The Forty Rules of Love

by Elif Shafak

  “You stay out of this,” I said. “I’m not taking orders from drunken dervishes. Unlike my father, that is.”

  “Aladdin, shame on you,” my father broke in.

  I felt an instant and potent pang of guilt, but it was too late. So many resentments I thought I had left behind came flooding back to me.

  “I have no doubt you hate me as much as you say you do,” Shams proclaimed, “but I don’t think you have stopped loving your father even for a minute. Don’t you see you are hurting him?”

  “Don’t you see you are ruining our lives?” I shot back.

  That was when my father lunged forward, his mouth set in a grim line, his right hand raised above his head. I thought he was going to slap me, but when he didn’t, when he wouldn’t, I felt even more uneasy.

  “You shame me,” my father said without looking at my face.

  My eyes welled with tears. I turned my head aside and suddenly came face-to-face with Kimya. How long had she been standing there watching us from a corner with fearful eyes? How much of this squabble had she heard?

  The shame of being humiliated by my father in front of the girl I wanted to marry churned in my stomach, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. It felt like the room was spinning all around me, threatening to collapse.

  Unable to stay there a moment longer, I grabbed my coat, pushed Shams aside, and dashed out of the house, away from Kimya, away from all of them.

  Shams

  KONYA, FEBRUARY 1246

  Bottles of wine stood between us, loaded with the smells of hot earth, wild herbs, and dark berries. After Aladdin was gone, Rumi was so sad he couldn’t talk for a while. He and I stepped out into the snow-covered courtyard. It was one of those bleak February evenings when the air felt heavy with a peculiar stillness. We stood there watching the clouds move, listening to a world that offered us nothing but silence. The wind brought us a whiff of the forests from afar, fragrant and musky, and for a moment I believe we both wanted to leave this town for good.

  Then I took one of the bottles of wine. I knelt beside a climbing rose tree that stood thorny and bare in the snow, and I started to pour the wine on the soil beneath it. Rumi’s face brightened as he smiled his half-thoughtful, half-excited smile.

  Slowly, stunningly, the bare rose tree came alive, its bark softening like human skin. It produced a single rose in front of our eyes. As I kept pouring the wine under the tree, the rose revealed a lovely warm shade of orange.

  Next I took the second bottle and poured it in the same way. The rose’s orangey color turned into a bright crimson tone, glowing with life. Now there remained only a glassful of wine at the bottom of the bottle. I poured that into a glass, drank half of it, and the remaining half I offered to Rumi.

  He took the glass with trembling hands, responding to my gesture with a beaming reciprocity of kindness and equanimity, this man who had never touched alcohol in his life.

  “Religious rules and prohibitions are important,” he said. “But they should not be turned into unquestionable taboos. It is with such awareness that I drink the wine you offer me today, believing with all my heart that there is a sobriety beyond the drunkenness of love.”

  Just as Rumi was about to take the glass to his lips, I snatched it back and flung it to the ground. The wine spilled on the snow, like drops of blood.

  “Don’t drink it,” I said, no longer feeling the need to continue with this trial.

  “If you weren’t going to ask me to drink this wine, why did you send me to the tavern in the first place?” Rumi asked, his tone not so much curious as compassionate.

  “You know why,” I said, smiling. “Spiritual growth is about the totality of our consciousness, not about obsessing over particular aspects. Rule Number Thirty-two: Nothing should stand between yourself and God. Not imams, priests, rabbis, or any other custodians of moral or religious leadership. Not spiritual masters, not even your faith. Believe in your values and your rules, but never lord them over others. If you keep breaking other people’s hearts, whatever religious duty you perform is no good.

  “Stay away from all sorts of idolatry, for they will blur your vision. Let God and only God be your guide. Learn the Truth, my friend, but be careful not to make a fetish out of your truths.”

  I had always admired Rumi’s personality and known that his compassion, endless and extraordinary, was what I lacked in life. But today my admiration for him had grown by leaps and bounds.

