madrase Khodavandgar, Shams still longed for the open road. If Rumi’s ideal solution was having Shams available in Konya as he went about his duties, Shams’s wish was to disappear with Rumi as his traveling companion. He wanted to show him his homeland. “I wish we could take a trip together to Mosul and—you have not seen those places—to Tabriz,” he cajoled Rumi. “You could preach in the pulpit, and then mingle with the crowds and see how they are when they get together just among themselves. Afterwards we could travel to Baghdad, and then travel on to Damascus.”
Implicit in such invitations was Shams’s persistent desire to depart. When he spoke with Sultan Valad of his composure when he arrived in Syria, he insinuated that Rumi was far more distraught and agitated by the sudden separation. The “work,” the teaching with Rumi, was going well. Indeed the “sinking” of Rumi into Shams was the spiritual immersion that he had hoped to achieve. Yet the threat of an abrupt departure still made Rumi uneasy, while Shams’s years of solitude had accustomed him to self-reliance, or at least so he claimed, though he had not been entirely sure when he was in Aleppo. “If truly you are not able to accompany me, I’m not afraid,” insisted Shams. “I did not suffer when I was separated from you, nor does being together with you bring me happiness. My happiness comes from within and my suffering comes within. Now, I know living with me is difficult. I know that I am complicated. I am neither this nor that.”
A significant interruption in this steady pattern of communing followed by threats of leaving forever occurred in the early winter of 1247 when Shams, now in his sixties, surprisingly asked Rumi for permission to marry Kimiya, a young woman brought up in Rumi’s harem. (As she may have shared a name with Kerra’s daughter, some would surmise she was Rumi’s stepdaughter.) This request, with its implication of settling down, not only marked a change in the tenor between Shams and Rumi, but also a sharp break from Shams’s lifetime habit of wandering loosely, with no family ties, though he did mention having once had children, whom he left behind to travel on his quest. Kimiya was a “pure and beautiful” young woman, and theirs was a December-May marriage. This late-life blossoming of desire on the part of Shams seemed sincere, though it clearly began as a practical transition to a more stable connection with Rumi. As marriages were arranged according to a patriarchal tradition, Kimiya’s opinion may or may not have been heard.
Rumi was most pleased by this turn of events, which insured that Shams would be more committed—and nearby—as an official member of his household. On the day of the wedding, Rumi read the contract of marriage for the couple. According to the biographer Sepahsalar, “Because it was winter, Mowlana arranged special rooms with a fireplace for them to consummate their vows. That winter Shamsoddin continued to reside in those rooms.” The nuptial bed was a ceremonial focus of the traditional wedding ritual, and like Rumi’s father, Baha Valad, Shams emphasized the integration of his sexual relations with Kimiya and his intense religious devotion. In later years, when trying to explain to some students the meaning behind Bayazid Bestami’s practice of seeking divinity in the faces of young men, Rumi told them a story about Shams from that winter:
Shamsoddin said, “The Lord Most High loves me so much that He comes to me in whatever appearance pleases me. Just now, He came to me in the appearance of Kimiya, having taken on her form.” So it was with Bayazid. The Lord Most High appeared before him in the face of a beardless youth.
On another occasion, Shams re-created a bit of bedtime conversation with his new wife for Rumi, or others gathered. “‘I asked God to give me a child,’” he had apparently said to Kimiya. “‘My wish to have a child is because I want you to be his mother. You are sleeping!’ Then she opened her eyes. She saw me. Again she fell asleep. It’s rare that I wake anybody up, but I woke her up three times. And each time she fell asleep again.” On another evening, Shams took his bedding and slept alone in a corner, his head pillowed on his arm. He was as open about talking of intimacies with Kimiya as Rumi’s father had been confessional in his own notebooks about sleeping with Rumi’s mother.
The small heated rooms Rumi set aside for Shams and Kimiya were located off a porch leading to the women’s harem. The other half of Rumi’s domestic world, the harem was adjacent to the madrase, but entirely separate. No women were allowed to use the entrance leading to the school, and no males were allowed to pass into the small hallway, unless they were mahram, or religiously legal insiders, as Shams now was. Such harems often had their own court
yard, with a pool of water, gutters, and, in Konya, mulberry or plane trees, hung with icicles in winter, surrounded by mud walls, and lit at night by torches. Besides sleeping cells there was a kitchen, a bath, and an undecorated women’s dining room.
