The Greatest Meeting: The Life Stories of Rumi and Shams-e Tabrizi: Their Tumultuous Times

By Majid Amini

The Greatest Meeting

This is the saga of the impassioned journeys of two men, their true premonitions of a mystical meeting, and their self-discoveries. Full of compelling adventure, love and betrayal, joy and sadness, their stories have never before been told.

This extraordinary true historical novel takes place in Central Asia, and the Middle East; toady's Turkey in the thirteenth century during the tumultuous time of Changiz Khan's conquest.

It is an unforgettable detailed narrative account of the lives of an enigmatic giant and legendary mystic figure, Shams-e Tabrizi, and the most renowned religious scholar, Molana Jalaleddin Mohammad-e Rumi. It chronicles the relentless search of a critical and progressive thinker, Shams, to find a true friend, a soul mate, who could give a powerful echo to his voice, to his revolutionary ideas of interpreting religion relevant to our daily earthly existence, of recognizing each human being as the "Supreme Majesty."

This remarkable literary work presents the story of Rumi's dream for the ultimate divine illumination, his yearning for some¬thing greater than himself, his intellectual rebirth, and the volcanic artistic eruption that resulted in the incomparable monumental works of poetry: The Collection of Shams-e Tabrizi and Massnavi; comprised of over seventy thousand verses.

For over seven centuries, over seventy thousand of Rumi's ingenious and magnificent poems have profoundly taught us all a greater level of self-awareness, and now this work acquaints us with the life of this man, and the enigmatic person who inspired him.

An impressive artistic undertaking, lyrical, intelligent, beautifully crafted, paced, this work is enriched by unforgettable characters. From the early chapters to the heartwarming, triumphant, unpredictable and astonishing conclusion, Majid Amini, the author of Escape From Paradise, proves himself a masterful writer. For those who appreciate Rumi's poems and for those unfamiliar with his work, this book is a must read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456604561

Book preview

Angeles

Chapter One

... the scripture writer of the universe wrote the truth in three scripts:

One he could read and no one else!

One he could read and everyone else!

And one he could not read nor could anyone else!

I am that third Script!

Shams-e Tabrizi

My eyes are getting tired from reading the words on the pages of this book I hold tightly in my hands, while sitting on one of two grey, granite-covered platforms outside our house’s gate. Even though I have trouble understanding this difficult book, it still draws me to its pages like a magnet. The tantalizing collection of anecdotes, beautifully arranged metaphors, and hidden mystic wisdom in this book constantly challenges me. It’s one of those books that, if a curious person picks it up, I’m sure he wouldn’t be able to put it down until he devours the last word, probably with an enormous appetite. I compensate my lack of other virtues with an unquenchable sense of curiosity.

Today is Friday, and the maktab [private school] I attend is closed. I therefore have the whole day, in the absence of my father’s interference, to do whatever I please. Because of my not having had enough sleep last night, the words appear blurry against the whiteness of the page, with each word taking on a soul of its own, moving slowly like an ant. They link together to form a procession, a marching band of ants, chasing each other, making the sentences utterly illegible.

To give my eyes a short rest, I look straight up to the sky above. Squinting, I’m momentarily blinded by the radiant turquoise of the sky and the glare of the sunlight. I lower my head and gaze over the wide treeless street in front of our house and see my friends – all near my age. They are playfully busy, chasing a round homemade ball, but I’m not jealous seeing them so happy and carefree.

The dust raised by their fast-moving feet fills the air and reflects the bright sunlight against airborne particles of dust and makes a large column of yellow light.

The air is soft, slightly chilly. I love the smell in the air. It’s perfumed with the fragrance of honeysuckle from the vines hanging over our neighbor’s walls, accentuated with the earth’s odor caused by the early morning April shower. I can feel every cool kiss of the breeze on my face and can hear the sweet commotion orchestrated by the mischievous adolescent sparrows amidst the honeysuckle vines. What a perfect day!

