Naqshbandī Admirers of Rūmī in the Late Timurid Period

Lloyd Ridgeon

Rūmī’s observation in the sixth verse of book one of the Mathnawī that “Each person
through his own supposition became my friend” may today be viewed as something of a
prophecy concerning the ever-increasing number of commentaries and collections of
translations of his masterpiece, both devotional and academic. Commentaries and translations
inevitably reflect the perspectives, prejudices and preferences of the composer to the extent
that the intention of the original author may become obscure and even difficult to identify.
The meaning of the original text may become violated, distorted, clarified or enhanced;
whatever the case, it is a truism that commentaries disclose often more about the composers
than they do about the texts that they set out to elucidate. This paper provides a clear example
of this by examining three works that were designed to clarify the Mathnawī. These texts
were composed in the fifteenth century by three leading Naqshbandī Sufis: Ya‘qūb Charkhī
(d. 1447), Nūr al-Dīn ‘Abd al-Raḥmān Jāmī (d. 1492) and Husayn Wā‘iẓ-i Kāshifī (d. 1504).
Despite their common affiliation to the same order, these three Sufis produced very different
interpretations of the Mathnawī, revealing the diversity of Naqshbandī thinking. Their
positive opinion of the Mathnawī doubtlessly contributed to its propagation among
Naqshbandī Sufis and among a wider audience who read or heard these treatises.

I. Ya‘qūb Charkhī

One of the earliest Sufis to write about Rūmī’s Mathnawī was Ya‘qūb Charkhī, a Persian
Naqshbandī who spent most of his life in Afghanistan and Central Asia, dying in 1447 in
Tajikistan. He had been initiated into the Naqshbandī order by Bahā’ al-dīn Naqshband (d.
1389), but was trained by one of the latter’s leading deputies, Khwāja ‘Alā’ al-Dīn ‘Aṭṭār (d.
1400). Having become a master in his own right, Charkhī composed several treatises,
including a commentary on the opening chapter of the Qur’ān and its last two sections (juz’),
and a couple of short works on early Naqshbandī practices and on issues relating to
sainthood. However, it is his commentary on Rūmī’s Mathnawī, entitled the Nay-nāma
(“Book of the Reed”) that is of interest here. Charkhī’s work was requested by “some of [his]

1
followers,”1 and he later explained that Rūmī had composed his six-volume masterpiece in an
unfamiliar style (salūb-i gharīb) which had not been tried before: “He has explained the
secrets of the truth and the wisdom of the way in the garment of the Holy Law – in a secretive
and allusive fashion through stories and fables which do not reach the understanding of all
people.”2 It is not until half way through the Nay-nāma that Charkhī’s own opinion really
surfaces, for he comments that “the Mathnawī is the interpretation of the inner meaning of the
Qur’ān (tafsīr-i bāṭin-i Qur’ān) since ‘truly there is an inner and outer meaning for the
Qur’ān’,”3
In his Nay-nāma, Charkhī commented solely on the proem of the Mathnawī, that is, the
first thirty-five rhyming couplets, which he discussed one by one, followed by a summary
and analysis of six stories found in Rūmī’s six volume magnum opus: the tale of Daqūqī (I:
1924-2289); the story of Shaykh Muḥammad of Ghazna (V: 2267-2798); the anecdote of how
Bāyazīd performed ḥajj around a certain Shaykh (II: 2218-2251); the account of a dervish
accused of theft in a ship (II: 3478-3501); the story of Moses and the shepherd (II: 1720-
1790); and finally, the narrative of the servant of a Prince in Bukhara who deserted the latter
but desired to return to him (III: 3686-4717). Within the short space of this article it will not
be possible to investigate how all of these stories are linked together. Instead the most salient
themes will be presented and discussed, and some tentative conclusions drawn.

i) The Naqshbandi Influence: Sobriety and the Importance of the Shaykh

The importance of Charkhī’s Nay-nāma is partly due to it being considered one of the earliest
commentaries on the Mathnawī. Hamid Algar remarked that it “is the second most ancient
piece of writing in explication of the Matnawī.”4 Aside from its dating, Charkhī’s relatively
brief work (comprising only forty-nine pages in Khalīlī’s edition)5 is of significance for the
propagation of Naqshbandī Sufism through the Mathnawī. Throughout the whole of the text
the most frequently cited sources (apart from the Qur’ān) that are used to illustrate the
meanings of Rūmī’s couplets are Charkhī’s own Shaykh and deputy, namely Bahā’ al-Dīn
Naqshband and ‘Alā al-Dīn ‘Aṭṭār. Naqshband is mentioned on twelve separate occasions,6

1
Nay-nāma, edited by Khalīl Allāh Khalīlī (Kabul: Anjuman-i tārīkh wa adab 1973), p. 109.
2
Nay-nāma, p. 110.
3
Ibid., p. 128. This is a more prosaic version of Jāmī’s alleged comparison of the two (see below).
4
Hamid Algar “Čarkī, Mawlānā Ya‘qūb,” EIr, IV, p. 819.
5
Nay-nāma, pp. 109-59.
6
These occur on pp. 109, 121, 128, 135, 136, 140, 141, 147, twice on 149, 150 and 152.

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and ‘Aṭṭār appears five times.7 The manner in which Charkhī used the Mathnawī to illustrate
the excellence of the Naqshbandī shaykhs appears in his explanation of the story of the pious
Daqūqī who saw a vision of seven candles that miraculously appeared as trees and then
transformed themselves into noble men (Mathnawī, III: 1973-2043). Daqūqī clearly
witnessed the miraculous nature of the vision, yet he was amazed that other people failed to
recognise this marvellous spectacle. Charkhī subsequently elaborated on this tale and drew a
parallel between these seven noble men and his own master, Bahā’ al-Dīn Naqshband, whom
he called the pole (quṭb) and who manifested wonderful things and performed unusual
miracles which were denied by many people. In addition, ‘Alā’ al-Dīn ‘Aṭṭār, who was also
the quṭb according to Charkhī, was not recognised in his time.8
The Naqshbandī influence may also be witnessed implicitly running throughout the Nay-
nāma, and a good example of this is contained in Charkhī’s discussion of the thirty-second
couplet of the Mathnawī, where the “sober” and “intoxicated” dimensions of Sufi experience
are under investigation:

How can I be conscious of what is in front and behind [of me]

When the light of my friend exists neither in front nor behind [of me]?

Charkhī explained:

In other words, when the lover is annihilated in love, and becomes senseless and
unconscious, his protector and supporter is his beloved, and he stops him from
committing sin [whilst] in a state of intoxication (sukr) so that he does not allow him
anything that is contrary to the Holy Law.
Shaykh Abū’l-Ḥasan Nūrī was unconscious for three days in a mosque in Baghdad, and
he was repeating, “Allah, Allah.” [Some people] told Shaykh Junayd about [Nūrī’s]
situation, and the Shaykh asked, “Does he come to himself at the times for prayer?” They
said, “Yes, he performs [his] prayers and then he becomes bewildered again” …
They said, “Oh Shaykh! Is he intoxicated (mast) or conscious (hushiyār)?” [Junayd] said,
“While sober he has obeyed the limits of the law such that through its blessing it keeps
him [from sin] while intoxicated.”9

Such a perspective, although not unique to Naqshbandī Sufis, certainly conforms to the
advice given by the founder of the order, ‘Abd al-Khāliq Ghujduwānī (d. 1120), who left an
extremely sober will for his followers, which included instructions not to construct
khānaqāhs, not to listen to too much music for spiritual purposes (although such activity was

7
These occur on pp. 124, 127, 135, and twice on 147.
8
Nay-nāma, p. 135.
9
Ibid, p. 125. The same anecdote (with some variation) is told by Farīd al-Dīn ‘Aṭṭār in his Tadhkirāt al-Awliyā
(translated by Paul Losensky as Memorial of God’s Friends (New York: Paulist Press 2009), pp. 371-72

3
not condemned outright), not to mix with rulers, and not to marry women whose desire was
material comforts).10
Aside from sobriety, another feature that is commonly associated with the early
Naqshbandīs is the centrality of the Shaykh, although this was manifested in quite a specific
fashion. Of particular significance was the practice of visualising the shaykh within the
disciple’s heart. Charkhī’s gloss on the thirtieth couplet of the prologue illustrates this well.
The couplet reads:

