Soon, as they were approaching the house, from the distance both Nasheva and Sultan Walad saw her Master was outside the house, standing close to a fig tree. Some of the leaves of the tree had fallen, blown by the wind, but the remaining light green leaves trembled on the flat but tarnished, light grey branches.
Nasheva gazed at the sky. She saw dark clouds were steadily making a formation like the head of a bull with its sharp horns, while the wind had begun blowing more strongly. The rain this morning had created a damp mist that spread over the city, but in the horizon, the shape of Mount Dipoyraz was clear, lying like a gigantic crossbow in the navel of the earth.
Sultan Walad soon entered the house after kissing the hand of his father, while Nasheva, still holding the Sira jar with her two hands, lowered down her face in veneration.
Mawlana Jalaluddin gave her a beaming smile. He approached Nasheva and stood a few feet away from her. Then slowly he closed his eyes and did not utter a single word.
Nasheva then slowly raised her face. Her unblinking gaze was fixed on the man that had been the sun of her days and the moon of her nights. She saw once again that wet grey hair, those dense eyebrows, those whitening bushy-beard and mustache, and those almost imperceptible furrows on the forehead. She smelt afresh that distinctive fragrance which often tempted her to wonder that heaven must have been sweet-scented a thousand more times.
After a brief moment of mystical silence, Mawlana Jalaluddin said,
If wheat comes up from my grave and you bake bread from it,
drunkenness will increase.
The dough and the baker will become crazy and his oven will
sing verses like a drunkard.
If you come to visit my tomb, its shape will appear to you as dancing.
My beloved Shams and I have been baked in the same oven,
We both have drunk from the same cup and danced in the same tavern.
Years have passed,
But my longing has never ceased, my thirst unquenchable.
This poor heart of mine no longer has patience or resolve.
Don’t ask me about my own face, my troubled heart, or the burning of my soul.
See with your own eyes, no power of words can explain these things.
My face browns like a loaf baked in your heart,
Now I crumble like stale bread, and am scattered.
Like a mirror I reflect the images of your face, yet
My own face, how it has grown pale, how wrinkled.
I shall undertake a retreat in memory of him.
Nasheva understood how difficult it must have been for him to endure the painful longing of separation from his beloved. A spiritual longing like that must have been excruciating, even harder than a physical one. Burning like a fountain of fire.
This post is part of Nasheva Trilogy and has been copyrighted.