  This world was full of people obsessed with wealth, recognition, or power. The more signs of success they earned, the more they seemed to be in need of them. Greedy and covetous, they rendered worldly possessions their qibla, always looking in that direction, unaware of becoming the servants of the things they hungered after. That was a common pattern. It happened all the time. But it was rare, as rare as rubies, for a man who had already made his way up, a man who had plenty of gold, fame, and authority, to renounce his position all of a sudden one day and endanger his reputation for an inner journey, one that nobody could tell where or how it would end. Rumi was that rare ruby.

  “God wants us to be modest and unpretentious,” I said.

  “And He wants to be known,” Rumi added softly. “He wants us to know Him with every fiber of our being. That is why it is better to be watchful and sober than to be drunk and dizzy.”

  I agreed. Until it turned dark and cold, we sat in the courtyard with a single red rose between us. There was, beneath the chill of the evening, the scent of something fresh and sweet. The Wine of Love made our heads spin gently, and I realized with glee and gratitude that the wind no longer whispered despair.

  Ella

  NORTHAMPTON, JUNE 24, 2008

  “Baby, there’s a new Thai place in town,” David said. “They say it’s good. Why don’t we go there tonight? Just the two of us.”

  The last thing Ella wanted to do on this Tuesday was go out for dinner with her husband. But David was so insistent that she couldn’t say no.

  The Silver Moon was a small restaurant with stylish lamps, leather booths, black napkins, and so many mirrors hung low on every wall that the customers felt as if they were dining with their own reflections. It didn’t take Ella long to feel out of place there. But it wasn’t the restaurant that had made her feel this way. It was her husband. She had glimpsed in David’s eyes an unusual glitter. Something wasn’t normal. He looked pensive—worried, even. What disturbed her most was that he had stuttered a few times. Ella knew that for his childhood speech impediment to surface, David had to be very distressed.

  A young waitress dressed in a traditional outfit came to take their orders. David asked for chili basil scallops, and Ella decided on the vegetables and tofu in coconut sauce, staying true to her fortieth-birthday decision to refrain from eating meat. They also ordered wine.

  They talked about the sophisticated decor for a few minutes, discussing the effect of black napkins versus white napkins. Then there was silence. Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of sleeping in the same bed, sharing the same shower, eating the same food, raising three kids … and what it all added up to was silence. Or so Ella thought.

  “I see you’ve been reading Rumi,” David remarked.

  Ella nodded, though with some surprise. She didn’t know what surprised her more: to hear that David knew about Rumi or that he cared about what she read.

  “I started reading his poetry to help me to write my report on Sweet Blasphemy, but then I became interested in it, and now I’m reading it for myself,” Ella said by way of explanation.

  David grew distracted by a wine stain on the tablecloth, then sighed with a valedictory expression on his face. “Ella, I know what’s going on,” he said. “I know everything.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ella asked, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  “About … about your affair …” David stammered. “I’m aware of it.”

  Ella looked at her husband, flabbergasted. In the glow of the candle tha
t the waitress had just lit for them, David’s face showed pure despair.

  “My affair?!” Ella blurted out, quicker and louder than she intended. She instantly noticed the couple at the next table turning in their direction. Embarrassed, she dropped her voice to a whisper and repeated, “What affair?”

  “I’m not stupid,” David said. “I checked your e-mail account and read your messages with that man.”

  “You did what?” Ella exclaimed.

  Ignoring the question, his face contorted with the weight of what he was about to announce, David said, “I don’t blame you, Ella. I deserve it. I neglected you, and you looked for compassion elsewhere.”

  Ella lowered her gaze to her glass. The wine had a charming color—a deep, dark ruby. For a second she thought she glimpsed specks of iridescent sparkle on its surface, like a trail of lights guiding her. And perhaps there was a trail. It all felt surreal.

  Now David paused, deciding how best, or whether, to reveal what he had in mind. “I’m ready to forgive you and leave this behind,” he finally remarked.