The beloved is all and the lover is the veil

The beloved is living and the lover is a dead thing

In his own words Charkhī explained:

When the rose dies, the nightingale desists from singing. The perfect Shaykh who can
bring others to perfection is just like the rose and the sincere seeker is just like the
nightingale. For as long as the rose is not present the nightingale will not sing. His
excellency, the great master and deputy, Khwāja ‘Alā al-Dīn ‘Aṭṭār asked me: “The
infidelity of the Shaykh is the faith of the disciple – what does this mean?” This faqīr
[i.e. Charkhī] replied, “If the Shaykh is in truth a Shaykh, and the disciple is a disciple,
there is no place for infidelity,” because the Shaykh does not speak except through
divine inspiration just as it has been understood concerning the right of Moses and
Khiḍr ...11

(This particular item of Naqshbandī belief and ritual was most certainly of significance for
Charkhī because he repeated ‘Aṭṭār’s question twenty-four pages after its first occurrence in
the published edition). Charkhī associated the shaykh with a rose, the possessor of divine
beauty, and also with Khiḍr, who although not mentioned as a prophet in the Qur’ān, figures
as a scriptural model for the spiritual master’s role in Sufism, having allowed the prophet
Moses to follow him on the condition that the latter asks him no questions. The “unbelief” or
“infidelity” of Khiḍr as depicted in the well-known Qur’ānic story (XVIII: 60-82) was due to
three acts which he committed that appeared contrary to the divine law. If Moses had been
true to his word in not questioning Khiḍr he would have possessed the “faith of the
disciple”.12 Thus Charkhī’s intention in the passage cited above was to emphasise the
disciple’s obedience to his shaykh, even if the latter’s behaviour appeared contrary to the
sharī‘a. Charkhī’s discussion of this couplet from the Mathnawī continues to elaborate on the
centrality of the Shaykh as follows:

10
Nizami, “The Naqshbandiyyah Order,” in S.H. Nasr (ed), Islamic Spirituality II: Manifestations (London:
SCM Press 1991), p. 166.
11
Nay-nāma, p. 124.
12
The encounter between Moses and his un-named companion appears in XVIII: 60-82.

4
 In other words, the perfect Shaykh who can bring others to perfection (shaykh-i kāmil-i
mukammil) who is the disciple’s beloved, revivifies the disciple’s dead heart through
divine attraction, and he is the means of [the disciple’s] perfection, [and] with the
permission of God Almighty, the Shaykh prevails over (mutaṣarraf) the disciple’s heart,
where the Shaykh is manifested.13

The quotation above is again suggestive of a Naqshbandī influence because visualising the
shaykh in the heart (or rābiṭa) became a common feature of the order.14 However, it would be
a mistake to view this practice as pertaining specifically to the Naqshbandīs, for by Charkhī’s
time the idea of the shaykh appearing in the heart had become increasingly popular among
non-Naqshbandīs too. It has been shown that Najm al-Dīn Kubrā, the eponymous founder of
the Kubrawiya order (d. 1221) and Ibn ‘Aṭā Allāh (d. 1309) of the Shādhilīya Order both
discussed this practice in the context of their own experiences,15 and a similar practice
involving the bonding of hearts between shaykh and disciple was discussed by Abū Ḥafṣ
‘Umar Suhrawardī (d. 1232).16 It is not clear whether Rūmī engaged in the practice of
visualising the Shaykh in the heart. However, Buehler cites an intriguing passage from Fīhi
mā fīhi that reflects a form of rābiṭa which imparted knowledge to believers’ hearts rather
than the image of the Shaykh. Rūmī describes how ‘Uthmān (the third caliph after
Muḥammad) ascended the pulpit but remained silent and simply stared at the congregation
which “caused a state of ecstasy to descend upon the people ... precious lessons were
imparted to them and secrets were revealed, that could not have been communicated by so

13
Nay-nāma, p. 124.
14
See John Renard, Historical Dictionary of Sufism (Lanham, Maryland: The Scarecrow Press, 2005), s.v.
“Visualisation,” Renard states, “The practitioner can focus on an image of the shaykh as though standing before
him, or imagine himself actually assuming the form and attributes of the shaykh, or imagine the shaykh entering
into his heart. In its most complete form, the practice leads to a form of loss of self, or annihilation.” (p. 249)
The appearance of this practice within medieval Sufism may be due to the increasing parallels that were made
between the shaykh and the Prophet Muḥammad. For example, al-Jīlī (d. 1424) held that the prophet assumed
the form of the most perfect men in every age in order to exalt the dignity of the shaykhs and enhance their own
authority. (Jamal M. Abun Nasr, Muslim Communities of Grace: The Sufi Brotherhoods in Islamic Religious
Life (London: Hurst, 2007), p. 73). This linkage of the Shaykh with the prophet seems to have developed from
the belief that the Sufi should immerse himself in the Prophet in such a way that the latter would appear for him.
Immersion was achieved through the performance of the dhikr, with the ultimate result of annihilation in the
Messenger of God. So the concentration that the non-Naqshbandī Sufis focused upon the prophet paralleled that
which Charkhī directed towards the Shaykh. Al-Jīlī, who was a proponent of annihilation in the Messenger of
God, remarked, “Continuously call to mind his image, observing etiquette with him. If you have seen him in
your sleep, call that image to mind. If you have not, bless him, and in your dhikr imagine yourself with him in
his life.” (Cited in Valerie J. Hoffman, “Annihilation in the Messenger of God: The Development of a Sufi
Practice,” International Journal of Middle East Studies, 31/3, [1999], p. 43).
15
Michel Chodkiewicz, “Quelques Aspects des techniques spirituelles dans la Ṭarīqa Naqshbandiyya,” in
Gaborieau, Popovic and Zarcone (eds), Naqshbandis: Cheminements et Situation Actuelle d’un Ordre Mystique
Musulman (Istanbul: Isis, 1981), pp. 75-6.
16
Arthur Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet (University of South Carolina Press 1998), p. 132, citing F. Meier,
Zwei Abhandlungen uber die Naqsbandiyya (Istanbul: Beiruter Texte und Studien: 58, 1994), pp. 17-18.

5
much labour and preaching.” Finally ‘Uthmān spoke verbally, saying, “It is better for you to
have a working Imam than a speaking Imam.” Rūmī then explained that “if the purpose of
speaking is to communicate instruction delicately and to effect a change of character that had
been accomplished without words many times better than might have been achieved by
words.”17
Rūmī’s understanding and practice of the rābiṭa may be reflected if we compare his
encounter with Shams-i Tabrīzī with a meeting between two later Naqshbandī Sufis. Michel
Chodkiewicz mentions the episode when Jāmī visited Aḥrār in Tashkent, and the two spent
weeks together, face to face, although barely a word was passed between them.18 The
suggestion is that these two Sufis were engaged in the practice of rābiṭa. The connection with
Rūmī is that the above story mirrors the episode reported by both Aflākī and Jāmī about the
first encounter between the mystic from Balkh and Shams.19 Jāmī stated that “for three
months they sat in spiritual isolation, night and day, engaging in an uninterrupted fast. They
never came out [of this isolation during the three months] and no-one had the nerve to intrude
on their isolation.”20 Aflākī added, “During this unveiling in seclusion, Mawlānā Shams al-
Dīn uttered a hundred thousand wondrous questions and answers and tests, and spoke to the
point.”21 So, the practice of the Shaykh appearing in the heart is not confirmed in this story,
as Aflākī reports that Shams communicated verbally.22 Moreover, the difficulty of
establishing which Sufi was the Shaykh and which the disciple might have caused some
difficulty!23

