And Rumi Wrote On Page 116…

Rumi means a great deal to me. 

The names of poets that have had a salient hand in carving a permanent niche in my librarian heart to that in which I have enshrined their finest fruits of their pens and quills, Rumi is one such bright example of that order and I can say, with fond glee, that I own a number of his creations that sit on my shelves like stars of a distant constellation but not so distant that they cannot be touched. His writings and phrases, so mystically spun and delicately fashioned, often show no shame in appearing in the most unlikeliest of places where one would have thought it was the province of only the mundane, not for the startlingly profound. I mean to say places such as billboards, bus stands, posters, newspaper articles, pamphlets, milk cartons and even chewing gum wrappers! It almost feels as though I was meant to witness his words come forth into the aliveness of the real world, but for what purpose it serves is a wholly different matter. I can certainly generate countless conjectural submissions, though none will suffice, only that I shall guess that it is my intuition that probably knows the truth of such playful scheming orchestrated by the grand conductor, whose name is, of course, Destiny!

As the day drew to a close and the sky outside darkened to its evening visage I was putting away equipment in my bedroom when suddenly my sixth sense spun me round and my hands went after my copy of ‘Rumi: Whispers Of The Beloved’. A small and unassuming book, one that could easily be hidden in the tiniest of pockets, I plucked it out of my collection, stepped closer to my window and placed it on top of my jewellery box and, creasing my eyebrows together in puzzlement, I asked myself why I should have been compelled to do what I have done. Why this book? As a polymath my mind works in ways that even I have not yet comprehended and from somewhere, the Almighty’s own repository, today’s date floated in front of my mind’s eye and then the words of Sonnet 116 danced with those numbers, and without further ado, my little fingers leapt to page 116 of the diminutively sized book that rested before me.

It describes You and I with a perfection that can only incite envy in the hearts of our enemies and gossipmongers. I am the stubborn, ecstatic and sometimes, nosy hobbit, as that is the only way I can arouse people to wake up, whereas You are delicate, impatient and, above all, weary. We are both creatures that have seen the length and breadth of enormous journeys, we have lost so much on the way, and in that losing we have gained the priceless gem of wisdom – that rare jewel that is never in the grasp of youth’s blood, for its awakening always requires the experience of death, either in the form of a most loved one or in the death of one’s own sense of self. You and I are of such ilk.

I pondered on the word of the ‘messenger’ and mulled over as to what it might look like, this postal figure that ensures that, irrespective of the vast distances between us, our deepest voices of the heart will always be in a flux of exchanges. I realised after a while that there was once a time that a homing pigeon would have been in the loyal service of letter writers so that their messages could be relayed back and forth between two people; in this modern age that trusty bird is reincarnated and You will at this point nod in approval as if You have always known this. Would I be audacious if I were to tell You that Twitter could very well be an avatar of our friendly bird born in contemporary times, denoting that age-old messenger that once kept You and I connected. Giggle, giggle!

The bird is the living bridge forged out of a splendid array of plumes, a godsend of the skies, and it is he, our faithful messenger, who will ensure that the penned vision of ‘God’s presence’, of which Rumi speaks of, is present wherever and whenever there is a sky above us to fly towards, and a ground below to seek sanctuary in. In other words, my weary man of the desert, You and I could meet anywhere on this beautiful bead of blue and green, and let us pray that when we do let all of God’s presence dance before us, and sparks that were once fledgling threads no longer content to be as such, rise facing the zenith to sing in alliance with the sun, in tributary tongues of golden flames♥♥♥  

And Rumi Wrote On Page 116…

“… and let us pray that when we do let all of God’s presence dance before us, and sparks that were once fledgling threads no longer content to be as such, rise facing the zenith to sing in alliance with the sun, in tributary tongues of golden flames…”

 

Extract photographed from my copy of ‘Rumi: Whispers Of The Beloved

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester | UK 2016

 

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