  There were many things Ella wanted to say at that moment, poignant and mocking, tense and dramatic, but she chose the easiest one. With gleaming eyes, she asked, “What about your affairs? Are you also going to leave them behind?”

  The waitress arrived then with their orders. Ella and David sat back and watched her leave the plates on the table and refill the glasses with exaggerated politeness. When she finally left, David flicked his eyes up toward Ella and asked, “So is this what this was about? Was it for revenge?”

  “No,” Ella said, shaking her head in disappointment. “This is not about revenge. It never was.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  Ella clasped her hands, feeling as if everything and everyone in the restaurant—the customers, the waiters, the cooks, and even the tropical fish in the fish tank—had stopped to hear what she was going to say.

  “It is about love,” she said at last. “I love Aziz.”

  Ella expected her husband to roll with laughter. But when she finally found the courage to look him in the eye, there was only horror on his face, quickly replaced by the expression of someone who was trying to solve a problem with minimal damage. Suddenly she had a moment of knowing. “Love” was a serious word, loaded and quite unusual, for her—a woman who had said so many negative things about love in the past.

  “We have three kids,” David said, his voice trailing off.

  “Yes, and I love them very much,” Ella said with a slump in her shoulders. “But I also love Aziz—”

  “Stop using that word,” David interjected. He took a big gulp from his glass before he spoke again. “I made major mistakes, but I never stopped loving you, Ella. And I have never loved anyone else. We can both learn from our mistakes. For my part I can promise you that the same thing won’t happen again. You don’t need to go out and look for love anymore.”

  “I didn’t go out and seek love,” Ella muttered, more to herself than to him. “Rumi says we don’t need to hunt for love outside ourselves. All we need to do is to eliminate the barriers inside that keep us away from love.”

  “Oh, my God! What’s come over you? This isn’t you! Stop being so romantic, will you? Come back to your old self,” David snapped, then added, “Please!”

  Ella furrowed her brow and inspected her nails as if there were something about them troubling her. In truth, she’d remembered another moment in time when she herself had said virtually the same words to her daughter. She felt as if a circle had been completed. Nodding her head slowly, she put her napkin aside.

  “Can we please go now?” she said. “I’m not hungry.”

  That night they slept in separate beds. And early in the morning, the first thing Ella did was write a letter to Aziz.

  The Zealot

  KONYA, FEBRUARY 1246

  “Batten down the hatches! Sheikh Yassin! Sheikh Yassin! Did you hear the scandal?” Abdullah, the father of one of my students, exclaimed as he approached me on the street. “Rumi was seen in a tavern in the Jewish quarter yesterday!”

  “Yes, I heard about that,” I said, “but I wasn’t surprised. The man has a Christian wife, and his best friend is a heretic. What did you expect?”

  Abdullah nodded gravely. “I guess you are right. We should have seen it coming.”

  A number of passersby gathered around us, overhearing our conversation. Somebody suggested that Rumi should not be allowed to preach in the Great Mosque anymore. Not until he apologized publicly. I agreed. Being late for my class in the madrassa, I then left them to their talk and hurried off.

  I had always suspected that Rumi had a dark side ready to float up to the surface someday. But even I hadn’t expected him to take to the bottle. It was utterly disgusting. People say Shams is the primary reason for the downfall of Rumi, and if he weren’t around, Rumi would go back to normal. But I hold a different view. Not that I doubt that Shams is an evil man—he is—or that he doesn’t have a bad influence on Rumi—he does—but the question is, why can’t Shams lead other scholars astray, such as me? At the end of the day, those two are alike in more ways than people are willing to recognize.

  There are people who heard Shams remark, “A scholar lives on the marks of a pen. A Sufi loves and lives on footprints!” Now, what does that mean? Apparently Shams thinks scholars talk the talk and Sufis walk the walk. But Rumi, too, is a scholar, isn’t he? Or does he not consider himself one of us anymore?

