Rumi
The religious scholar who built his prison of knowledge — And then turned into a Sufi poet to escape it
Sacrifice reasoning out of love today.
Real intellects are with God anyway:
The wise have sent their intellects up there;
Just idiots stayed away from Him. Beware!
- Masnavi IV, 1425-1428
Introduction
To stand in the light of truth is a deep need. We want to understand the world, how it works. We want to know our place in it. We seek meaning, purpose, and connection.
We want to step outside the cave, eat the forbidden fruit, steal the fire from the gods, pierce the illusion of reality, understand everything.
But many times we do not understand the consequences that await us in trying to fulfill this need.
In my previous essay, I explored how this third, this pursuit of Knowledge can leave us feeling empty, scared, stupid, confused, lonely, persecuted, paralyzed and possibly mad.
How truth is not a door to an open field where freedom awaits us but 'possibly' a narrowing corridor to a prison where self-destruction lies in store
The two writers I kept returning to when writing that post were Nietzsche and Rumi.
A strange pair you’d say. No two other authors could be further from each other you’d say. But you’d be wrong! The two have more in common than you’d think, not least of them being the form in which they choose to express themselves as we’ll see below.
Initially, I wanted this post to be about the paths the writers from my last post thought could help us break free from the prison of knowledge. I wanted it to be more than just about Rumi.
But after sitting in front of a screen and trying to force myself to make sense of it all, I gave up.
It seemed like I had to write about Rumi alone. The verses of his ‘Masnavi’, which I read a few years back, coincidentally side-by-side Nietzsche’s ‘The Joyous Science’ would not leave me alone.
It was not the poetry itself that was calling me, as being a non-native Persian speaker I had to rely on the translations by Jawad Mojaddedi and Alan Williams, but its message and my fascination with the fount it sprang from.
Reading the Masnavi, the writer, to me, came across as someone who at one time, similar to others like Goethe, Nietzsche, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky, had found himself weighed down by his knowledge. And who, having freed himself from that burden, wanted to share his secrets with others.
Indeed, reading Brad Gooch’s intensely readable Rumi's Secret: The Life of the Sufi Poet of Love, I realized that like others who traversed the desert of knowledge, Rumi tortured himself until the very end maintaining lengthy fasts, enduring sleepless nights, and periods of seclusion in search of the truth. His quest for knowledge, understanding, insight and wisdom was all-consuming.
Yet, amidst this spiritual turmoil, unlike many others, he found solace in his mystical practice and poetry. Poetry which sustained him, prevented him from burning out too young and allowed him to share his insights with the world.
Poetry which now provides solace to others through its message of love, compassion, and understanding and tries to show them a possible path out of the darkness of the mind. A path which he followed himself.
In this essay, I wanted to write about how Rumi's message can help us break free from the curse of knowledge and find a way back to our true selves.
But I realized that his life was equally interesting and worth talking about. And deserved a post of its own.
So that is where we will begin today. By unpacking the mystery of this most beloved Sufi poet.
Rumi’s Early Life
Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi, the 13th century Persian poet and mystic, is one of the most beloved and influential figures in the history of Sufism.
Born in 1207 in Balkh (modern-day Afghanistan), towards the end of the Islamic Golden Age, Rumi entered a world in flux.
The Third Crusade had ended just 18 years prior. The Abbasid Caliphate, which had once presided over a vast, unified empire, had weakened and fragmented and Genghis Khan's conquests, begun in 1195, foreshadowed the Mongol invasions that would reshape the region and Rumi’s life.
His birth also preceded the birth of Thomas Aquinas near the Kingdom of Sicily by 18 years, the sack of Baghdad by 51 years, the birth of Dane Alighieri by 58 years, the start of the travels of Marco Polo by 64 years, the fall of the last Crusader state in the Levant by 84 years and the rise of he Ottoman Empire by 92 years.
As a young boy of 10, Rumi was forced to flee the impending invasion of the Mongol army and embarked on a circuitous journey - first to Mecca, via Samarkand and Nishapur, for pilgrimage, then to Damascus and Aleppo for Rumi's education, before finally settling in Konya, Anatolia in 1228.
