To satisfy my nagging curiosity as years rolled on, I began to read as many works as I could find about the luminary man, Shams, and the giant among the poets, Rumi, who could both justifiably be called the giant emancipators of the human race. The combination of my intense interest in Shams and Rumi, my cumulative knowledge about the lives and works of these two men, along with acquired experience in the technique of screenplay writing, resulted in the screenplay “The Greatest Meeting” that was completed in the summer of 2002. The other reason for writing the screenplay and not in a book form was that rather than shrouding the enormity of these two characters with meandering narratives as most writers inevitably do, and since there is an extraordinary volume of poetry available from Rumi and some anecdotes and stories from Shams, I thought letting the characters tell their own stories through the media of cinema would serve the subject matter more effectively. However, with my limited contacts in Hollywood, and inability to attract an executive producer for this challenging project, the screenplay remained with me. Since I had a respectable outline of the story in my hands, I decided to convert the screenplay to a book. This decision was reinforced when I realized that there has never been a book narrating the lives of these two giants in a clear and simple language that could be enjoyed by a greater readership.
We have a good deal of knowledge of Shams and his beliefs from his scattered words, and detailed fabrics of Rumi’s thoughts as an ordinary clergy, prior to this meeting. This meeting, according to various sources, consisted of 30 or 45 days in seclusion. Also, although we know that there were not substantial changes in Shams’ thoughts after this meeting, there were revolutionary – almost unbelievable – changes, in Rumi, that have been referred to as, “Rebirth of Rumi.” Then the attempt to unravel the apparent dialogue between those two men that convinced Rumi to abandon his previous approach to religion and spirituality and instead follow Shams became closer to acceptable reality than just mere assumption. It is during this intense and grueling sohbat, private conversation, that Rumi develops an eshgh-o mohebat, love and affection, for Shams that it is unprecedented and certainly immeasurable by all human standards in the history of mankind. Also, it is as the result of this private meeting that Rumi seemingly becomes Shams’ resounding voice. With thousands of eloquent verses of poetry, he expresses his love for the man in one volume, The Collection of Shams-e Tabrizi, and about all other subjects, including poetic interpretations of Ghorân’s stories and wisdom in another volume, the Massnavi.
Besides the two collections of Rumi’s poetry, the Maghâlât-e Shams, there are only four other sources of information available about the lives of Rumi and Shams. These four sources are Bahâeddin Sultan Valad (1226-1312), the oldest son of Rumi, and three historians – Freydoun-Ebn Ahmad Sepahsâlâr, who lived in the same period Rumi and Shams lived, Shamsoddin Ahmad Aflâki, who wrote his accounts 40 years (1318) after Rumi’s death, and Abdul Ramân Jâmi (1438-1519). All other information is based on these sources.
Since detailed information is not available about both Rumi and Shams, I have also looked at their lives as a jigsaw puzzle where big pieces connect with smaller pieces, until vivid image of their lives come in to focus. By putting these pieces together, as authentically as I could, I hope I’ve opened a small window into the beautiful, and spectacular garden of the Persian culture of which has poetry as one of its most important features – flowers that have been glittering through centuries of time. I also hope that I’ve put together and rendered an honest and true tribute to these two great sons of Persia, and that Western readers can have a glimpse of my country’s treasures.
Majid Amini
Los 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.