I close the book and stare at the fast-moving boys and their game. I can’t stop the sudden rush of thoughts that attack my mind. It is a one-way conversation I always have with my God. It goes like this, "Oh God, please don’t misunderstand me. I am happy and grateful that you’ve brought me to this world, but I’m equally disappointed for not being permitted to be in your presence, in your court. Tell me, God, what could happen if I were one of your acquaintances, or maybe even one of your friends? As far as I can tell, no catastrophe would strike your haven. I’m sure that your beautiful heaven would remain as immaculately clean as your prophets claim it to be. See, all your messengers, Moses, Jesus, and Mohammad, have told their followers that you’ve created us in your own image. To me, that means I am part of you. If that’s true, then why don’t you allow me to be in your presence? Do you know why I have this desire to be with you? I would just like to look at you, the mirror of my own soul that you are, ask you a few questions, and bask in the grace of your answers that I’m certain would be fascinating and beautiful, like poetry. See God. I don’t fear you like others do. I just love you."

Oh, I know, I know. I should stop asking these questions. Once when I mentioned them to one of my friends, he looked at me in a strange way and said, You’re crazy even to think about these sorts of questions. This is blasphemy.

I can’t shut my mind and not allow these questions to enter my head. So be it. Let people think I’m crazy. What’s special about being sane? Being like others means to be colorless and boring. It takes courage to be different from others, because everybody laughs at you.

What I don’t understand is why the adults don’t ask God the same questions I do. Is it because they are not curious about their own existence? I know if they asked God the same questions I do, then they would understand me better, and perhaps be more sympathetic towards me for having this internal conflict!

I don’t like to play with those boys. Their games don’t interest me. Their company doesn’t please me that much either. Their games are silly. I don’t see any challenge in them. I don’t find any purpose in kicking the ball farther than the next boy. Of course, those boys don’t understand why I don’t like to participate in their games. How could they? I always come up with different excuses for not playing with them. Oh, I have a stomach pain. My foot hurts. I have a fever. These are the usual excuses I give them. By the distance I consciously keep between myself and the other kids, I don’t care if you characterize me as an aloof.   

How long can I go on and control and hide the turbulence I often feel? I really don’t know. I’ve never made a conscious decision to be different from other kids – never. And this small, lean, fragile body of mine doesn’t house a soul that can easily compromise. See, I’m not a grocer. I can’t haggle with my beliefs like a grocer does with the price of a loaf of bread. That’s why everybody says, This is the typical uncompromising character of a Turk – a jackass – a man from Tabriz, Azerbaijan. I often wonder how people can be so reckless by generalizing the character of a group of people this way. It’s beyond me.

Normal or abnormal, I’m who I am – a twelve-year-old boy, born in an extremely fundamentalist religious family in the year of 1184 in the city of Tabriz. Why my parents named me Shams, meaning khorshid [sun], I shall never know.     

In my earlier years, before attending a formal class, I spent my time in a daze, amazed, and delighted in the beauty and wonders of the world around me. The majesty of the mountains and the sky, the spectacular colors of the flowers and birds, dazzled me. And when I learned to read the written words on a page, the human stories in the holy book of Ghorân, it took my breath away. Now I attend the classes taught by a great teacher, Shaykh Abu Bakr Sallebâf of Tabriz, a precious saint, who lives in the Charandab district of Tabriz, to the west of the shrine of Imam Hafade. I go there from early morning to sundown every day, at first, because my father forced me. But later, I noticed how knowledgeable, how vast the sea of my teacher’s wisdom was, and most important, how kind he was and I now attend his classes willingly. His knowledge and wisdom give me a powerful sense of imagination, like wings, so that I can fly, soar, and go to exotic places and meet interesting people that otherwise I couldn’t even imagine. The words that come out of his mouth are the whispers of compassion.

I can hardly wait to get to my class in the morning and come the late afternoon I’m sad to leave.

I sit quietly on the carpeted floor across from my teacher. Around me are a pack of noisy boys. Like me, they all dream of becoming men someday. The room could definitely be cleaner and less smelly than it is. But then, I don’t attend the class to enjoy the amenities of the classroom.

