The Masnavi, Book Three Page 4

  To change one’s nature is the sole condition;

  An evil constitution brings perdition.

  When a man starts to eat mud, he’ll become

  Sickly and pale, miserable and glum;

  But should his ugly nature change one night,

  His face would, like a candle, shine so bright.

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  The baby needs a wet-nurse who can treat

  Its mouth with kindness, making it taste sweet;

  If she should block the way now to her breast,

  She’ll open up to him the path that’s best,

  For nipples veil the child from what’s in store—

  Bountiful feasts with food for ever more.

  On weaning, therefore, human life depends—

  So keep on striving! Here this discourse ends.

  A foetus feeds on blood, which is unclean*—

  Believers can still draw from that what’s clean;

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  The infant moves from blood to milk instead,

  With solid food the final goal ahead.

  Solid food makes him a Loqman, the aim:

  A skilful hunter of all hidden game.

  If you had told that foetus in the womb:

  ‘Outside there is a realm with lots of room,

  A pleasant, verdant realm that is so spacious

  With lots of food that you will find delicious,

  With oceans, plains, and mountains waiting too,

  And farms and orchards growing fruit for you,

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  A lofty sky that shines the brightest light

  Through sunshine, moonbeams, and the stars at night,

  And, due to winds from north, south, east, and west,

  Those orchards bloom with fragrance that is blest—

  Such wonders that can’t be described in full,

  So why stay in the dark so miserable?

  Why stay here to drink blood in this cramped cell,

  Which is unclean and has an awful smell?’

  The foetus would have just denied all day

  All of the things which you’d tried to relay,

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  Saying: ‘Impossible, delusory!’—

  Blind minds can’t picture what they cannot see:

  Since they have never seen things of this sort,

  Their doubting ears will not hear your report.

  That’s like when mystics holding a high station

  Speak to men from the general population,

  Saying: ‘This world’s a dark and narrow pit;

  There is a better world outside of it.’

  These true words are not heeded; such instruction

  Is blocked from ears by lust, that huge obstruction;

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  Lust stops ears hearing, while base coveting

  Prevents their eyes from seeing anything.

  The foetus also has this attitude

  For blood, which in the womb is its sole food:

  Blood’s all it knows while it stays tightly curled;

  Lust for blood stops it hearing of this world.

  Story about those who ate a baby elephant, shunning the advice of a counsellor

  This story set in India all should know:

  A sage saw a small gang once long ago,

  All naked, empty-handed, looking hungry

  And like they’d been on an extended journey.

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  A deep compassion filled him instantly;

  He greeted them and blossomed like a tree:

  ‘I know your hunger and lack of possessions

  Bring suffering just like Kerbala’s transgressions.

  For God’s sake, glorious group, if you should hunt,

  Don’t try to catch a baby elephant!

  An elephant’s in the vicinity—

  Don’t hunt its babies! Listen now to me:

  You’ll see them as you travel on your way

  And they can tempt you easily to stray,

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  For they are gentle, very weak, and fat—

  Their mother, though, is watching out for that.

  To find her children she’d search far and wide,

  And groan and sigh as anguish burns inside.

  Her trunk emits huge flames and poisonous smoke,

  So don’t dare harm her children—it’s no joke!’

  Saints are God’s children, son, you must beware—

  In presence and in absence act with care!

  Don’t deem their absence a deficiency,

  Since God takes vengeance for them wrathfully:

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  He said, ‘These saints are children of my own

  In exile, but all glory’s theirs alone;

  They’re orphaned and left helpless as a test—

  In secret, I am with the ones I’ve blessed.

  I’m their support and give immunity;

  It is as if they are all part of me.

  They are my men of cloth—beware, good son!

  They are a million and yet they are one.’

  If this were not true, tell me then how could

  Moses stun Pharaoh with a piece of wood?*

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  Or Noah, with just one curse, make the sea

  Submerge the East and West so easily?*

  If not, could Lot have razed down to the ground

  All of the towns and settlements around?*

  Towns just like paradise were caused to turn

  To a black Tigris—find their trace and learn!

  Near Syria you’ll find remnants still of them

  As you pass southwards to Jerusalem.