Sidenote: While it doesn't appear that Genghis Khan and Rumi ever met, the tantalizing proximity of these two monumental figures, one trying to bend the world to his will and the other seeking the truth regarding its reality, got me thinking about other similar "chance encounters" between world conquerors and philosophers in history.
Alexander and Diogenes (326 BC), Pope Leo and Atilla the Hun (452), Ibn Khaldun and Tamerlane (1401), and Napoleon and Hegel (1806) come to mind. The nature of these encounters, their meaning and their impact probably deserves a separate post altogether.
Anyways. Coming back! Over the course of this peripatetic journey Rumi had traversed almost 2,500 miles, interacted with some of the most famous Sufi minds of his times such as Faridud-Din Attar and Ibn Arabi and visited, stayed in and learned in some of most renowned centers of learning in the Islamic world at the time.
Rumi’s travels across Central Asia along the Silk Road gave him exposure to several cultures, several languages, and many living faiths including Buddhism and Zoroastrianism (the imperial religion of the Persians before the Arab Muslim invasions of the seventh century).
It is perhaps because of this rich tapestry of experiences that his poetry blends stories, traditions, customs, and beliefs from the Persian, Arabic, Greek, and Indian cultures with those of Islam, which form the backbone of his work.
Rumi was of twenty-one years of age when he reached Konya where his father, Baha Valad, found patronage under Seljuk ruler Alaoddin Kay Qobad I (r. 1219–36), to continue his work as a preacher and to teach students in a religious school.
Baha Valad established a religious school and groomed his son to be his successor. By the time Baha Valad passed away in 1231, Rumi had matured into an erudite scholar, married, and had a son of his own.
Rumi seemed destined for a modest career as a religious scholar, perhaps writing Koran commentaries, collecting Muhammad's teachings, or publishing sermons.
But - In November 1244, at the age of thirty-seven, Rumi experienced a transformational encounter that would start his metamorphosis into a poet.
Becoming a poet was not even remotely in Rumi’s plan. In fact, it was so far from his plans that in his discourses, later in his life, he talks dismissively of poets, saying:
"I am so affectionate that when friends visit, I recite poetry to avoid wearying them. Otherwise, what do I care for poetry? By Allah, there is nothing I despise more. It has become a necessary duty, like a man washing tripe for a guest's appetite, as unpleasant as that is, because the guest desires it."
- Fihe ma fih, Discourse 15, 89.
But poet he would soon become. A poet from whose fount more than 70,000 verses would flow and who would go on to become one of the most revered and beloved poets in the Persian tradition.
As one would expect, an event as important as this has generated many competing accounts. However, most versions at least share the same basic element.
According to one popular and relatively simple account, Rumi encounters an uneducated-looking stranger while walking though a local market and, upon being asked about his books, responds by snapping back dismissively, “They are something that you do not understand!"
The books then suddenly catch fire, so Rumi asks the stranger to explain what has happened. His reply is: “Something you do not understand."
Rumi’s Prison
Before we proceed further, it is perhaps important to highlight where Rumi stood in his life.
By his late thirties, Rumi had achieved a level of success and renown that most could only dream of. His eloquent and passionate sermons drew huge crowds, captivating believers and non-believers alike.
The Sunni Seljuk rulers who patronized him adored him as well, as his public speeches displayed enough emotion and beauty to convert Greeks and Armenians, a desired outcome for the regime.
In a sermon later in his life, he would describe the fervent emotion that his sermons had stirred among local Greek speakers, who did not understand much of their content:
“I was speaking one day to a crowd that included non-Muslims, and during my talk they were weeping and going into ecstatic states. “What do they understand? What do they know?” someone asked. “Not one out of a thousand Muslims can understand this sort of talk. What have they comprehended that they can weep so?” It was not necessary for them to understand the words. What they understood was the essence of the speech . . . the oneness of God.”
- Fihe ma fih, Discourse 22, 115
Yet, despite having mastered his realm of religious knowledge, despite having won the acclaim of his political rulers and the love of his people, Rumi was not fulfilled.
He traveled both outward and inward paths of education, yet he was feeling incomplete, inauthentic, not yet arrived at his destination. As he writes about his view of the world in his Masnavi:
“It’s a squabble with play-swords.
No purpose, totally futile. Like kids on hobby horses, soldiers claim to be riding
Boraq, Muhammad’s night-horse, or Duldul, his mule.