17
Arthur Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet, p. 134, citing Fīhi mā fīhi. This work of Rūmī’s has been translated
by A.J. Arberry as Discourses of Rumi (London: John Murray 1961). The story of ‘Uthmān appears on pp. 140-
41. Rābiṭa encompassed more than the manifestation of the Shaykh’s image on the disciple’s heart. The practice
has been defined by Jűrgen Paul as “a technique to make it possible ... for the adept to take in the divinely
emanating energy or effusion called faiḍ.” (Jűrgen Paul, Doctrine and Organisation: The
Khwajagan/Naqshbandiya in the First Generation after Baha’uddin [Berlin: Das Arabische Buch, 1998], p. 36).
This means that other images or influences that emanated from the Shaykh were able to affect the disciple’s
heart. This explains why Buehler has speculated that a practice of “silent companionship and wordless
transmission” may be regarded as a form of rābiṭa which seems to have been known by Rūmī.
18
Michel Chodkiewicz, “Quelques Aspects”, p. 69. See also Hamid Algar, “Jāmi and Sufism,” Encyclopedia
Iranica, 23 June, 2008.
19
Nafaḥāt al-uns, edited by. M. ‘Abidī (Tehran: Iṭilā‘āt 1370/1990-1), p. 467.
20
See Shams al-Dīn Aḥmad Aflākī, Manāqib al-‘ārifīn, translated as The Feats of the Knowers of God by John
O’Kane (Leiden: Brill 2002), [chapter 4, para. IV. 8], p. 426.
21
Aflākī, Manāqib al-‘ārifīn, [IV. 10] p. 427.
22
Another account of the first encounter between the two reports that they spent six months in a cell, discussing,
without eating, drinking or requiring any human needs, which again suggests that rābiṭa had no part in the
encounter. See Sipahsalār, Risāla dar aḥwāl-i Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī, ed. Furuzānfar (Tehran 1946), 128.
23
It is interesting to read Shams’ own take on this: “I first came to Mowlānā with the understanding that I would
not be his shaykh ... I need it to be apparent how our life together is going to be. Is it brotherhood and friendship
or shaykh-hood and discipleship? I don’t like this. Teacher to pupil?” Cited in Franklin Lewis, Rumi, Past and
Present, East and West (Oxford: Oneworld, 2000), p. 163.

6
 Although rābiṭa may not have been a practice exercised by Rūmī and was not unique to
the Naqshbandīs, what is significant is that Charkhī did not discuss any other form of other
ritual activity at any length in his Nay-nāma.24 This reflects the observations made by Dina
Le Gall that some Naqshbandīs viewed it as the most superior of spiritual techniques so that
“inferior spiritual exercises”, known as mujāhadāt (which included the samā‘) could be
dispensed with.25 This did not mean that such rituals were not performed; rather that it was a
matter of preference. De Gall’s argument that the “rigorous sharī‘a-abidance [of the
Naqshbandīs] ... was embodied in personal observance and devotional practice construed in
opposition to the inferior practices and rituals of other Sufis”26 may reflect the Sufism
advocated by Charkhī. The importance of the practice of rābiṭa for Naqshbandī Sufis is that it
was a stage on the path of spiritual perfection. In effect it represented a process that
culminated in annihilation in the shaykh (fanā fī’l-shaykh), which then progressed towards
annihilation in the prophet (fanā fī’l-rasūl), and finally annihilation in God (fanā fī’l-allāh).27
In his explanation of the thirty-fourth couplet of the prologue to the Mathnawī, Charkhī
once more diverts the analysis to the Shaykh, whereas Rūmī’s verse suggests a more direct
relationship between the individual seeker and God:

Do you know why the mirror [of the heart] reflects nothing?
Because the rust is not cleared from its surface.

Charkhī explained that when the heart had been purified the Sufi still required a guide
(imām) to follow, and this is the perfect Shaykh who is also capable of bringing others to
perfection (shaykh-i kāmil–i mukammil),28 who is the place of manifestation of all the divine
attributes.29 This brief discussion draws Charkhī’s depiction of the Shaykh closer to that of
the understanding of the Perfect Man which had become familiar to many Sufis within the
school of Ibn ‘Arabī, although there is no real indication that Charkhī was familiar with this
specific world view.

24
Charkhī mentioned the samā‘ as a technical term of the Sufis, without commenting on its merits or otherwise.
Nay-nāma, p. 123.
25
Dina Le Gall, “Forgotten Naqshbandīs and the Culture of Pre-Modern Sufi Brotherhoods,” Studia Islamica,
No 97 (2003), p. 95.
26
Ibid, p. 117.
27
Charkhi actually used this last term to describe the mystical experience of Nūrī (mentioned above). See Nay-
nāma, p. 126.
28
The term “shaykh-i kāmil–i mukammil” used on several occasions within the Nay-nāma, appears to have been
a description that was favoured by Naqshbandīs. See Johan G.J. Ter Haar, “The Importance of the Spiritual
Guide in the Naqshbandī Order,” in L. Lewisohn (ed.), The Heritage of Sufism, vol. 2: The Legacy of Mediæval
Persian Sufism (1150-1500), (Oxford: Oneworld 1999), p. 318.
29
Nay-nāma, p. 127.

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 ii). The Solitary (‘uzlatiyān) and Convivial Sufis (‘ushratiyān)

After his analysis of the first 35 couplets that comprise the proem to the Mathnawī Charkhī
presents two stories that enable him to illustrate two different kinds of Sufis that he termed
the solitary (‘uzlatiyān) and the convivial (‘ushratiyān) Sufis. The two stories that he utilised
for this purpose are the visions of Daqūqī and the tale of Shaykh Muḥammad of Ghazna. The
first of these stories describes how Daqūqī witnessed seven burning candles by a seashore,
which subsequently assumed the shapes of seven trees and then seven men. They spoke to
Daqūqī, and requested that he lead them in prayers. At this point Daqūqī witnessed a ship
about to sink, and so offered up desperate prayers to God to save those on board, even though
they were not Muslims. The prayers were completed just as the ship was saved, but the noble
company of men had vanished from behind Daqūqī, who was left rather bewildered. Rūmī’s
purpose in the conclusion to his story is that the individual should continue the spiritual
search, which in Daqūqī’s case was to be re-united with those noble manifestations of the
divine. Their disappearance was due to Daqūqī’s concern for matters of this world (those on
the ship), rather than God. Although Daqūqī’s mercy led him to call on God to lend
assistance to those on the ship, at the same time it reflected his incomplete attention and
desire for God.
Charkhī strips the account of Daqūqī back to its bare essentials, so that the tale is re-told
in seventy-three couplets (instead of two hundred and eighty-one). His truncated version
elides Rūmī’s elaborations on the theme of prayer without much comment, but focuses upon
other topics such as the perpetual nature of the search among the Friends of God (“perfection
is the search and the search is perfection”)30 in which “the existence of humanity is negated
and one witnesses the perfection of others,”31 and the two different sorts of Friends of God.32
Charkhī commented that Daqūqī belonged to the company of convivial mystics (‘ushratiyān)
while the seven noble men were solitary types (‘uzlatiyān). Rūmī’s presentation ends with a

30
Ibid, p. 133.
31
Ibid, p. 133.
32
Ibid, p. 136. It is interesting to note that the thirteenth-century Sufi, ‘Azīz Nasafī, portrayed two types of
Perfect Man. The first possessed good words, good actions, good morals and gnosis. The second, the “Free
Perfect Man” ([Insān-i] kāmil-i āzād) possessed good words, good actions, good morals, gnosis, abandonment,
seclusion, satisfaction and anonymity. See ‘Azīz Nasafī, Kitāb al-Insān al-Kāmil, M. Molé (ed), (Tehran:
Anjuman-i Irānshināsī-yi farānseh dar Tihrān, 1980), p. 8-9. Abū Ḥafs ‘Umar Suhrawardī (d. 1234) also made a
similar distinction between certain members of the futuwwat organisations (which were forms of Sufi
organisations that accepted individuals on a non-full time basis). See his comments in his Kitāb fī’l-futuwwat, in
M. Ṣarrāf (ed.), Rasā’il-i jawānmardān, 2nd edn., (Tehran: Institut Français de Recherche en Iran 1991), pp.
111-12, 134, 157-58, 160-61.