  Numerous Prophets dealt to generations

  God’s punishments for their abominations.

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  If I continue with this speech today

  Mountains will turn to blood without delay;

  They’ll bleed, then go back to their solid state,

  Though you can’t see them, you blind reprobate!

  Blind men who boast they have the clearest vision

  See just the camel’s hairs with fine precision.

  Man, through his greed, inspects it hair by hair;

  Then dances for no reason like a bear.

  Dance where you’ll break your self, then with full trust

  Tear off the plaster from your wound of lust!

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  Real men whirl on the battlefield, not here;

  They dance in their own blood and feel no fear.

  They clap when they escape the self’s control;

  They dance once they’ve escaped the carnal soul.

  Their minstrels play the tambourine within;

  Seas surge with foam, excited by their din.

  Though you can’t see them, leaves on every tree

  Hanging from branches clap in ecstasy.

  You can’t see leaves clap and you cannot hear—

  You need the heart’s ear not the outward ear.

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  Block the head’s ear from lies and mockery

  To see the soul’s own city vividly.

  Mohammad’s ear heard secrets through each word:

  God said, ‘He is an ear.’* Have you not heard?

  He is entirely ear and eye, and he

  Feeds us like suckling babies generously.

  The truth is boundless—let’s return again

  Back to the elephants and those warned men.

  Continuation of the story about those who bothered the young elephant

  ‘The elephant smells breath,’ the sage then said,

  ‘And feels men’s stomachs if they seem well fed

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  Until she finds her child’s last resting place—

  Her force and vengeance then they’ll have to face!’

  You eat the flesh of God’s slaves every day

  By backbiting, and so you’ll have to pay.

  Beware, for the Creator smells your breath

  And only the sincere escape from death.


  Later, inside their graves, those who now sneer

  Will be found out by Monker and Nakir.*

  You cannot pull your mouth back from those two,

  Nor sweeten fetid breath produced by you;

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  And there’s no make-up there to hide behind,

  Nor way to flee from truth for your small mind.

  Their heavy mace so many times will pound

  On heads and backsides of each babbler found.

  Just think what Azrael’s huge mace could do

  Even if now its form is far from view.

  Sometimes these maces’ scary forms are seen—

  Every man who is sick knows what I mean:

  ‘Tell me, dear friends,’ a very sick man said,

  ‘What is this sword that’s pointing at my head?’

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  ‘We can’t see it,’ they say, ‘It’s your delusion!’

  No, this is death and it is no illusion.

  It’s not imaginary; even the sky

  Becomes transparent, fearing it will die.

  The sick man can see swords and maces swing

  While he hangs his own head down, whimpering;

  He sees them aim at him most threateningly,

  Even if no one else’s eyes can see.

  When greed leaves him he then will gain sharp sight;

  When this man bleeds to death his eyes grow bright—

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  What tragic timing to see at that stage,

  Yet blind before due to his pride and rage.

  Such birds which sing too early or too late*

  Are those which people will decapitate.

  Your soul each moment struggles hard with death—

  Think of your faith as though it’s your last breath.

  Your life is like a purse, and night and day

  Are counters of gold coins you’ve put away:

  The counter takes all coins out one by one,

  Then there is an eclipse of the whole sun.

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  If you should take and not put back, it’s clear

  That even mountains would soon disappear.

  Once you’ve breathed out—breathe in a breath the same

  Till through ‘bow down, approach!’* you reach your aim.

  Struggling to finish work is a mistake

  Apart from work which is for your faith’s sake.

  You want to go without being ready, though

  Your deeds are barren just like unbaked dough.

  You cannot build your tomb with these alone:

  Materials such as plaster, wood and stone.

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  Dig a grave for yourself with purity—

  In His existence bury vanity!

  Become His dust with yearning at your death,

  So that your breath is nourished by His breath.

  A shrine with domes and turrets won’t impress

  The mystics who could not care for them less.

  Look at the men in satin clothes out there—

  Does his fine satin make him more aware?

  His soul is now in torment, torn apart;

  Scorpions of grief have settled in his heart.