Your actions mean nothing, the sex and war that you do.
You’re holding part of your pants and prancing around,
Dun-da-dun, dun-da-dun.
Don’t wait till you die to see this.
Recognize that your imagination and your thinking
and your sense perception are reed canes
that children cut and pretend are horsies.”
- Masnavi I, 3426-54
It seemed Rumi, by the time he had met the stranger who burned his books, he had reached the same conclusion as Solomon, Tolstoy and Faust, amongst others, about the futility of our pursuit of knowledge.
In Rumi's view, the relentless pursuit of knowledge is a misguided endeavor, akin to chasing shadows:
“A bird flies past, its shadow slides below
As if it can itself move to and fro,
A foolish hunter chases this all day,
Thinking it's real he seeks it as his prey,
Not knowing it's a shadow of the bird—
About this simple fact he had not heard—
He shoots this shadow with his hunting bow,
Empties his quiver for a phantom show!
Just like his quiver soon his life runs dry,
Wasted pursuing shadows, days pass by!”
- Masnavi I, 420-25
The hunter, mistaking the bird's shadow for the real thing, exhausts his resources and ultimately his life in a futile chase.
Similarly, Rumi suggests the propensity of the intellect to become enamored with itself and chase after knowledge which are merely mirages:
“You fall in love with your own sight, disgrace!
While dreaming you boast vainly to a friend:
‘With my heart’s vision all veils I can rend.
Look, I’ve seen water over there. Let’s go!’
But that’s just a mirage and you don’t know.
The further that unreal mirage lures you,
The further from the water you’ll reach too.”
- Masnavi IV 3231-34
Rumi also realized how this search for knowledge was endless as he explains:
“The self is hell, a dragon wishing harm,
The sea can't cool it down or keep it calm:
I drank the seven seas, was fully drenched,
That human-burner's thirst was still not quenched!”
- Masnavi I, 1384
He also understood how it left us empty:
“That philosopher on the day of his death
Saw intellect as a tree with no fruit or leaves”
- Masnavi, IV, 3354.
Rumi grasped that the relentless pursuit of knowledge was a misguided endeavor that leads us further from true understanding and fulfillment, only to find ourselves at death's door, empty-handed.
Rumi’s Transformation
The legend, given its ludicrousness, almost certainly did not take place as preserved in history. But the fact that the story persists points to the key message that the stranger delivered to Rumi: ‘to forget whatever he had learned so far and to seek answers elsewhere.’
As Rumi puts it in his own words:
“For forty years, my mind drowned me in thought.
When Love hooked me like a fish, I leapt out of my mind.
See how the fruit is trapped— first by its seed, then by its husk.
See how I was trapped - first by circumspection, then by calculation.
Like a fig split open, my seeds are bare.”
- Ghazal #1472
Rumi, having spent a lifetime accumulating knowledge, having reached the apotheosis of his life, and not finding peace, seemed ready for it.
Little is known about the stranger who catalyzed this transformation, a wandering sixty-year-old dervish named Shams. What we do know is that Rumi was intensely drawn to him. The two became inseparable, retreating into seclusion for long stretches of spiritual communion and discussion over a couple of years.
What exactly transpired between Rumi and Shams during their long stretches of seclusion remains a mystery, except from hints in Rumi’s poetry and even there he remains coy.
Upon the persistent requests from his deputy at that time, Hosamoddin Chalabi, Rumi explains that those experiences were beyond the capacity of others to understand: '‘Please don't request what you can't tolerate | A blade of straw can't hold a mountain's weight' (Masnavi I, 140).’
But one need only look at the intensity and duration of their communion to intuit that Rumi had discovered in Shams something his soul had been yearning for.
Their attachment was strong enough for Sultan Valad, Rumi’s son, to liken it to the celebrated journey of Moses in company with Khadir, the Sage whom Sufis regard as the supreme hierophant and guide of travelers on the Way to God.
Shams, however, was driven away, possibly murdered, by Rumi’s followers, who entirely cut off from their Master's teaching and conversation, saw in the elderly wandering stranger the reason for their loss.
Rumi was heartbroken, crestfallen and beyond console. According to one account, he “roared like thunder.”