8
rather forlorn and desolate Daqūqī, but in contrast Charkhī offered a positive interpretation of
the ‘ushratiyān, as he commented:

Know that the Friends of God are of two kinds, solitary (‘uzlatiyān) and convivial
mystics (‘ushratiyān). The ‘ushratiyān are superior to (afḍal) the ‘uzlatiyān in
general. The ‘ushratiyān possess the station of viziers (wuzarā) because they take
charge of directing the affairs of the kingdom of the world (tadbīr-i mamlikat). The
‘uzlatiyān are in the station of the boon companions (nudamā) because they are
constantly engaged in carrying out service. The ‘ushratiyān have their outer
dimension facing creation and their interior dimension facing God. Since teaching
those who are seeking the right path is devolved upon them, it follows that they have
pre-eminence in the inner and outer dimensions. Daqūqī was an ‘ushratiyān.33

Given the above comments, it is again tempting to witness a Naqshbandī influence running
through Charkhī’s preference for the ‘ushratiyān, especially as prominent Naqshbandī Sufis
occupied positions of power and influence in society, and were perceived to have a certain
degree of authority over political rulers.34 The practice of influencing the well-positioned in
society can be traced back among Naqshbandī Sufis to Bahā’ al-Dīn Naqshband who gave
amulets to a number of princes to protect them from their enemies and rival contenders for
worldly power.35 The most celebrated Naqshbandī Sufi in this regard was ‘Ubaydallāh Aḥrār
(d. 1490), who was Charkhī’s most well-known disciple. It has been observed that “the
chronicles as well as the hagiographical sources attribute the successful accession to power in
855/1451 of the Timurid Sultan Abū Sa‘īd ... to the help and spiritual support of Khwāja
Aḥrār.”36 This tradition of associating with and influencing the political elite was continued
in the Timurid period, as Jāmī and Ḥusayn Wā‘iẓ-i Kāshifī (another Naqshbandī Sufis
featured in this essay enjoyed the patronage of Sultan Husayn Bāyqarā.37
The solitary mystics (‘uzlatiyān) in Charkhī’s discussion of the Daqūqī story are
represented by the seven candles (otherwise, the seven trees or seven men). These are
described by Charkhī as being the seven kinds of God’s Friends (walī) who are the inheritors
of the prophets (a doctrine which is not elaborated by Rūmī in the Mathnawī). Charkhī,

33
Nay-nāma, p. 136.
34
It is worth comparing the general Naqshbandī preparedness to get involved with rulers with that of other
orders that rejected any form of political engagement. Of note in this regard are Sufis of the Chishtī order. See
Scott A. Kugle, “Heaven’s Witness: The Uses and Abuses of Muḥammad Ghawth’s Mystical Ascension,”
Journal of Islamic Studies, 14/1 (2003), pp. 5-6.
35
Pierre Lory, “Kashifi’s Asrār-i Qāsimi and Timurid Magic,” Iranian Studies, 36/4 (2003), pp. 536-7.
36
Jo-Ann Gross, “Authority and Miraculous Behaviour: Reflections of Karāmāt Stories of Khwāja ‘Ubaydallāh
Aḥrār,” in Leonard Lewisohn (ed), The Heritage of Sufism, Vol. II: The Legacy of Mediæval Persian Sufism
(1150-1500), (Oxford: Oneworld 1999), p. 161.
37
Jāmī’s involvement with rulers is the subject of a most recent study, See Chad G. Lingwood, “Jāmī’s Salāmān
va Absāl: Political Statements and Mystical Advice Addressed to the Āq Qoyūnlū Court of Sultān Ya‘qūb (d.
896/1490),” Iranian Studies, 44.2 March 2011, pp. 175-91.

9
however, commented that a Friend may reflect the attributes of Muḥammad, Jesus, or Moses
(the four other Friends are not mentioned).38 He explained further:

Know that all the Prophets and Friends are one with regard to the path of the Truth
because in reality they are the guides of God’s servants. They are many with regard to
specific details, such as Moses being a Hebrew speaker and Muḥammad being an Arabic
speaker. And God’s Friends are just like this because their inside is the light of a good
word: ‘Do you not see how Allah sets forth as a parable that a good word is like a good
tree, whose root is firm and its branches are in the sky’ (XIV: 23).39

(The above citation may explain Charkhī’s comprehension of the strange transformation of
candles to trees, and then to men). Charkhī’s elucidation is an attempt to explain the diversity
and similarity among the Friends’ characteristics, and as such, may be understood as an
endeavour at legitimising various, perhaps even contrary Sufi perspectives. The idea of seven
kinds of Sufi Friends was not unique to the Naqshbandī tradition, as it also appears in the
writings of Sufis from other orders. Nicholson drew parallels of the seven Friends with the
abdāl as described by Ibn ‘Arabī (d. 1240), and the seven divine names,40 and ‘Alā’ al-Dawla
al-Simnānī (d. 1336) discussed seven levels of spiritual attainment and accompanying
manifestations of light for Sufis which reflected the attributes associated with seven
prophets.41
The theme of the solitary Friends of God is continued in the subsequent story in
Charkhī’s Nay-nāma, which is the tale of Shaykh Muḥammad of Ghazna. In the Mathnawī
we read that Shaykh Muḥammad of Ghazna wanted to behold the beauty of God and to this
end he decided to throw himself off a mountain-top so that in dying he would come face to
face with God. However, God told Shaykh Muḥammad that it was not his appointed time, but
instead gave him a command to engage in begging for several years. The Shaykh carried out
God’s command and learned that in self-abasement he was able to kill himself (by mortifying
his own desires). The message that Charkhī wanted to deliver was that some Friends paid

38
It is worthwhile mentioning at this point an anecdote reported about ‘Ubaydallāh Aḥrār, Charkhī’s disciple,
who in boyhood “saw Jesus in a dream and fell at his feet. Jesus pulled him up and said: ‘Do not be worried, we
will train you.’ Khwāja Aḥrār interpreted this dream to mean that he would be blessed with the power to revive
dead hearts as Christ used to revive dead bodies.” Cited by K.A. Nizami, “The Naqshbandiyyah Order,” p. 169.
It may be speculated that he may have been regarded as a Friend whose main attributes were ‘Isawī (or Jesus-
like).
39
Nay-nāma, p. 134.
40
See R.A. Nicholson, The Mathnawī of Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī: Commentary on Book III, p. 54, where he remarks
that according to Ibn ‘Arabī the abdāl “preside over the seven climes ... and each one is the spiritual
representation of a prophet.”
41
See Jamal J. Elias, The Throne Carrier of God: The Life and Thought of ‘Alā’ ad-dawla as-Simnānī (Albany:
SUNY Press 1995), pp. 84-5. The seven prophets are Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, David, Jesus and
Muḥammad.

10
absolute obedience to the command of God. In effect, Shaykh Muḥammad of Ghazna typified
the solitary type of Sufi and thus served as a perfect contrast to Daqūqī.

iii). The Vision of Beloved in Creation, and the Proximity of God

During his lifetime Rūmī had several companions who in their own way reflected the divine,
and Charkhī’s commentary paralled this desire to witness the beloved in creation. This belief
was not specific to the Naqshbandī tradition, but was an aspect of “normative” Sufism in this
period, and as such, it would have been rather unusual for a commentary on the Mathnawī not
to have discussed this fundamental aspect of Sufism. The vision of the beloved in creation
inspired much Sufi poetry, perhaps the most celebrated example of which is Ibn ‘Arabi’s
Tarjuman al-ashwāq, written in 1201 and which was inspired by a young Persian lady from
Isfahan. This work was an allegorical text in which the poet traces the tracks left by the
beloved through the Arabian desert.42 Another example of witnessing the divine through
creation is found in the ghazals of Hāfiẓ Shīrāzī (d. 1389), which likewise, should be
comprehended in an allegorical fashion.43 Therefore, Charkhī’s inclusion of sections of the
Mathnawī in which this aspect of Sufism is portrayed further fortified this dimension of
belief. So, for example, Charkhī included the following from the story of Daqūqī:

He [Daquqi] said, “One day I was going along like him that yearns, that I might
behold in man the radiance of the beloved
That I might behold an ocean in a drop of water, a sun enclosed in a mote.”44

And from the tale of Bāyazīd performing the ḥajj around an old shaykh, he cited the
following couplets:

When thou hast seen me thou hast seen God; thou hast circled around the Ka‘ba of
Sincerity.
To serve me is to obey and glorify God; beware thou think not that God is
separate from me.
Open thine eyes well and look on me, that thou mayst behold the Light of God in
man.45

42
See The Tarjumān al-ashwāq: A Collection of Mystical Odes by Muhyi’ddín Ibn al-‘Arabí, trans. and ed. by
R.A. Nicholson (London: 1911, reprinted: Theosophical Publishing House 1978)
43
Although it seems that the author was not a Sufi in the conventional sense, certainly his poetry reveals a
profoundly mystical slant. The most recent complete translation of the Dīwān-i Ḥāfiẓ is Peter Avery’s The
Collected Lyrics of Hāfiz of Shīrāz (London: Archetype 2007).
44
Mathnawī, III: 1982-83. Nicholson’s translation.
45
Mathnawī, II: 2247-49. Nicholson’s translation.