  Should Shams enter my classroom, I would chase him away like a fly, never giving him the opportunity to sputter gibberish in my presence. Why can’t Rumi do the same? There must be something wrong with him. The man has a Christian wife, for starters. I don’t care if she has converted to Islam. It is in her blood and in the blood of her child. Unfortunately, the townspeople don’t take the threat of Christianity as seriously as they should, and they assume that we can live side by side. To those who are naïve enough to believe that, I always say, “Can water and oil ever mix? That is the extent to which Muslims and Christians can!”

  Having a Christian for a wife and being notoriously soft toward minorities, Rumi was already an undependable man in my eyes, but when Shams of Tabriz started living under his roof, he totally deviated from the right path. As I tell my students every day, one needs to be alert against Sheitan. And Shams is the devil incarnate. I am sure it was his idea to send Rumi to the tavern. God knows how he convinced him. But isn’t beguiling righteous people into sacrilege what Sheitan excels at?

  I understood Shams’s evil side right from the start. How dare he compare the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, with that irreligious Sufi Bistami? Wasn’t it Bistami who pronounced, “Look at me! How great is my glory!” Wasn’t it he who then said, “I saw the Kaaba walking around me”? The man went as far as stating, “I am the smith of my own self.” If this is not blasphemy, then what is? Such is the level of the man Shams quotes with respect. For just like Bistami, he, too, is a heretic.

  The only good news is that the townspeople are waking up to the truth. Finally! Shams’s critics increase with each passing day. And the things they say! Even I am appalled sometimes. In the bathhouses and teahouses, in the wheat fields and orchards, people tear him apart.

  I reached the madrassa later than usual, my mind heavy with these thoughts. As soon as I opened the door to my classroom, I sensed there was something unusual. My students were sitting in a perfect line, pale and oddly silent, as if they had all seen a ghost.

  Then I understood why. Sitting there by the open window with his back resting against the wall, his hairless face lit with an arrogant smile, was none other than Shams of Tabriz.

  “Selamun aleykum, Sheikh Yassin,” he said, staring hard at me across the room.

  I hesitated, not knowing whether to greet him, and decided not to. Instead I turned to my students and inquired, “What is this man doing here? Why did you let him in?”

  Dazed and uneasy, none of the students dared
to answer. It was Shams himself who shattered the silence.

  His tone insolent, his gaze unwavering, he said to me, “Don’t scold them, Sheikh Yassin. It was my idea. You see, I was in the neighborhood and said to myself, ‘Why don’t I stop by the madrassa and visit the one person in this town who hates me most?’ ”

  Husam the Student

  KONYA, FEBRUARY 1246

  Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, we were all sitting on the floor in the classroom when the door opened and in walked Shams of Tabriz. Everyone was stunned. Having heard so many bad and bizarre things about him, mostly from our teacher, I, too, couldn’t help but cringe upon seeing him in our classroom in the flesh. He, however, seemed relaxed and friendly. After greeting us all, he said he had come to have a word with Sheikh Yassin.

  “Our teacher doesn’t like to have strangers in the classroom. Perhaps you should talk to him some other time,” I said, hoping to avoid a nasty encounter.

  “Thanks for your concern, young man, but sometimes nasty encounters are not only inevitable, they are necessary,” Shams answered, as if he had read my thoughts. “Don’t you worry, though. It won’t take too long.”

  Irshad, sitting next to me, muttered between clenched teeth, “Look at his nerve! He is the devil incarnate.”

  I nodded, though I wasn’t sure Shams looked like the devil to me. Set against him as I was, I couldn’t help liking his forthrightness and audacity.

  A few minutes later, Sheikh Yassin entered through the door, his brow furrowed in contemplation. He had taken no more than a few steps inside when he stopped and blinked distractedly in the direction of the uninvited visitor.

  “What is this man doing here? Why did you let him in?”

  My friends and I exchanged shocked glances and frightened whispers, but before anyone could muster the courage to say anything, Shams blurted out that he had been in the neighborhood and had decided to visit the one person in Konya who hated him most!