“How could I have known this longing would drive me mad, light a roaring hellfire in my heart, make a river gush from my eyes?
How could I have known a flood would snatch me up and toss me like a ship in a sea of blood?
How could I have known a monstrous wave would rise up, crack the hull, fing the planks in the air, and drag me down to the ocean floor?”
- Ghazal #1855
With his family, he spent days looking for Shams in Konya, and finding no trace spent the next two years traveling in between Damascus and Aleppo trying to sniff out his trail.
“For the third time, I rush from Rum to Syria,
Seeking his curls as dark as night, seeking the fragrance of Damascus
If my Master Shams, the Truth of Tabriz, is there
I will be the Master of Damascus, the Master of Damascus!”
-Ghazal #1493.
But Shams, it seemed, had vanished without a trail.
Rumi's pain and longing for his friend was so great that he began spontaneously composing poetry, sometimes while whirling in a trance-like state.
Upon his final return to Konya from Damascus, after giving up any hope of finding Shams, Rumi seemed like a changed man.
Reading his biography, it seems like he had finally realized that he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t, so he might as well do it his own way.
Perhaps he finally understood Buddha’s insight from more than a millennium earlier:
"They blame those who remain silent, they blame those who speak much, they blame those who speak in moderation. There is none in the world who is not blamed." - Dhammapada, verse 227
As Sultan Valad, his son, remembered, stressing his remarkable reinvigoration: “He went to Damascus like a partridge, and returned to Rum like a falcon.”
Having found his internal compass, Rumi started taking increasingly bold steps in line with his philosophy of love but which nonetheless grated on the religious leaders of Konya.
He appointed a close childhood friend, Salahoddin, an illiterate goldsmith, as the head of his madrassa; intensified his Sama sessions which had already been a source of controversy; started including instruments in these sessions which inflamed the controversy even further; started becoming bolder with his poetry in references to Shams and Al-Hallaj; organized music at the funeral of his friend and continued frequenting the Armenian tavern district considered off-limits for Muslims.
All this while, while life weighed heavily on him, and his pain from Shams’s disappearance remained unabated, he never let his heart close. Stories abound of his kindness to animals, the poor, the persecuted and the downtrodden.
His love for animals became particularly famous with Rumi almost developing a reputation as an animal whisperer. Once, he saved a heifer from slaughter, using it as a teaching moment: "If a simple animal, being led to its death, can take such lovely refuge with me, how much more beautiful must it be when a human being puts heart and soul in the care of God?"
Despite his deep pain, despite having no hope of ever finding his beloved, despite knowing that his disciples and those closest to him were possibly implicated in his disappearance and plausible murder, Rumi found the courage not to close his heart.
Unlike Dostoevsky’s Ivan Karamazov who stared at the abyss and lacking courage to fight the monsters, lost his mind, Rumi fought and came out not despairing and defeated but more loving, more open, and more compassionate than before.
In my reading of The Brother’s Karamazov, Alyosha Karamazov reminded me of Rumi. Despite the horror of events unfolding around him, despite those closest to him giving him all the evidence of their deviousness, Alyosha managed not to close his heart and continued to believe in a loving world. As Dostoevsky describes Alyosha’s love for people early on in the novel:
“He did love people; he lived all his life, it seemed, with complete faith in people, and yet no one ever considered him either naive or a simpleton. There was something in him that told one, that convinced one (and it was so all his life afterwards) that he did not want to be a judge of men, that he would not take judgment upon himself and would not condemn anyone for anything.
It seemed, even, that he accepted everything without the least condemnation, though often with deep sadness. Moreover, in this sense he went so far that no one could either surprise or frighten him, and this even in his very early youth.”
- Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brother’s Karamazov
Similarly, the character of Platon Karatayev in Tolstoy’s War and Peace, a simple peasant who appears at the end of the book to finally answer Pierre Bezukhov’s endless searching through his philosophy of unceasing, endless love, also reminds me of Rumi. As Tolstoy describes him:
“Karatayev enjoyed no attachments, no friendships, no love in any sense of these words that meant anything to Pierre, yet he loved and showed affection to every creature he came across in life, especially people, no particular people, just those who happened to be there before his eyes.He loved his dog, his comrades, the French, and he loved Pierre, his neighbour.