11
 A related theme that winds the length of all six volumes of the Mathnawī and Charkhī’s
commentary is that of God’s proximity to, if not unity with, the individual. The vision of such
proximity is a reflection of God’s mercy in creation. Again, these topics manifest a normative
form of medieval Sufism.
***

The significance of this section has been to highlight the espousal of an ecstatic and unitary
form of Sufism within the parameters of a supposedly sober Sufi order. Charkhī’s Nay-nāma
has received scant scholarly attention, and the very brief observations in this essay may be
regarded as preliminary attempts to highlight its significance. It is to be hoped that further
research will be undertaken in the future to fully delineate the contours of this important
medieval commentary. Charkhī’s writing inevitably manifests his own particular concerns,
and his elucidation of the Mathnawī’s prologue and the stories upon which he chooses to
comment reveal his explicit commitment to Naqshbandī Sufism and the Islamic mystical
world view in general. It is, however, difficult to strictly differentiate Charkhī’s Naqshbandī
Sufism from the general message of Sufism that is contained in Rūmī’s Mathnawī simply
because they both shared many similar themes. Even those features which are considered
typical of the Naqshbandīs may not be so strikingly dissimilar from Rūmī’s Sufism. For
example, the most salient feature of Charkhī’s commentary is his understanding of the two
kinds of Sufis, and his preference for the convivial type of mystic, which accords with the
general trend among Naqshbandī Sufis to engage in society and influence rulers. The extent
to which this differs from Rūmī’s own teachings and his political persuasions (particularly his
relations with the Seljuk minister Mu‘īn al-Dīn Parvāna and his wife, and other notables in
and around Konya) needs to be fully researched.46

II. Nūr al-Dīn ‘Abd al-Raḥmān Jāmī

Sometimes described as “the seal of the poets” on account of the belief that he was the last
truly great master of Persian poetry,47 Jāmī’s oeuvre reveals a predilection for the world view
of Ibn ‘Arabī rather than that of Rūmī. He composed two commentaries on ‘Ibn ‘Arabī’s

46
In this respect, Franklin Lewis in his Rumi: Past and Present, East and West (Oxford: Oneworld 2000)
highlights the relationship between Rūmī and Mu‘īn al-Dīn Parvāna (see pp. 279-84). However, a fuller
investigation is required to flesh out this under-investigated aspect of Rūmī’s life.
47
See the remark made by the modern literary historian Dhabiḥu’llāh Ṣafā who remarked that Jāmi “must be
accounted the last truly great master of Persian poetry” (Tārikh-i adabiyāt, IV, pp. 360), cited by Paul Losensky,
“Jāmī. Jāmī’s Poetics and Literary Reputation,” EIr, vol. XIV, p. 473.

12
Fuṣūṣ al-ḥikam,48 and he also analysed the Lama‘āt of Fakhr al-Din ‘Irāqī,49 which was itself
an explanation of many intricate points contained within Akbarian theosophy.50 Naqshbandī
partiality for the teachings of Ibn ‘Arabī did not commence with Jāmī, however, as two of
Bahā’ al-Din Naqshband’s great disciples, Muḥammad Parsā (d. 1420)51 and ‘Alā’ al-Dīn
‘Aṭṭār were proponents of his theosophy, as was ‘Ubaydu’llāh Aḥrār.52 (It should be noted,
however, that not all Naqshbandīs manifested such an inclination for this kind of speculative
Sufism, as for example, there is no trace of an Ibn ‘Arabī influence in Charkhī’s Nay-nāma).
In other words, this early Naqshbandī focus on Ibn ‘Arabī’s thought and terminology did not
at all necessitate that Sufis of this order were opposed to Rūmī’s poetry. There is great
similarity in the themes that are contained in the writings of Ibn ‘Arabī and Rūmī, although
the literary forms of the two mystics were in certain ways diametrically opposed.53 While for
Rūmī the intoxicating experience was expressed through intensely emotional poetry, for Ibn
‘Arabī the essential unity of existence was explained in abstract metaphysical terms. Or, to
quote William Chittick, “One can imagine Ibn ‘Arabī without love ... but one cannot imagine
Rūmī without love.”54
In addition to being recognised as a great poet and as one of the leading interpreters of
the Akbarian worldview in the fifteenth century, Jāmī is also famous for the following verse
that links him with Rūmī:

The mystic Masnavi of our Rumi:

Koran incarnate in the Persian tongue!
How can I describe him and his majesty?
Not prophet, but revealer of a Book.55

Time and again leading scholars have cited these verses, yet each has failed to provide the
source. The reason for this is perhaps because the verse did not originate with Jāmī, but with

48
Naqd al-nuṣūṣ fī sharḥ-i naqsh al-fuṣūṣ, William Chittick (ed), (Tehran 1977), and Sharḥ-i Fuṣūṣ al-Ḥikam,
ʿĀṣim Ibrāhim al-Kayyāli al-Ḥusayni al-Shādhilī al-Darqawī (ed), (Beirut, 2004).
49
This has been translated by W. Chittick and P. Wilson as Divine Flashes (Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press 1982).
50
For the influence of Ibn ‘Arabī’s thought on Jāmī see also Sajjad Rizvi, “The Existential Breath of al-Rahman
and the Munificent Grace of al-Rahim: The Tafsir surat al-Fatiha of Jami and the school of Ibn ‘Arabi”,
Journal of Quranic Studies, 8/1 (2006), pp. 58-87.
51
Notwithstanding Parsā’s attachment to the theosophy of Ibn ‘Arabī, Jāmī’s biographical entry on him in
Nafaḥāt al-uns (p. 398) has him quote two couplets from Rūmī’s Diwān-i Shams.
52
Weismann, The Naqshbandiyya, pp. 29-30.
53
Similarities include the “Sophianic Feminine,” on which see Ralph W. Austin, “The Sophianic Feminine in
Ibn ‘Arabi and Rumi,” in L. Lewisohn (ed), The Heritage of Sufism (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), II, pp. 233-45.
See also William Chittick, “Rūmī and waḥdat al-wujūd” in A. Banani, R. Hovannisian & G. Sabagh (eds),
Poetry and Mysticism in Islam: The Heritage of Rūmī (Cambridge: University Press 1994), pp. 70-111.
54
William Chittick, “Rūmī and waḥdat al-wujūd”, p. 96.
55
This translation is given by Franklin Lewis, Rumi: Past and Present, p. 467.

13
a scribe of one of his works, or with someone who appreciated the mystical poetry of both
Jāmī and Rūmī.56 Indeed, Jāmī’s concern with Rūmī is exceedingly limited when compared
with the attention that he devoted to the world view of the Akbarian school.57 The only
seemingly authentic treatise by Jāmī devoted solely to Rūmī’s poetry appears to be a very
short treatise entitled Risāla-yi Nā’iya, which is a brief explanation in poetry and prose of
only one couplet, the first and famous, “Listen to the reed”.58 Aside from this, there is a
relatively lengthy discussion of Rūmī in his biography of Sufis, called the Nafaḥāt al-uns.
Scattered references to Rūmī and his writings may be discovered in Jāmī’s other works.59
However, the following will focus on Jāmī’s discussion of the Mathnawī through his Risāla-
yi Nā’iya, which will be preceded by a brief investigation of Jāmī’s appreciation of Rūmī, as
contained in the Nafaḥāt al-uns.

i). Jāmī’s Biography of Rūmī in the Nafaḥāt al-uns

Jāmī’s large biography of Sufis entitled “The Breaths of [Divine] Intimacy” (Nafaḥāt al-uns)
is collection of entries for 584 male Sufis and 33 females who figure as leading mystics