I’m certain that the other students are all there because of their fathers’ wishes for them to learn the religious laws, so they can become religious jurists or doorkeepers of some mosque and make a comfortable living in the future. Religion – what a crazy thing it has become! See, how religion, those precious words of that beautiful man of Makeh, the Prophet Mohammad, has become a means to feed fat bodies. Yes, their bodies get fat and their souls starve to death.

Don’t be surprised that a young boy like me can be so opinionated about a complex subject like religion. I’m different from other boys my age. I don’t take pleasure in being different either. In fact, I often wish I could be like the rest – normal, having my head inside my own manger, chewing on my own share of hay.     

My teacher opens my blind eyes to see things that otherwise would be hidden from me. I wish he wouldn’t feed me small morsels of knowledge but, instead, let me drink from the flowing river of his wisdom all at once, for I have no patience. I don’t know why I feel this way. Maybe it’s because I haven’t come to this world to waste my time.   

Yes, I’m very much preoccupied with this uncontrollable urge to know, Who am I? What is my essence? To what end have I come to this earth? Where am I headed? What are my roots? And what is my destiny? It’s because of asking these kinds of questions that people think I’m intoxicated with these unnatural ideas.

My face is thin and pale, surrounded by long curly black hair that doesn’t see water for days. I wear a simple long white-cotton shirt, baggy pants, and worn sandals. I don’t care how I look.

I hear the screech of the door to our house as it opens, and see the shadow of my father’s figure as he comes out. With a growing sense of unease, instinctively I turn and look at him, curious about what he wants. My father is in his early forties – tall and lean, and at times mean. His grey hair matches his long salt-and-pepper beard. He always wears a mask of anger on his square face, even on happy occasions. Wearing a white turban and a dark blue shirt over grey cotton pants, he just stands there, staring at me stonily, then at the playing boys, as if he is weighing something in his mind. I don’t know why he shakes his head as he sits on the other platform across from me. Oh, yes, I know. He is annoyed and, like a grand judge, he’s now going to sit there and be judgmental about everything.

My father is an angry man. He is a devoutly religious man. I don’t believe he has much faith in people, particularly in me. He is fierce and often I’m afraid of his fierceness, yet unable to stop loving him. I hope when I grow up, I won’t inherit his anger. He constantly objects to the way I look, dress and behave. But his objections always go in one ear and out the other.

Why aren’t you playing with your friends? Must you be always alone? he asks in a Persian that is heavily accented with a Turkish dialect. But I’m glad that his question is free of malice and anger.   

I look up and stare at him earnestly. I don’t see the charming smile that normally eases over his lips when he’s in one of his rare good moods. I’d like to leave his questions with no answer, but I can’t. Because he won’t leave me alone until he gets a satisfactory reply. May be because, he’s a Turk.

I don’t feel like playing, I answer him quietly, trying not to be argumentative, and go back to my reading. From the corner of my eye I see my teacher, Shaykh Abu Akbar, a tall frail man in his late sixties. With a cane in his hand, dressed similarly to my father, the poor old man walks slowly towards our house. Father doesn’t notice him. I’m at first perplexed seeing my teacher coming to our house unexpectedly, but then I’m pleased to see him approaching us.

Why are you behaving like this? I’m targeted by my father’s sharp words, his special style of inquisition. For you to grow up doesn’t mean we must suffer so much humiliation. ...You’re not insane, are you? He pauses for a moment, and I’m glad that this might be his last question. But I’m wrong. He goes on and asks me another one by pointing at the closed book on my lap What’s that you’re reading?     

The thoughts of a great wise man, a Sufi, I respond, maintaining a tone of respect in my voice.

Don’t you think that you’re too young for that sort of subject? he asks.

I didn’t know one must be a certain age to read what one might like, I respond with no deliberate intention of being sarcastic.

In the absence of my father’s attention, my teacher arrives at the house with a notable grace. He leans his frail body on his cane and remains motionless, tentatively listening to the unpleasant exchanges of words between Father and me.

Why are you so full of anguish? Why do you torment yourself? father nags at me.

I really don’t have an answer that would satisfy him. His questions brew a sense of frustration in me that if unchecked could turn into feelings of resentment that in turn could easily ferment into full-blown anger.

Must your clothes be made of silver for you to be happy? he asks deridingly.