But Pierre felt that for all the warmth and affection Karatayev showed him (an instinctive tribute to Pierre's spirituality), he wouldn't suffer a moment's sorrow if they were to part. And Pierre began to feel the same way towards Karatayev”
- Leo Tolstoy, War And Peace
Rumi, Alyosha Karamazov, Platon Karatayev, all seem to have built their understanding on a solid foundation of suffering. A foundation that was grounded in reality and thus unshakeable. As Nietzsche explains why this is important.
“Triumph of knowledge over radical evil - The man who wants to gain wisdom profits greatly from having thought for a time that man is basically evil and degenerate: this idea is wrong, like its opposite, but for whole periods of time it was predominant and its roots have sunk deep into us and into our world.
To understand ourselves we must understand it; but to climb higher, we must then climb over and beyond it. We recognize that there are no sins in the metaphysical sense; but, in the same sense, neither are there any virtues; we recognize that this entire realm of moral ideas is in a continual state of fluctuation, that there are higher and deeper concepts of good and evil, moral and immoral.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche - Human All-Too-Human
Rumi’s Masnavi
Coming back to Rumi!
Having lost Shams, Rumi poured his message of love into his two works of poetry The Collection of Shams' (Divan-e-Shams) and the Masnavi.
His first collection of poetry, The Collection of Shams' (Divan-e-Shams), is a compilation of ghazals, quatrains, and robais, with ~40,000 verses. The verses, which possibly span a decade starting from Shams’ disappearance in 1248 to the death of his dear friend Salahoodin in 1258, were Rumi’s way of dealing with his pain, anguish and grief, and were transcribed by his scribes who were ever ready to write down and preserve them for the pleasure of the literati of Konya and the broader Persian speaking world.
Given the background then, it is not surprising that among the more prominent themes in the Divan are those of love and longing.
But Rumi does spend significant ink to lay down the foundations of concepts such as unity, duality, annihilation and nature of the spiritual path which he would go on to expand upon in his later works.
It is likely that if you have been exposed to Rumi via the countless love poems that comprise collections of his poetry and dot the social media landscape, they are likely from the Divan-e-Shams.
Having poured his heart out into the Divan and perfected his skills as a poet, Rumi then embarked on a much, much more ambitious project. One suggested to him by his followers who were desperate to learn the secrets of his spiritual transformation under Shams.
This project was his Masnavi, a didactic six-volume spiritual epic, following in the tradition of previous Sufi works like Sana'i's Garden of Truth and Attar's Conference of the Birds.
In terms of sheer scale, the Masnavi is a behemoth - its approximately 26,000 verses dwarf the Iliad's 15,000, the Odyssey's 12,000, Dante's Divine Comedy's 14,000 and Milton's Paradise Lost's 10,000. It's four times as long as the Koran and only slightly shorter than the Bible. Perhaps only the ancient Indian epic Mahabharata, with its staggering 200,000 verses, makes the Masnavi look concise in comparison.
While the books of the Masnavi traverse a vast terrain and defy categorization, each one begins with prose and verse introductions that set the tone and establish core themes. Based on these introductions, the key focus areas of the six books can be summarized as follows:
Book I deals with the soul's mystical journey towards the divine, symbolized by the reed flute longing to return to its source.
Book II is concerned with discerning people's true nature to find genuine spiritual companions and avoid false teachers.
Book III presents Rumi's epistemology, contrasting superficial sensory knowledge with deeper spiritual knowledge from direct experience and revelation.
Book IV establishes the superiority of divinely revealed knowledge over limited human reason and logic.
Book V talks of spiritual emancipation through transcending practices and theories, letting go of ego, and surrendering to the divine.
Book VI revisits the themes, especially the interplay of divine omnipotence and human free will and responsibility.
Together, the books comprise, perhaps, the greatest exposition of the curse of knowledge, how it can trap us, and how we can attempt to break free from it.
Crafting this masterpiece was no quick endeavor. It took Rumi 12 long years, starting at the age of 54, about 15 years after Shams' disappearance, and finishing shortly before his own death in 1273.
Interestingly, similar to his Divan, Rumi didn't put pen to paper himself. Instead, he orally dictated the verses to his devoted scribe Hosamoddin Chalabi whenever inspiration struck. Hosamoddin dutifully recorded, revised and edited the work under Rumi's guidance.