56
In an email sent to me on Dec. 3, 2010, Franklin Lewis has said that these verses were attributed to Jāmī from
the eighteenth century onwards, but he has been unable to locate the exact source.
57
With regard to Jāmī’s work on Rūmī, there is the biographical entry on him in Nafaḥāt al-uns and the short
“Treatise of the Reed.” Yet an examination for the entry on “Jāmī” in ‘Alī-Akbar Dihkhudā’s Lughat nāma,
([Tehran: Mu’assasa-yi Intishārāt wa chāp-i Dānishgāh-i Tehran, 1373 A.Hsh./1994-5], new edition, Vol. 5, p.
6508) indicates that he wrote a work entitled, Manāqib-i Mawlā-yi Rūmī (“The Virtues of Mawlā-yi Rūmī”). On
searching through the list of manuscripts in volume III of Munzawī’s Fihristwāra-yi kitāb-i fārsī (which is
devoted to the history of the prophets, imams and the biographies of poets, pīrs, and eminent people (Munzawī,
Fihristwāra-yi kitāb-i fārsī, Vol. III [Tehran: Anjuman-i Āthār-i wa mafākhir-i farhangī, 1997], p. 1842), a text
is mentioned called Aḥwāl-i Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī, which is the well-known treatise by Sipahsālār.
Sipahsālār was a follower of Rūmī, who wrote a biography of his spiritual master that was edited and published
by Sa‘īd Nafīsī: Risāla dar aḥwāl-i Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī (Tehran: Iqbāl 1325 A.Hsh./1946). Strangely,
in the index of writers and authors of Munzawī’s Fihristvāra-yi kitāb-i fārsī there is a work entitled Manāqib-i
Mawlā-yi Rūmī (with the reference to page 1957, but in fact on this page is an entry for Kāshifī’s Manāqib wa
aḥwāl-i Nūr al-Dīn Jāmī. The “mystery” treatise mentioned by Dihkhudā may be related to a list of Jāmī’s
works which is contained in ‘Abidī’s introduction to Jāmī’s Nafaḥāt al-uns. The list is based upon an index of
Jāmī’s treatises that was compiled by his student, ‘Abd al-Ghafūr Lārī. The forty-third treatise in the list is
entitled Manāqib-i Ḥaḍrat-i Mawlāwī. However, in a footnote, ‘Abidī states that Bashīr Harawī in his edition of
‘Abd al-Ghafūr Lārī’s Takmila-yi Nafaḥāt al-uns (Afghanistan: n.d.) has indicated that the treatise in question is
not by Jāmī, but by one of his contemporaries, Kamāl al-Dīn ‘Abd al-Wāsi‘ Niẓāmī. A copy of the text is held in
the Central Library of Tehran University (no. 4810). See ‘Abidī (ed), “Author’s Introduction” to his Nafaḥāt al-
uns, pp. xix-xx.
58
This text is included in Bahāristān wa rasā’il-i Jāmi, ed. A’lāḵān Afsaḥzād, et al., (Tehran: Mīrāth-i Maktūb
1379 A.Hsh./2000).
59
For example, Jāmī complained that old age had deprived him of his literary skills and so in his Salaman and
Absal: he mourned:

These two couplets from the Masnavi of our Master have a wonderful relevance to my present state:
‘How should verse-making and rhyming come to me after the roots of my well-being have perished?
I think upon rhyme, and my heart’s Beloved says to me, “Think only upon contemplating Me.”’
(Mathnawī, I: 1727).
See A.J. Arberry, Fitzgerald’s Salaman and Absal (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1956), p. 147.

14
stretching from the very early period of Islam down to the late fifteenth century.60 The length
of an individual entry did tend to give an indication of the importance and high regard that he
had for the Sufi in question, and the entry on Rūmī extends to four and a half pages, which
length is exceeded only by eight other renowned Sufis.61 However, Rūmī’s name appears
frequently in the four entries subsequent to his own (Shams al-Dīn Tabrīzī, Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn
Zarkūb, Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī and Sulṭān Walad), and all five entries together comprise
twelve pages. In this respect, Rūmī is awarded an eminently illustrious position within Jāmī’s
biography of Sufis.
The content of Jāmī’s entry on Rūmī stands in contrast to the biography of the Mevlevis
written in the early fourteenth century by Aflākī (d.1360), who had a taste “for the
miraculous and exaggerated.”62 Aflākī’s perspective should be considered as a work
commissioned to describe the “miracles of the lofty forefathers and the lofty of the noble
ancestors.”63 Thus his depiction of Rūmī contained anecdotes in which he is telepathic, has
miraculous powers enabling him to cure the sick (for example by simply rubbing his hands
over the hunch of a hunchback the latter is rendered healthy), can cause trees to grow, and
has the Ka‘ba rotate around him.64 Jāmī’s potted biography, in contrast, presents only one
miracle at the very beginning of his entry. He cites the story (also found in Aflākī),65 of
Rūmī’s disappearance as a young boy when playing with his companions on neighbouring
roof-tops. He was taken by the angels into the heavens and then returned to tell his friends of
the encounter. Subsequently, Jāmī’s portrayal of Rūmī is rather sober; surprisingly, there is
only one passing mention of samā‘ in the whole of the entry on Rūmī. It is only when the
reader reaches the entry on Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Zarkūb that Jāmī describes how Rūmī was
enraptured by the sound and rhythm of the goldsmiths’ beating that he commenced a samā‘

60
While discussing the hagiographical tradition, it is worth mentioning another work in the genre, which was
written by a contemporary of Jāmī, namely the Majālis al-‘ushshāq (“Assemblies of the Lovers”) which was
composed by Amīr Kamāl al-Dīn Ḥusayn Gāzargāhī. According to Ṭabāṭabā’ī Majd (the editor of the text)
Gāzargāhī was “a student in the school of Jāmī” and sheltered under the protection of Amīr ‘Alī Shīr Nawā‘ī,
the minister to Herat’s ruler, Sulṭān Ḥusayn Bāyqarā. The contents of Majālis al-‘ushshāq consist of seventy-
five chapters, each of which is devoted to a major Sufi or individual associated with the tradition. Rūmī is
included in chapter 28, and Shams-i Tabrīzī is presented in chapter 24. The discussion of these Sufis does not
shed any new light on them as individuals, and repeats much of the information found in Jāmī’s Nafaḥāt al-uns.
See Majālis al-‘ushshāq, edited by Ṭabāṭabā’ī Majd (Tehran: Zarrīn, 1375 A.Hsh./1996-7).
61
These eight are Abū Sa‘īd Abī’l-Khayr (pp. 305-312), Abu’l-Ḥasan Najjār (pp. 350-55), Aḥmad-i Jām (pp.
362-71), ‘Ubaydu’llāh Aḥrār (pp. 410-17), Najm al-Dīn Kubrā (pp. 422-27), ‘Abd al-Razzāq al-Kāshī (pp. 483-
92), ‘Abd al-Qādir Gilānī (pp. 416-24), and Ibn ‘Arabī (pp. 545-54).
62
See Franklin Lewis, Rumi: Past and Present, p. 189. Shams al-Dīn Aḥmad Aflākī, Manāqib al-‘ārifīn,
translated as The Feats of the Knowers of God by John O’Kane.
63
The Feats, p. 3.
64
These miracles (or charismatic powers) are described by Aflākī on pp. 145, 161, 169 and 200.
65
The Feats, p. 56

15
during the time between prayers.66 However, the absence of more references to the samā‘ in
his entry on Rūmī may not have been intentional, and it was most likely the case that the
association between the mystic from Balkh and spinning did not need to be made because it
was already commonly known by the readers of the Nafaḥāt. Yet it is worth pointing out that
the majority of Jāmī’s anecdotes in his entry for Rūmī were derived from Aflākī’s Manāqib
al-‘ārifīn, which describes Rūmī’s mystical raptures and samā‘ so regularly that the latter
appears almost in a permanent state of ecstasy. The “real” nature of Rūmī’s Sufism most
likely lay between these two poles. Aflākī was attempting to promote the Mevlevi order and
perhaps exaggerated its distinguishing feature, the samā‘. Jāmī, however, as a proponent of
Naqshbandī Sufism that emphasised the principle of ‘solitude in society’ (khalwat dar
anjuman), may well have had some reservations relating to the performance of these Sufi
rituals which appeared to have been clearly visible to the public on several occasions and
hence considered inappropriate by other Naqshbandī Sufis.67
Here, it will be necessary to discuss the samā‘ ceremony a little further because of the
controversy surrounding Shaykh Awhād al-Dīn Kirmānī (d. 1238) who was suspected of
contemplating God in beautiful persons (shāhid-bāz). Witnessing God in a beautiful person
(shāhid-bāzī) was a topic that generated much discussion in Rūmī’s time, and Awhād al-Dīn
Kirmānī was evidently accused of engaging in a less than spiritual version of “witnessing
God”. As Jāmī himself states: “In some of the aforementioned histories, it has been
mentioned that when he became excited during the samā‘ he would rip open the shirt of
handsome young men (amradān) and place his breast upon theirs.”68 In his entry on Rūmī,
Jāmī stated:

One day in [one of his] gatherings they were talking about Shaykh Awhād al-Dīn Kirmānī
(the mercy of God Most High upon him), [and they said] “He was a shāhid-bāz, but he
was pure (pākbāz) and did not do anything improper.” [Mawlawī] said, “Would that he
had done something and then gone beyond it!” (kāshki kardī wa gudhashtī).