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  He may appear embellished from outside,

  But there are desperate, bitter thoughts inside,

  While those who wore a patched-up dervish cloak

  Had sweet thoughts and used sweet words when they spoke.

  Resumption of the story about the elephant

  The sage continued, ‘Heed well my advice,

  So that your souls won’t pay a heavy price.

  Be satisfied with leaves and grass! Don’t hunt

  Instead a stumbling baby elephant.

  I’ve done my duty conscientiously—

  If you heed me you’ll gain felicity.

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  To pass on this advice is why I came,

  So I might spare you from regret and shame.

  Don’t let yourselves be led astray by greed

  Or torn up from your very roots—take heed!’

  The sage then said, ‘Farewell!’ and walked away.

  Their hunger doubled each hour of that day

  Until they noticed near the road ahead

  A baby elephant which looked well fed—

  Like drunken wolves out on a desperate hunt,

  They ravaged totally that elephant.

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  One of the group did not partake and said,

  ‘That man’s advice keeps ringing in my head.’

  Those words prevented him from eating too—

  Old wisdom gives new fortune thus to you.

  The rest collapsed and quickly fell asleep

  While he stayed up like shepherds with their sheep.

  He saw a scary elephant appear;

  She saw him act as guard and so drew near

  And sniffed three times to smell his mouth and face,

  But didn’t sense a murderous scent’s trace.

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  She circled him some more then went away;

  That elephant queen didn’t make him pay.

  She smelt the lips of all the sleepers then

  And guilty smells still lingered on those men,

  Revealing that they had devoured her child,

  So she immediately grew very wild:

  Each one of them she fiercely tore apart,

  Feeling no doubt at all inside her heart.

  She then threw in the air each of those men—

  They split apart on crashing down again.

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  Drinker of people’s blood, get out of sight

  Before blood relatives should come and fight.

  Their wealth is similar to their blood of course,

  Because their wealth is taken too by force.

  The mother elephant, consumed with hate,

  Will gain her vengeance on all those who ate.

  When you take bribes, you eat her child up too—

  The mother’s vengeance will soon strangle you!

  You can tell devious people by their smell,

  And elephants can smell kin just as well.

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  One who smells scent from Yemen easily

  Is bound to notice falsehood’s smell on me:

  Mohammad once smelt scent from far away,*

  So, from our mouths, he can smell ours today.

  He smells our scent and yet he never tells;

  To heaven rise both good and rotten smells.

  Your sin’s stench rises up while you are sleeping

  Until it strikes against the furthest ceiling.

  It’s carried in your foul breath up from here

  To the breath-smellers in the highest sphere.

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  The stench of greed, conceit, and lust as well,

  Through speech will seem just like an onion’s smell.

  ‘I swear I’ve never eaten them,’ you claim,

  ‘I’ve given garlic up too just the same.’

  The breath which you emit within this speech

  Wafts through the nostrils of all men in reach—

  Your prayers too by their own smell are denied;

  Through tongues, corrupt hearts are identified.

  ‘Begone!’ is the reply such prayers receive;

  The cudgel drives off men who would deceive.

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  But if the meaning’s true, God won’t reject

  Your words, though how you speak is incorrect.

  In the sight of the beloved, a mistake by a lover is better than the good deed of a stranger

  Belal, the first muezzin, was sincere,

  But he would mispronounce the call ‘Come here!’*

  So some said, ‘Prophet, there’s too much at stake,

  While we expand, to let pass this mistake.

  O Messenger, bring a muezzin please

  Who won’t call out with such inaccuracies.

  At our religion’s
birth, no person should

  Be left to mispronounce “Come to the good!”’*

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  The Prophet boiled with rage and then revealed

  Some of the graces which had been concealed:

  ‘To God, Belal’s “Come!” sounds much better than

  A thousand “Come!”s from a well-spoken man.

  Don’t make me angry or I might begin

  To tell about the things you hide within!’

  If your breath doesn’t smell sweet during prayer,

  Seek a pure-hearted person everywhere!

  God’s command to Moses: ‘Call unto me with a mouth which has not sinned!’

  God said, ‘Moses, you have to pray to me

  With a mouth free from sin for sanctuary.’