I swallow my anger, look up at my father with all the affection I can muster and respond, Dear father, I wish someone would take these simple clothes I wear and give them to someone who’s naked. I honestly mean it, father.

Father snaps at me angrily again, You shame me! People talk behind your back! They think you are crazy, and I can’t defend you. I’ll beat you if you don’t behave properly!

I tell myself, here we go again; the same threat, the same fear tactic! When is he going to understand that making his child live in constant fear doesn’t work? I don’t know. Maybe frightening their children is one of the duties of all fathers.

My teacher steps forward and faces my father. I see so much discomfort in his eyes. He shakes his head bitterly and, knowing him, that gesture tells me he is enraged. He points the tip of his cane at my father’s face and speaks his mind with a quivering threatening voice, As the teacher of this child, I need to say this to you. If it wasn’t because of him, the love I hold in my heart for him, and if I was a little younger, I’d punish you for insulting this boy, and never speak to you again. He then walks to me, hesitates for several seconds, changes his tone of voice, and tells me affectionately, Let your life now and all the time to come in your long life be joyous and happy, son. He then bows to me, to a naive child like me, and walks away. I’m stunned with his manner and the threatening words with which he responded to my father, and equally surprised at the way he expressed his affection with those kind words to me.

My heart sinks even lower when my father rises, walks to me, grabs my wrist and abruptly drags me into the house. Once we’re in the living room, where my mother is occupied with household chores, he releases my wrist. It’s clear to me that he doesn’t have the heart to punish me, so he delivers me to my mother.

See what kind of child you raised ... a conceited, self-centered little brat! he sounds as if he didn’t have anything to do with my making and upbringing.

Staring at his face, I clearly can see now that the annoyance on his face has yielded to puzzlement.

Talk to your son! Teach him manners! He’s a confused kid, totally lost! Show him the right way, he orders my mother with a tone of voice that has lost much of its harshness and then walks away leaving us alone.

I feel the warm palm of my mother’s hand on my face. It doesn’t take more than one touch of her hand on my face to erase the dust of hurt father had left there. I hold her hand to my lips and she kisses my forehead. Everything is wiped clean; all my mischievous deeds that appeared so unforgivable to my father’s eyes a minute ago are not only forgiven by my mother, but they’re even considered virtuous. I’m as happy as I can be, and I go my way continuing to love this book I’m reading.

How can I not love my life and everything else on this earth?

As I said, my father doesn’t understand me at all. Worst of all, I’m a stranger in my own home, among my friends, and in my town. Father is a stranger to me; my heart recoils from him. I think he might attack me at any time. Most of the time, he speaks kindly to me, but I think he is capable of beating me and expelling me from his house if he gets angry enough. I must confess that if there’s any tenderness in me, it’s from my mother. She has a heart as soft as the petal of a rose.

I always tell my father, We’re not cut from the same fabric.

It’s not only my father who doesn’t understand me. There are times that I feel no one in this world understands me. That includes, sometimes, even my own teacher, the Shaykh. I often whisper these words to myself, You have difficulty to express your thoughts as eloquently as others do. You walk around as if you’re sleepwalking. Of course, the others are all walking deaf mutes. You’re unable to explain your inner thoughts, but even when you do, the others act as if they are not able to hear you.

See, I can speak to myself, or one who is like me. But, recently a strange notion began invading me, abruptly and unexpectedly brewing in me – a seed of premonition. I’m certain about this notion, that there will be one person in this wide world who will understand me. He will become my hamdam [soul mate]. Perhaps, he’s not born yet, but he’ll come onto this earth – a beautiful soul, an extraordinary person, with an immaculate spirit of a saint. I’ve had this notion for a while. When I express it to others, they laugh at me. They think I’m crazy. I’ve decided not to mention it to anyone anymore, to just keep it a secret. When the time is ripe, I’ll search the earth for that one person. He will be the only soul in whose presence I’ll feel comfortable and whose company I’ll enjoy. I’m sure he will love me more than I’ve ever been loved.     

