The person who returned from Damascus was no longer Jalaluddin Balkhi, but Maulana Rumi. However, he was already being addressed as Maulana before going to Aleppo and Damascus. And his father was Maulana-e Buzurg, the greatest Maulana.

Rumi was much thinner now, which was why he appeared even taller. His body held the glow of yellow leaves shed in early spring. A new madrassa was established in the front half of the house. He was thirty-six.

Four hundred pupils came to his madrassa every day for an education. They included renowned scholars, noblemen, and even the Sultan of Konya. None of them had ever met such an extraordinary teacher. He explained the essentials of life and the world through stories. He walked slowly, perpetually sunk in thought.

At the madrassa or the mosque, on Konya’s roads or at the baths, whenever anyone asked him a question he listened with bowed head, answered, adding with a smile, ‘What I say is not the last word, however.’

But it was, to everyone in Konya. As though Maulana Rumi was uttering the words of Allah, just like Nabi.

There are a couple of things I have not told you, my learned readers. Maulana’s first wife Gauhar Khatun died before he left for Aleppo and Damascus. Maulana’s second wife was Kira Khatun. As far as I know, Kira was of Greek origin. She bore Maulana two more children— Muzaffaruddin Amir Alim Chalabi and Malika Khatun. Al Mustasimi told me that Kira Khatun’s beauty was like an ancient willow’s, uninhibited and understated at the same time.

On his return from Damascus, Maulana discovered three youthful soulmates. Hussamuddin Chalabi, the young Greek Thereanos, and his own eldest son Sultan Walad. All of them were in their twenties then.

One day, with all the students at the madrassa having gone home, and only the three young men sitting in front of himself, Maulana handed a copy of the Attarnama to Hussam, saying, ‘Open the book to any page and read me the first two words, Hussam.’

As soon as Hussam had uttered these words Maulana Rumi held up a hand to stop him. Shutting his eyes, he flawlessly recited all that was written on the page, followed by an explanation. Touching his feet, Sultan said, ‘What is it, Maulana?’

— He’s coming, Sultan.

— Who?

— He’s in Konya.

— Whom are you talking about? — Hussam . . .

— Yes, Maulana?

— Describe Konya in winter.

— The houses, roads, trees, are all hidden beneath snow, Maulana. Nothing but white everywhere.

— It’s so cold, Hussam. The travellers are confined to their inns. No road to any part of the world is open. Only the ravens can be heard cawing all winter. After this there will be spring, isn’t that so, Hussam?

— Yes, Maulana. The rose will bloom. The nightingale will sing for it. They’ll meet after such a long time.

Maulana smiled. — You people only talk of the nightingale. Aren’t you going to mention the heron? It dons a white robe to visit Mecca every year. Do you know where it builds its nest, Sultan?

— On the tower of the mosque.

— The soul of the heron has arrived in Konya, Sultan. Spring is here.

— Who is he?

— You will see him very soon.

— Where?

— On the streets of this very town. He is waiting for me.

— Do you know him?

— No. Shaikh Burhanuddin had told me that a lion would arrive from Tabriz.

— But you said it was the soul of the heron.

— All melded together, Sultan. He is the lion, he is the soul of the heron, he is the rose’s lover, the nightingale.

— Do you know him, Hussam asked.

— No, Hussam.

Maulana Rumi entered his library.

Since his return from Damascus, Maulana had spent most of his time in this favourite room of Shaikh Bahauddin’s. He was engrossed in his father’s book Ma’arif. All this time he had considered Shaikh Bahauddin nothing but a religious scholar, but as he read Ma’arif, the life of a passionate devotee was being unveiled to him. He did not know that Shaikh loved poetry.

There were nearly thirty fragments of verse in Ma’arif. It was no longer possible to distinguish between Shaikh’s own lines and those that he had gleaned from other people. In one of the poems he had referred to himself as Allah’s lover. Just like the lover who composes poetry for his beloved, Shaikh too had written these verses for the Lord. All our praises for our beloved’s features and eyes and lashes are actually encomiums to Allah. In his library, Maulana Rumi discovered a lover of beauty and poetry in Bahauddin.

In Ma’arif Bahauddin had repeatedly exhorted people to stay away from all manner of filth in the world. According to him, there were four kinds: educated people, cities, armed forces, and rulers. O inhabitants of the world, do not allow your hearts to be covered in grime. The fire in an oven blackens everything at first, then reddens them, and finally whitens. In the same way, the flames of Allah’s love take us from black to red and finally to the purity of white.

Maulana sensed a strange, raging storm within himself today, taking him out of the world of Ma’arif.

He became even more restless over the next few days. He would lapse into silence during his discourses, gazing out of the window. It seemed to Hussam that his eyes saw nothing at all.

One day his son Sultan Walad went into the ladies’ chambers to tell Kira Khatun what was happening. Just as Maulana loved Sultan, Sultan too was duty-bound to his father. Unable to bear Maulana’s agitation, he was hoping that Kira’s company would calm his father down.

His Greek stepmother was so beautiful that even Sultan felt tempted sometimes.

At other times she appeared similar to the Virgin Mary. Maulana too was apprehensive about Kira’s loveliness, and seldom allowed her out of the house.

Kira came to the library late that same evening. As always, Maulana was astonished to see her. Once again he felt that she was not of this world, that she had come from an invisible universe somewhere else, as someone, as a poet of the future would write, who visited but once, never to be seen again.

— You here, Bibijaan? Maulana took Kira’s hand.

— I haven’t seen you in a long time, Maulana. You never visit us anymore. I’m told you’re always in the library.

— Hmm . . . Come.

— Don’t you feel the urge to see me anymore, Maulana?

— Of course I do. I do see you, Kira. In my dreams. Kira began to laugh like a mad woman. Maulana was transfixed by her beauty and laughter.

The laughter stopped suddenly. Kissing her husband’s feet, Kira said, ‘I beg your pardon, Maulana. I should not have asked this question. Nor do I know why I laughed. Forgive me, Maulana.’

Maulana sat down next to Kira, putting his hand on her back he said, ‘You know I never lie, Kira.’

***

I never tired of thinking of you, my beloved
Do not deprive me of your compassion

This jar of water, this water-carrier
Must be exhausted with me

A parched fish remains within me
Never given enough water
To quench its thirst

Show me the way to the ocean!
Shatter these half measures
All these tiny containers

All this is sorcery
And mortifying

Let my hut be swept away
By the wave that rose last night
From the depths hidden in my heart

Just like the moon, Yusuf came down into my well
Even if the harvest of my hope has been flooded
What does it matter?

The flames have risen over the tombstone
I seek neither knowledge nor honours
Nor is respect desired

I only want music and this dawn
The warmth of your face on mine

Travellers of heartache are gathering
But I shan’t go with them

This is what happens every time
When I have to end a poem

A deep silence envelops me
And I wonder in astonishment
Why I have been pursuing words