If the life of the madrase was in constant upheaval during those years, the harem was still dominated by some of the original personalities and customary behavior, dating back to Khorasan. Holding sway as a matriarchal figure remained the Great Kerra, the mother of Rumi’s first wife. A keeper of the institutional memory, she was able to tell tales of life in Balkh and Samarkand, and had been witness to the difficult period when her daughter, Rumi’s first wife, Gowhar, was left to bring up their two tussling sons while her husband was off in Syria pursuing his studies. The feuding of the boys had so embroiled the harem that some said it instigated their being sent away to Damascus to school. Still living in the harem, too, was their nanny, who had been so pained when her charges were sent away that she had passed her days in her chamber, mournfully cleaning carrots and turnips. The youngest children left in the harem were Rumi’s second pair, by Kerra—his daughter, Maleke, and his third son, Mozaffaroddin.
By moving into a residence just inside the harem, Shams found himself immediately enmeshed in some difficult family politics, which were not mollified by his aggravating personality. The focus was Rumi’s second son, Alaoddin, who was already antagonistic toward Shams. Among the few in Rumi’s circle who did not participate in the welcoming ceremonies in honor of Shams’s triumphal return, Alaoddin, now in his early twenties, had a natural talent for book learning and knowledge. In the absence of his father, many of the more traditional students in the madrase had begun to gather around him for orthodox teachings, as he mingled with the learned jurists in other schools. He particularly resented Shams for taking his father away from his lectures and sermons, and, now, for interjecting himself in a volatile sibling rivalry by favoring Sultan Valad. Some rumors were even circulating that Alaoddin had secretly wished to marry Kimiya. Annoying Alaoddin, too, was Shams’s interfering with his favorite pastime of chess, the Persian court game, as Shams told Rumi that he should stop procuring Alaoddin’s chess pieces. “This is his study time,” Shams said. “He must study every day, even if only one sentence.”
The incident that caused these tensions to explode was Alaoddin walking too often by Shams’s and Kimiya’s rooms—even though another path would have been impossible, given the layout of the harem. As Sepahsalar told the story, “The second son of Mowlana, Alaoddin, was the treasure of the world, because of his beauty, kindness, knowledge, and intellect. Every time he would come to pay his respects to his grandmother and women relatives, when he would pass through the courtyard and go by the winter house, Shamsoddin would boil with jealousy. A few times, Shamsoddin gently advised Alaoddin, ‘Oh light of my eyes, even though you have wonderful manners, you need to walk by this house less often.’ This rebuke humiliated Alaoddin, especially as he already resented Shamsoddin for showing more attention and kindness to Sultan Valad.”
Angry words were exchanged that led to much trouble between them. “Did you see how I threatened Alaoddin, indirectly?” Shams asked around afterward, giving a fuller report of his side of the conversation. “I said, ‘Your cloak is in the shop.’ He said, ‘Tell the merchant to bring it here for me.’ ‘No, I’ve forbidden him to come into my room because it disturbs me. I’ve chosen this place for my seclusion and solitude.’ Likewise to the woman who brings water to the room, I said, ‘Come, when I tell you to come. But otherwise don’t just walk in. I may be naked or I may be clothed.’” He then quoted to Alaoddin, in Arabic, similar rebukes ascribed to Mohammad, for his followers, when they were given to walking into his private family quarters unannounced. The message Shams seemed to be sending in this conflict was of his desire to maintain his privacy—and Kimiya’s—against Alaoddin’s casual and frequent comings and goings.
Alaoddin spoke publicly of this perceived insult, causing more troubles in the school and the harem. According to Sepahsalar’s account, “He repeated Shamsoddin’s words to others. They took advantage of that opportunity to begin to rile Alaoddin even further. They said, ‘What a strange thing to say! That foreigner has come and is staying in Khodavandgar’s house and he doesn’t allow Khodavandgar’s son into his own home.’ Whenever these people had a chance, they tried to challenge and embarrass Shamsoddin. Because of his great kindness and patience, Shamsoddin did not say anything to Mowlana. After awhile he spoke to Sultan Valad, as they bothered him excessively.”
Although Shams swore that Kimiya’s “heart was after me,” she often chafed against her new regimen as the young bride of Shams. Referring to his possessiveness with Rumi, Shams admitted: “Whomever I love, I oppress. If he accepts, I roll up like a little ball in his palm. Kindness is something that you can practice with a five-year-old child, so he will believe in you and love you. But the real thing is oppression.” He contrasted his harsh manner with Rumi’s gentleness, a trait from childhood on. “‘Someone said,’ he repeated, ‘Rumi is all gentleness, and Shamsoddin has both the attribute of gentleness and the attribute of severity.’” Shams added, “I become bored with gentleness.” Ever the strict Quran teacher, he saw kindness as ineffectual for teaching.