I’m beginning to realize that the Shaykh Abu Bakr, with all his knowledge, has nothing else to say to me. I mean, I’ve learned from him all he knows, and that’s almost saying, all there is to know. But I don’t dare to mention this fact to my teacher or to my father.

I firmly believe in the existence of God, but I’m tormented by the sorrows of the human condition around me. Maybe the way I feel at this early age causes people to think that my way of thinking is absurdly wild and crazy. How can I blame them?   

Incredibly, the older I get the more I realize I’ve two distinct personalities. In one personality, I see myself raw, inferior, a person who knows nothing of the complexity of this world, who is humble before the disenfranchised and oppressed. And in the other personality, I see myself as superior to others, and I look down on those who possess power over the poor. Because of these two conflicting thoughts in me, these two characters within me, I must search for the absolute truth, find it, acquire it, and convey it to the people. And if the people react to me the way they are doing now, I would seek the world over to find the one who would understand me. Maybe, through his voice, I’ll be understood by others.     

Chapter Two

The dance of men of God is exquisitely delicate and weightless.

A weightless leaf floating on the ripples of a stream;

Within, like a mountain, and outwardly, like a fresh leaf,

Separated from a branch of a giant tree,

Floating towards an ocean of wisdom,

With its purity and beauty,

Visible in the entire spectrum of nature’s gifts.

Shams-e Tabrizi

It’s late afternoon, August 16, 1204. There’s no breeze in the air. I look through the opened window of my bedroom and see the leaves of the tall aspen in our backyard. Caressed by the yellow light of the late afternoon, I find them motionless. They look awfully thirsty against the cloudless blue sky as they lazily hang from the branches. The outside air is hot and humid, thick and stagnant, making the inside of our house unbearably stuffy and hot.

Since my teacher informed me that there’s nothing else he can teach me, I no longer attend any of his classes. Instead, I read profusely, a variety of books in the fields of spirituality, philosophy, religious law, history, and mystic power. Also, I spend many hours of my days and sleepless nights in seclusion, contemplating and struggling hard to surrender my earthly needs in order to empower myself to attain unity with the deity and reach truths beyond human understanding. In spite of all the time I need to spend by myself, deep down it makes me sad that I have to live my life mostly in the absence of my father, whose company, despite his abusive personality, I sometimes crave in my lonely hours.

Like today, I go out and sit quietly in the shade on the platform outside our house’s gate, where it’s slightly cooler than inside, and read my book. The boys are not playing in the street, nor do I feel the presence of their ghosts. They have grown up, maybe they have chosen their fathers’ professions, perhaps married, and now have children of their own. But I wonder why their children are not here, chasing a worthless ball?   

This interesting book that I hold on my lap is a detailed narrative of another great Sufi’s thoughts, his mystic powers, and a man who lived an enigmatic life. I’m so deeply submerged in the book that I don’t see my father approaching me from the street. He startles me when he looks at me with those eyes that are so intensely full of contempt or worries. I always wonder which. A new emotion overtakes me: a sort of mild panic.

Did you find a job? he asks the same question that he has been asking since I stopped going to school.

Well, I wove ten men’s belts yesterday, took them to the bâzâr and sold them.

Do you call that a job?

No.

I’d like to know why?

"Because I have a job!"

"Doing what?"

"I study. Can’t you see, father? I’m reading this book."

What have you learned so far from these books? he asks imperiously.

I don’t know how to respond to him, because the things I’ve learned from studying these heaps of books cannot be conveyed in a few sentences. I summarize it this way, The most important thing I’ve learned so far from reading these books is that every corruption, every evil deed, including murder, theft, lying, deceiving and cheating that goes on in this world is because someone believes in someone else, and mimics him. See father, these books teach me how to disbelieve ideas and thoughts rather than to believe in them. They teach me how to become like a sheet of blank paper, a mirror without the reflection of anybody’s ideas in it.     

I’m certain he doesn’t understand my response. I’m right, for my last remark infuriates him, which is the last thing I want to do. He loses control. Furious, he grabs my wrist firmly with his coarse strong hand and drags me into the house. I’m taller than him now, over six feet four inches, and even though I’m lanky and skinny, I’m stronger too, but I don’t put up any resistance to his action.

We pass through the