Oh brother, [God’s] court is infinite,

Wherever you reach, by God, do not stop there.69

66
Nafaḥāt al-uns, p. 469.
67
An example of the public nature of Rūmī’s samā‘ is the case of his spinning at the sound of Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn
Zarkūb’s pounding on his metal work. (See Aflākī V.7). The majority of Sufis were so concerned about
revealing mystical secrets during the practice of the samā‘ that participation in the ritual was generally restricted
to Sufi initiates themselves.
68
Nafaḥāt al-uns, p. 588. This passage is included in the entry on Shaykh Awhād al-Dīn Kirmānī.
69
Also found in Feats, [paragraph 399], pp. 302-3.

16
And it is worth noting here that in his entry on Shaykh Awhād al-Dīn Kirmānī, Jāmī has
Awhād al-Dīn explain the spiritual psychology underlying shāhid-bāzī further through this
quatrain:

With the eyes of the head we witness forms

Because the trace of [any] meaning [must] appear in a form.
This world is a form and we [have the shape] of figures
One can only see the meaning [behind the figures] through the form.70

It would seem that Jāmī believed that in Rūmī’s opinion, Awhād al-Dīn was not culpable of
any crime. The phrase “Would that he had done something and then gone beyond it!” and the
subsequent couplet may be understood in a positive fashion. As the manifestations of God are
infinite, Awhād al-Dīn should not have been limited to one of these forms; rather, he should
have moved on or forgotten about his particular obsession. It is revealing that in neither his
entry for Rūmī or Awhādī does Jāmī cite the anecdote found in Aflākī in which Rūmī says,
“Shaykh Awhād al-Dīn left a bad legacy for the world. ‘And he will bear the burden of
whoever acts upon it.”71 In the Nafaḥāt al-uns, Jāmī does not characterise the sama‘ (which
for many was the defining feature of Rūmī and the Mevlevi order) with immorality or
indecency. Indeed, Algar has argued that Jāmī’s sympathy for the samā‘ was, at times, “at
variance with Naqshbandī norms [and occasionally he indulged] in samā‘ ... in particular
when stimulated by the composition of his romantic maṯnawī, Yusof o Zoleyḵa.”72
The over-riding impression that Jāmī provides of Rūmī is that of a Sufi whose priorities
are other-worldly, and whose quick wit and occasional acerbic tongue must have left his
associates in a constant state of bewilderment and awe. That Rūmī was highly articulate
should be no surprise to anyone familiar with his poetry, which must have been well known
at the Timurid court where Jāmī enjoyed much prestige. This may well be the reason that
Jāmī did not feel the need to mention by name any of Rūmī’s prose or poetic works in the
Nafaḥāt al-uns.73 It is interesting that Jāmī included in this Persian work a relatively large
amount of Arabic, including Rūmī’s citation of the Qur’ān, ḥadīth, some verse and some
prose. Of course it should not be forgotten that Rūmī was a scholar of Islamic sciences, part

70
Nafaḥāt al-uns, p. 588.
71
The Feats of the Knowers of God, p. 303. The italics indicate an Arabic sentence.
72
Hamid Algar, “Jāmī and Sufism,” EIr, vol. XIV, p. 475. Algar’s source is Lārī’s Takmila-yi Nafaḥāt al-uns,
edited by Bashir Hirawī (Kabul: 1964), p. 7. It is clear from Lārī’s text that Jāmī was not opposed to the samā‘.
The former states, “On several occasions he [Jāmī] ordered that a samā‘ [should take place] with movements of
a circular fashion, and he made great efforts in this and [it] lasted for such a long time. The musicians and
singers had no choice [but to play and sing]. He did not change his mind on this.”
73
The Mathnawī is cited once (VI: 540) and the Dīwān three times (I.82; VIII.176 and III.197).

17
of which entailed knowledge of Arabic literature and many non-mystical dimensions of
Islamic learning. The relative lack of miraculous events, the inclusion of Arabic citations, and
the didactic and pithy sayings suggest that Jāmī was attempting to portray Rūmī in a far less
fantastical fashion than Aflākī – perhaps to make him more palatable to other Naqshbandī
Sufis.
One of ways in which Jāmī attempted to do this was to associate Rūmī with the followers
of Ibn ‘Arabī. The association is not false, as it is testified by the cordial relationship between
Rūmī and Ṣadr al-Dīn Qūnawī (who was a leading student and commentator of Ibn ‘Arabī).
However, it is intriguing that in the very final paragraph of his biography of Rūmī, Jāmī
repeats an anecdote (also found in Aflākī)74 that a group of Sufi leaders who are more
commonly associated with Ibn ‘Arabī’s school (Shaykh Mu’ayyad al-Dīn Jandī, Shaykh Ṣadr
al-Dīn Qūnawī, Shams al-Dīn Ikī, Fakhr al-Dīn ‘Irāqī, Sharaf al-Dīn Mawṣilī and Shaykh
Sa‘īd Farghānī) place a seal of approval upon Rūmī:

They asked Shaykh Mu’ayyad al-Dīn Jandī “What did Shaykh Ṣadr al-Dīn [Qūnawī] say
about Mawlawī?” He said, “By God! One day the special friends including Shams al-Dīn
Ikī, Fakhr al-Dīn ‘Irāqī, Sharaf al-Dīn Mawṣilī, Shaykh Sa‘īd Farghānī and others were
sitting together. The discussion turned to the way of life and inner thought of Mawlānā.
The Shaykh said ‘If Bāyazīd and Junayd were alive today they would have seized the
mantle of this great man and would have made a life-long obligation to him. He is the
head steward (khānsālār) of Muḥammadan poverty, and we taste [the food] as his
uninvited guests.’ All the followers agreed this was fair and they praised him.” After that,
Shaykh Mu’ayyad said, “I am also among those who need that Sultan,” and he recited this
couplet:

If a form of divine meaning appears before us,

It would be you. I say this openly, without [any] doubt.75

Schimmel has suggested that this depiction of an assembly of great masters discussing the
stature of Rūmī should not be taken literally,76 and Chittick has added that none of Ibn
‘Arabī’s immediate successors who wrote in Persian (including Qūnawī, ‘Irāqī, Farghānī and
Jandī) ever cited Rūmī in their own works.77 However, Jāmī’s inclusion of the anecdote
reflects a trend that reappears in other works of his, namely, an attempt to view both Rūmī
and Ibn ‘Arabī within a single world view.

74
The Feats of the Knowers of God, p. 294.
75
Nafaḥāt al-uns, p. 465.
76
Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975),
p. 315.
77
W.Chittick, “Rūmī and the Mawlawiyyah,” in S. H. Nasr (ed), Islamic Spirituality: Manifestations (London:
SCM Press, 1991), p. 116.

18
 ii. Jāmī’s Treatment of Rūmī’s Mathnawī: The Risāla-yi Nā’iya
That Jāmī devoted much attention to Rūmī and his immediate associates in his Nafaḥāt al-uns
indicates that he held the Sufi from Balkh in great esteem. And while he may have had
certain reservations about the ecstatic rituals, it seems likely that he approved of the general
message of the Mathnawī. This may be the reason why Jāmī composed a brief treatise
entitled Risāla-yi Nā’iya (“The Treatise of the Nay”).78 This short work offers Jāmī’s
understanding of the very first two lines of Rūmī’s Mathnawī, “Listen to the reed, since it is
relating a story /It is complaining of its separations.” The Treatise of the Nay is largely
composed of several sets of mathnawī verses (rhyming couplets) interspersed very briefly
with prose commentary. It is no coincidence that Jāmī selected this particular form of poetry,
especially as he chose to compose his own mathnawī verse in the Risāla-yi Nā’iya in the very
same poetic meter as Rūmī’s Mathnawī.79 The following offers translations of some of the
mathnawī verses in the Nay-nāma by Jāmī, who as a master poet attempted to popularise
Rūmī’s Mathnawī by using his own highly refined rhetorical skills.80
The first mathnawī in the Risāla-yi Nā’iya expresses Jāmī’s positive view of the
masterpiece. He expresses his admiration for the Mathnawī, but adds a conventional touch of
humility by stating that he was perplexed and dumbfounded when attempting to praise it.
“How is it possible for this amazing secret to appear in the garments of sounds and words?”
he asks, adding, “It is unwise to praise the sun, for the emanation of its light is sufficient
praise.” Jāmī excused himself from the task, as the Mathnawī praised itself among both Arabs
and Persians due to its own virtue, benevolence and generosity.

