Free A Poet of the Invisible World by Michael Golding

the various forms of divine inspiration?”
    â€œSigns, appearances of light, and graces. All of which are ineffable.”
    Vishpar was silent again. “You know a lot,” he said. Then he turned to Nouri. “But what do you think about it?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThere’s a great difference between knowledge and understanding. Anyone can memorize rules, laws, articles of behavior. You have to think about them—wrestle them to the ground—if you want to make them your own.”
    Nouri considered what Vishpar was saying. “Hajid al-Hallal likes to say, ‘Allah prefers a strong murid to a weak one . ’ But I think he only says that because he’s strong himself. And I don’t think the expression is really referring to strength of the body.”
    Vishpar’s eyes widened. “How do you understand the difference between traveling to God and traveling in God?”
    â€œWell, that,” said Nouri, “is an important distinction!”
    The two youths talked feverishly all the way to the Darni Sunim. And when they got there, and were shown the fountain—a carved basin in the shape of an open lotus with eight petals—they carried it back to the lodge, talking some more. To Vishpar it was like finding the younger brother he’d never had. And to Nouri it was like springtime, a warm bath, and a large bowl of yakh dar behesht rolled into one.
    It was his first real friendship, outside of Habbib.
    And whether he knew it or not, his first love.

 
    Six
    Once the new fountain had been installed in the courtyard it became the principal meeting ground for Nouri and Vishpar, the place where they came to discuss the Arc of Ascent or the Conditions of Rapture or the Illusion of the Self. In the morning, after their studies, they would sit by the cool stone basin and discuss the proper conduct of the murid toward his sheikh. In the evening, before they retired to their separate cells, they would linger beside it and argue about the state of hal. It was a rule of Sufi discipline that a novice should not speak on any question unless he is asked about it. So since Vishpar was a novice, and Nouri not even that, they shared their deepest questions with each other.
    â€œWhat are the first signs of spiritual intoxication?”
    â€œTo what degree does the Shadow of the Absolute reflect His true Being?”
    â€œWhy must one pass beyond knowledge, if knowledge leads to truth?”
    Such questions were based on the divine possibilities they’d glimpsed more than on anything they’d actually experienced. But they fueled each other’s spiritual hunger. And though their natures were different—the poet and the warrior—the rose and the flame—they created a closed circuit between themselves that even Habbib, to his regret, was unable to enter.
    At times, Vishpar’s spiritual passion threatened to shatter the balance of life at the lodge. For though he always remained respectful toward the brothers, he could not help but notice the gap between what they said and what they actually did. Jamal al-Jani, for example, often spoke about the Sufi’s need to divest himself of personal possessions.
    â€œThe Angel Gabriel,” he liked to say, “strictly warned the Prophet not to accept the treasures of the earth.”
    When the dervish became ill, however, and Vishpar was sent to his cell with a bowl of khoresht baadenjaan, he found a brass candle trimmer and a pearl-studded pouch beside his bed.
    Hajid al-Hallal often preached that a true dervish should never reduce himself to begging for alms.
    â€œThe Sufi,” he liked to say, “must learn to make do with what God provides.”
    One morning, however, when Vishpar was out walking, he found the old fellow sitting by the side of the road, with his eyes closed, beside a bowl filled with coins.
    Salim Rasa would often speak about the Sufi’s need for