Yet the wisdom that Shams accrued over long years of teaching and debating the philosophers, and praying and fasting in solitary confinement in little rooms in caravanserai across the Middle East, had not prepared him for life in the harem. Severity worked well perhaps with disciples on a chosen fiery path to self-knowledge, yet he was not entirely in control of his passions in this late-life union with a woman much younger. His traits of possessiveness and jealousy became inordinate. He grew suspicious of younger men as having potential charm for her, especially Alaoddin. After a lifetime of ascetic practice and notorious mystical feats, Shams was blindsided by domestic life.
Flashes of marital fights and conflicts began to surface in his monologues. Kimiya evidently was a free spirit and not ideal as a submissive wife. An issue was her frequent escaping to one of the gardens on the outskirts of town with other women, without his permission. Such walled gardens were located outside the city and were generally divided into orchards for cultivating figs and grapes or producing honey, and rose gardens with benches set aside for chatting and entertaining among the upper classes. Shams complained of Kimiya spending time with ladies outside of their home: “I cannot blame her. She does not know what she is doing. But why has she gone to the garden? How could she sit with this group?” He threatened to find two witnesses in front of whom he could perform the simple Muslim rite of divorce. Another time he begged Rumi to give him ten days to find a house and leave. “Stay for two months,” requested Rumi. Upset, Shams responded, “It was as if he was telling me to sit still for two years.”
One afternoon during that winter, the women of the harem decided to take Kimiya on an outing for fresh air. She had evidently been depressed, kept guarded in near isolation by her husband, and perhaps had been ill, too. As Aflaki told the story, “One day, without permission from Shamsoddin, the women took her with Sultan Valad’s grandmother to her garden to cheer her up. Suddenly Shamsoddin returned home and asked for Kimiya. He was told, ‘Sultan Valad’s grandmother, with other ladies, has taken her out for a walk.’ Shamsoddin let out a loud shout and became very angry. When Kimiya Khatun returned home, she immediately felt pain in her neck and she was as motionless as a dry branch. She screamed in pain, and after three days she passed away.”
The sudden death of Kimiya was the darkest of Shams’s many difficult challenges in Konya. However awkwardly or excessively he expressed his feelings, Shams had come to cherish Kimiya. Certainly no contemporary account accused Shams of her murder. Yet the fraught circumstances of her death, and suspicious shadow of his own violent anger over those final winter days, did not give him much confidence in his unseasonable attempt to live a settled family life, while the tragedy exacerbated the fully returned ang
er of Alaoddin and his emboldened cohort. Rumi would compose lines about his commitment to Shams, vow-like lines that included his refusing to listen to dissenters:
When speaking with people, seal your lips with mud
Keep the sugar stuck behind your teeth, and go.
Say, “‘That moon is for me, the rest is for you,
I don’t need a family or home,” and go.
Who is that moon? The Lord Shams of Tabriz.
Step into the shadow of that king, and go.
On the subject of the death of Kimiya, however, Rumi was publicly silent. Enduring his shocking loss, Shams left the harem to return to live near the portico of the madrase.
Hanging over Shams was a sense of failure. While Rumi had begun as his eager student, and Shams enjoyed the power of his own independence—his experience as a lifelong wanderer—he had tried in several dramatic ways to secure their valued companionship. Shams changed his life more than Rumi had, and he had sacrificed more. He never wanted to remain in Konya, and clearly after his departure to Syria did not wish to return to certain trouble, being constantly studied by the glaring eyes of enemies. His marriage to Kimiya was his final attempt at making the situation work by becoming a stable member of Rumi’s extended family. Yet Shams was unsuited for domestic life. As he left his room in the harem, having practically been banished now from that family, he was reduced to a few moves, cornered, and was mulling the meaning of these ominous signs of trouble.
Shams’s tiny cell in the school was far less secure than his peripheral room with Kimiya on the edge of the harem. Sensing weakness, Alaoddin and his allies again tried to drive Shams from town, as if the welcoming jubilee of nine months earlier had never occurred. Rumi had set Shams up in a cell that he nicknamed “The Place of Khezr,” referring to the mystic friend of Moses in the Quran, who initiated him into the secret ways of spiritual practice. As he had with his rooms in the merchant inn, Shams padlocked the door to insure privacy and seclusion, his habit in whatever setting he found himself. Yet the protective hand of Rumi was not sufficient to guard him against unannounced nighttime local police incursions and regular threats to his security.