This unorthodox composition process likely explains the Masnavi's unique structure. Unlike typical epic poems, it doesn't follow a linear narrative arc. Instead, it's a rich tapestry of seemingly unconnected stories, parables, metaphors, allegories and analogies, woven together more by theme than chronology.
Rumi draws upon a rich tapestry of stories in the Masnavi, weaving tales from his childhood in Khorasan, Sufi poets, and his friend Shams into his spiritual teachings.
He incorporates fables like the clever hare tricking a lion from Kalila and Demna, and retells stories from Sufi poets like Attar's parable of the parrot feigning death to escape its cage.
From Shams, Rumi borrows the story of the tale of a vain man instructing his barber to pluck his white hairs, only to have his beard shaved off and transforms it into a lesson on the futility of theological hair-splitting.
Rumi also draws heavily from the Koran, quoting it more than 500 times, and as well from the Prophet’s tradition.
It is perhaps because of this unique amalgamation of tales, fables, myths, scriptures, traditions from Arabic, Persian and Indian culture that the Masnavi, for Persian speakers, holds an exalted status, often referred to as 'the Koran in Persian'.
Masnavi’s composition
The Masnavi leaves the impression that Rumi was brimming with ideas at the time and freed from the encumbrance of sitting down to structure his thoughts before putting pen to paper, he possibly riffed on these ideas as they came to him, connecting seemingly disparate concepts through the power of his imagination and the depth of his spiritual insight.
Perhaps this is precisely why the work seems far richer in content than any other example of the mystical Masnavi genre: it reflects not the work of an intellect sitting down to structure, organize and craft its ideas into a coherent whole but the outpourings of a soul pulling ideas, moulding them and arranging based on intuition.
In this sense then, it is not Dante or Milton, writers of similar religious epics in the western canon, who could best be ascribed as Rumi’s contemporaries in writing style, but Nietzsche who, similarly overflowing with ideas, adopted an aphoristic style to capture the breadth of his ideas efficiently and succinctly and whose work is marked by a similar non-linear, stream-of-consciousness approach.
Rumi, in many ways, is as difficult to read as Nietzsche, and, for the same reasons, equally rewarding.
Reading Rumi, I am always reminded of Nietzsche’s aphorism:
“On the question of intelligibility - One does not want only to be understood when one writes but just as surely not to be understood.
It is absolutely no objection to a book if anyone finds it unintelligible: perhaps that was part of its author's intention - he did not want to be understood by 'anyone'.
When it wants to communicate itself, every nobler spirit and taste also selects its audience; in selecting them it also debars 'the others'.
All the more subtle rules of style have their origin here: they hold at arm's length, they create distance, they forbid 'admission', understanding - while at the same time they alert the ears of those who are related to us through their ears.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche -The Joyous Science
There then might be a method in Rumi’s madness here. Perhaps the Masnavi is structured such that it is accessible to most but whose secrets can only be penetrated by those who are ready for it or are willing to meditate on it
Rumi admits as much in his verse introduction for the first book of the Masnavi “The Song of the Reed." Possibly the most popular introduction amongst to all his books of the Masnavi:
“My deepest secret’s in this song I wail
But eyes and ears can’t penetrate the veil:
…….
This reed relates a tortuous path ahead,
Recalls the love with which Majnun’s heart bled:
The few who hear the truths the reed has sung
Have lost their wits so they can speak this tongue.
…….
But if someone doesn’t want to hear
the song of the reed flute, it’s best to cut conversation
short, say good-bye, and leave.”
- Masnavi I, 7, 13-14, 34-35
For myself personally, it is likely, given my complete lack of proficiency in the Persian language, that I belong to the unfortunates who shall never grasp the Masnavi’s depth.
But perhaps the same lament rings true for my readings of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Pushkin, Nietzsche, Borges and other authors whose language I do not speak.
Like other great minds, whose works I cannot read in their native tongue, I find solace in the thought that even though I cannot see directly into their light, I can perhaps catch a reflection that might approximate their meaning.
Also, given Nietzsche’s very appropriate insight, I intend to continue to return to the Masnavi in the future, in hopes that my experiences will help me unpack more of its secrets:
Ultimately, no one can extract from things, books included, more than he already knows. What one has no access to through experience one has no ear for.
