The Greatest Meeting. None

as he delivers a sermon to his followers. His act disgusts me. Looking at his followers, who all appear to have pairs of eyes but yet are blind, makes me detest spiritual servitude. Deep down, I feel I shouldn’t be here. I murmur to myself, “Stay, man. You might learn something from even this unlearned jackass – the self-designated gatekeeper of paradise.”

      Separate from the crowd, in a corner, I sit and lean against the wall and quietly listen to the mullah’s words. I’m twenty-six-year old, have long prematurely grey hair that hasn’t seen a comb for a long time. I don’t shave either, and with the grey hair and long beard, I look much older than my age. I’m pale and skinny as before, for I still have more important things on my mind than wasting my life searching for food to eat. I haven’t wasted my time acquiring fancy clothes either. I still wear a simple black robe, a white cotton shirt, baggy trousers, and a pair of sandals. And whenever I can no longer stand the smell of my clothes, if the weather permits, I go to the wilderness, wash them, dry them and wear them again. In severe weather, I go to a dervish lodge and clean them there.

      I hear the mullah proclaiming loudly with an evangelical fervor in his hoarse voice, “I can prove the existence of Almighty God and authenticate His prophets from Abraham to His last one, the Prophet Mohammad, blessed be His soul.”

      I can no longer remain silent and listen to this gibberish. What he is saying sounds so stupid that if I remain silent I feel I would be betraying my own humanity. I’ve never understood those who can remain silent in the face of corruption and violation of the truth. I respond to him as loudly as I can, “Hey, you, mullah! God doesn’t need anyone tearing his throat to prove His existence. He is proven! Why don’t you try to prove and improve yourself, to elevate yourself to His equal? Aren’t you made in God’s image?”

      All the faces turn toward me, perhaps to see the audacious man who has the nerve to speak those insulting words of objection to their beloved preacher.

      “Who are you?” the mullah asks.

      “A man ... a two-legged man like you ... God’s creature, that He, most probably, made a mistake in creating, and that goes for you, too.”

      “What valuable words do you have to say besides the gibberish I just heard from you?” the fool asks me audaciously.

      “I say, who are those prophets? Why should we busy ourselves and waste our precious time with their lives and thoughts? We can all be prophets.”

      The mullah raises his voice and shouts at me, “That’s blasphemy!”

      “Everywhere I go, when I say these very words of truth, they tell me, ‘Repent, man. Your words are blasphemy.’ And I say, ‘Try to be a prophet and messiah to others, and let others be it to you.’”

      I see anger in the burning eyes of the mullah’s followers fixed on me, and I wonder what they would like to do to me, to a man who said those insulting and controversial words to their beloved mullah. Two strong young men close to me rise, draw their daggers from their belts and walk toward me. I’m certain they’re about to inflict some pain on me to prove their devotion to their mullah. But I feel no fear.

      “Stop! Don’t harm that man!” I hear the commanding voice of the mullah. The men freeze only a few feet away from me.

      “Who are you and where do you come from?” the mullah asks me softly.

      “I’m Shams. I come from the city of Tabriz. I’m called Shams-e Tabrizi.”

      “Shams-e Tabrizi, what you just said, that people can become prophets is blasphemy. Let me hear you repent or you will burn in hell throughout eternity,” the mullah resorts to the usual threat that for centuries has worked for them and their business, planting seeds of fear in people’s hearts.

      “For how long are you going to promote God and His prophets on this earth as if they are commodities?” I pause and look around and see the anxious faces of the people. I continue my words as if I’m speaking to them, “Some are the writers of the revelation. Some are the source and the voice of the revelation. Why not try to be all of that, the source, the writer, and yourselves? You are Moses, Jesus, and Mohammad; you are the endless world, an ocean without shore, and the infinite sky. You are the jewel, a priceless ruby. Open your eyes, grow wings, take flight and soar in the limitless sky of your dreams, and make earth your paradise.”

      I turn and look at the mullah. I’m not overly surprised to see him visibly shaking with rage, growling like a dog with rabies. I suppose my words threaten his business. He screams, “Throw him out. The infidel is crazy!!”

      The two men approach me. One grabs my wrist firmly, twists my arm, pushes it behind my back, and holds me still. The other man punches my face and stomach several times, grabs the edge of my kherqeh, cloak, twists it, and holds me up as if he is trying to lift me from the floor. They carry me outside the mosque’s gate and mercilessly throw me out, down onto the stony steps. I tumble down the steps and land on the ground hard. I feel a severe pain in my head and ribs. As I’m on the ground on my side and unable to move, I feel a stream of warm blood running from my temple into my eye, impairing my vision.

      I don’t know how long I remain on the ground in that unfavorable position before I feel a wet cloth gently touching my temple, washing away the blood. I move my head and see with my other eye an old man in torn rags sitting next to me, caring for my wound. I stare in his face. I’m amazed when I see a circle of bright light – a halo around his head. Within that halo, he has a soft and compassionate look in his misty eyes.

      “Only in forgiving shall we be forgiven, and only then can your wounded heart be healed, son,” I hear his whisper in my ears. I reach for his hand, hold it in my palm, bring it to my lips and kiss it. Without exchanging any more words, I meet a man whom I feel is closer to me than my own blood brother. Although I have trained my wounded heart and restless soul to be a bird that doesn’t peck at just any seed, but the gentle heart of this old homeless beggar beckons me. I feel his heart can be the nest for my wandering soul, and his face, an immaculate altar for my prayers. Looking at this man’s immaculately clean and holy face, my physical pain temporarily vanishes.

      I drag my bruised body back to my room in the cârevânsarâ and lie down on my straw mat, put my head on three stacked books and hope waves of sleep will soon take me to the tranquil shores of eternity. But instead, waves of thought rush into my mind. I think about those who claim they are searching for the divine truth, but they sell their dreams for a key to the door of a mosque and a place on a wooden pulpit. I remember a dream I once had. I was told by a wise man in that dream, “God will make you a companion to a saint.” When I asked the wise man, “Where is this saint?” there was no reply; but the next night, I was told by the same wise man, “He will be in Ghonieh.” Several months later, I had another dream and I heard someone say, “The time is not yet ripe.” So, I’m waiting for the right time to meet my saint. And when I meet him, I will throw myself at his feet and shed joyful tears for our union.

      I must block these thoughts entering my mind, relax so that I can fall asleep, wake up early, and get on my way to the city of Esfahân that is known to be half of the Jahân, the world. I hope the boulevards of Esfahân are covered with flowers, and its mosques’ domes and minarets are as blue as I have heard from other travelers. I hope the street cleaners of Esfahân still converse in poetry when I arrive. I hope its inhabitants will welcome this stranger as if I’m one of their own.

      The next day, when I open my eyes, I can’t stand to be away from Esfahân a minute longer.