- Friedrich Nietzsche - Ecce Homo
Conclusion
Rumi passed away on December 17, 1273, shortly after finishing his masterpiece, the Masnavi. Despite the efforts of physicians, the cause of his illness remained a mystery, leading some to believe that he had willingly embraced death, a sentiment often expressed in his poetry.
Even in his death he left a message of love giving repeated instructions that the night be treated as his Wedding Night, a time of joy and happy reunion with the beloved: a boisterous procession worthy of a wedding celebration, with singers, musicians, and dancers, as well as Koran reciters and imams.
“When you see my coffin being carried out
Don’t think I’m in pain, leaving this world . . .
When you see my corpse, don’t cry
I long for that time, and for that reunion
When they bury me, don’t cry
The grave is but a veil for eternity
When you see the setting, wait for the rising.
Why worry about a sunset, or a fading moon?
You think you are setting but you are rising
When the tomb encloses you, your soul will be released.”
- Ghazal #911
Shortly after Rumi's passing, his disciple Hosam was summoned to the court of Qadi Serajoddin to defend the use of the rabab, a musical instrument, in an Islamic funeral. In a touching tribute to his departed friend, the chief justice ruled in favor of allowing the rabab.
His passing was mourned by his disciples and the diverse community of Konya, including Christians and Jews, who had attended his teachings and admired him greatly.
Rumi's body was carried through the city, and his mausoleum, known as the "Green Dome," was constructed shortly after his death. Today, it stands as one of the most popular pilgrimage sites in the world, attracting visitors from all major religions.
Further Explorations
If you enjoyed this post then you might enjoy some of the works below which explore Rumi’s life and his work more:
Jawid Mojaddedi: Masnavi I-VI
Allan Williams: Spiritual Verses: The First Book of the Masnavi-ye Ma'navi
Coleman Barks: The Essential Rumi
Haley Liza Gafori: Gold; Rumi
Brad Gooch: Rumi's Secret: The Life of the Sufi Poet of Love
Peter Frankopan: The Silk Roads: A New History of the World
It was not my intention, when starting this post, to write a mini-biography of Rumi, but that’s what it has turned out to be.
Primarily because, having read parts of Rumi’s Masnavi, I was intrigued by the man behind the work. And the more I read, the more I felt to write about his life first before I wrote about what he had to say.
And much to say Rumi does have. Especially on the topic of how Knowledge can leave us feeling empty, scared, stupid, confused, lonely, persecuted, paralyzed and possibly mad and how we can possibly seek to break free from it.
His message about us realizing the interconnectedness of everything around us, loving everything, emptying ourselves, listening carefully, following our intuition, are all his ways of communicating how he broke out of his own prison with the help of his spiritual mentor and beloved Shams-a-Tabrizi.
I hope to find the time in the coming week to write more about Rumi’s message.
I would love to hear what you thought about the topics discussed here. Would you want me to continue this thread of Rumi? Or would you much prefer I write about something else?
In the meantime, I’d like to leave you with this lovely reflection from Rumi on the Intellect and its discontent.
“If you quit thinking for one hour,
what will happen?
If you plunge like a fish into Love's ocean,
what will happen?
When worries keep you up at night,
picture the seven sleepers
slumbering in a cave for centuries, resting in faith.
You'll be filled with holy light
no matter where you lay your head.
Straw man,
at the end of your straw world,
there's a fragrant field of amber.
If you leap from your high haystack and join us,
what new heights will you reach?
Again and again, you vowed to be humble as soil.
You broke your word every time.
When you keep it, what will bloom?
You are a gem covered in mud and clay.
Your beautiful face is hidden.
You came down from the heavens.
The high angel adores you and still,
you feel like a poor wretch.
If you remember who you are,
What will you become?
You seek truth but you don't trust
a single truth teller. I know a true seer.
Listen to him. See what happens.
A fragment, a hand longing for its body,
you dream of greatness,
grandiose fantasies,
gripped by greed, gripped by pride.
Give yourself up.
Give yourself over to glory.
See what happens.
You are a mountain full of gold.
Open the mine. Let the mountain speak.
Hear what happens.”
- Ghazal #844