78
Bahārestān va rasā’il-i Jāmī, ed. A‘lāḵān Afsaḥzād, et al., (Tehran, 2000), pp. 325-6.
79
Jāmī was a prolific composer of mathnawī poetry. His Haft awrang (“The seven thrones”) includes Salāmān
wa Absāl, Yūsuf wa Zulaykhā, and Laylī wa Majnūn. The other four mathnawīs in the collection are Silsilat al-
dhahab (“The Golden Chain”), Subḥat al-abrār (“Rosary of the Pious”), Tuḥfat al-aḥrār (“Gift of the Free”)
and Khiradnāma-yi Iskandarī (“Book of Alexandrian Wisdom”). Although written in mathnawī form it has been
observed that “the central work of the Haft owrang, is written in a meter that has no precedent in the maṯnawi
tradition,” Losensky, “Jāmī: Literary Works,” EIr, vol. XIV, p. 471. For his mathnawīs in the Risāla-yi Nā’iya
Jāmī used the ramal metre. The first hemistich reads: kīst nay ān kas ki gūyad dambidam.
80
Unfortunately, Jāmī’s poetic skills are lost in translation. It is impossible to render their rhyming scheme
successfully in English, nor is it possible to convey the technical skills, such as murā‘āt-i nazīr, which is when
four words are used in one couplet which are related to each other by genus, class or kind. For example,
consider the following couplet in this work:
‘I blacken (mushkīn) the white page (ṣafheh-yi kāfūr)/
And adorn the curls (sunbul-i tar) with a wild rose (nasrīn).’
In this couplet Jāmī employs four words which are closely associated with flowers, although the literal reading
in the text conveys alternative meanings. The word mushkīn is also a narcissus (mushkīn-i wafā’ dār); in
addition to being anything white, kāfūr is a flower of the palm-tree; while sunbul-i tar are curls, a sunbul is a
hyacinth; and nasrīn is a wild rose. Moreover, the intricacy of the line is rendered more appealing as the general
theme of Jāmī’s mathnawī is the metaphor of the reed as a pen, so it is appropriate that in the second hemistich
sunbul (hyacinth) is a long pen-shaped flower, while the petals of the nasrīn are flat and white like a sheet of
paper.

19
 Subsequently, in a short paragraph Jāmī explained how the nay (or the flute) was
“completely analogous to the perfect ones united [with God] (wāṣilān-i kāmil) and the perfect
ones who bring others to perfection (kāmilān-i mukammil)81 who have been annihilated from
[both] themselves and creation and have found subsistence in God ... whatever is attributed to
the [nay] is really the songs and sounds derived from its master and not from [the flute].”
This serves to introduce Jāmī’s second mathnawī which includes daring descriptions
associated with the samā‘ (rending the garment of existence) and sensual images such as the
kissing of lovers’ lips that also whisper gently into the lover’s ear. Moreover, Sufis would
readily have associated the rotation of the heavenly spheres with the spinning of the
Mevlevis. Jāmī closed this mathnawī with a seal of silence (khāmūshī), an obvious nod to
Rūmī who frequently concluded his own ghazals in the Dīwān-i Shams with the pen-name
Khāmūsh.82 In effect, this mathnawī functions to introduce Rūmī’s Mathnawī in a general
way, indicating that it is derived from mystical union with the divine that inspired a wide
range of stories that teach both the exoteric and esoteric dimensions of Islam. So that the
reader may grasp Jāmī’s appreciation of Rūmī in full, a prose version of the first set of his
mathnawī verses is translated below:

Who is the flute? That person who says continually,

“I am a flute, nothing but a wave of an ancient ocean.
Like a flute, I have become emptied of my own existence,
Unaware of any other than God.
Annihilated from myself and subsistent in the Truth,
Suddenly the robe of my existence was ripped open.
Finding tranquillity in the Truth, I fled from myself;
I emit whatever the Truth breathes into me.
Having joined to my [intimate] companion’s lips (lab-i damsāz)
I am deeply enamoured (nayaram) with the heart of “except” (lubb-i illa).83
The word of the Truth is heard through my voice -
Sometimes the furqan,84 and sometimes the Gospel and Psalms.
The dance of the spheres and stars of heaven is derived through my instrument,
To my call the angels prostrate themselves.85
With a loud cry I shall make aware
Anyone who has gone astray due to [some] sad fate.
[But] I shall softly whisper a secret in the ear

81
It is interesting that Jāmī uses the very same term – “favoured by the Naqshbandīs” (Johan G.J. Ter Haar,
“The Importance of the Spiritual Guide in the Naqshbandī Order,” p. 321) – as did Charkhī.
82
See William Chittick, The Sufi Path of Love: The Spiritual Teachings of Rumi (Albany: SUNY Press 1983), p.
351, n. 7.
83
The meaning here is the illa in the Islamic testament of faith: “There is no god except (illa) God.”
84
A reference to the Qur’ān (XXI: 48).
85
The Qur’ān states that God commanded the angels: “Prostrate yourselves before Adam’ [and] they all
prostrated themselves except Iblis.” (II: 33).

20
 Of anyone seated in the line of the intimate ones:
Sometimes I explain the trauma of separation -
For those heartless ones I [burn] brands upon [their] soul[s];86
[And] sometimes I bring the good news of proximity and union -
Upon those with yearning I bestow a hundred ecstasies and spiritual states.
I explicate the holy laws
And also render clear the divine realities.
Whether it is poetry or prose that wells up inside me,
My beautiful tunes are nothing but “except”.87
Within these lovely, cheering songs
There is a single melody, though there are six volumes to the Mathnawī.
A felicitous opportunity and a long life are necessary
For me to speak of my experience just a little more.
[But] since this discourse is coming to an end
I shall place a seal of silence (khāmūshī) upon [my] lips.

Jāmī’s third mathnawī employed the pen as a metaphor for the nay as opposed to the
flute. He admitted that “it is possible that by the nay the meaning intended by the poet was a
reed-pen (qalam) because some have used [the reed-pen (qalam)] metaphorically for the
speaker of the mathnawī [cited above].” Even so, Jāmī appeared to have some doubt about
the suitability of interpreting the nay to mean a pen, observing that some of the perfect
attributes and states that Rūmī had attributed to the nay do not conform to the interpretation
of it as a pen. (Indeed, the possibility of understanding the nay as a pen seems a little
disingenuous, given that the ensuing opening verses of Rūmī’s Mathnawī explicitly
associates it with the flute).88 Jāmī’s willingness to interpret the nay in more than single way
bears a certain resonance with the sixth couplet of the prologue to the Mathnawī: “Each
person through his own supposition became my friend” (har kasī az ẓann-i khwud shud yār-i
man). That individuals are trapped in their own subjectivity is not a new perspective within
the Sufi tradition, but the realisation of this may well have contributed to the general Sufi
world view of engagement and acceptance of alterity.
86
The Qur’ān provides similar kind of imagery: “Today we set a seal upon their mouths” (XXXVI: 65)., and the
treasure of those who do not expend it on God’s cause “will be heated in the fire of Hell, and their foreheads,
sides and backs branded with it” (IX: 34-5).
87
See note 83 above.
88
For example, the ninth couplet reads “This sound of the nay is fire, it is not wind / Whoever has not this fire,
may he be non-existent.” Rūmī is not denying that breath is blown into the nay. He is merely describing that
breath as fire-like and life-bestowing. As a poet, he plays with the words: bād which means both “wind” and
“may s/he be”, but the association between “wind” and the breath that is blown into the flute appears all too
obvious. Moreover, the thirtieth couplet of the prologue states: “If I were co-joined with the lips of my beloved,
I too, like the nay, would relate all that should be told.” The image of the nay being placed between the flautists
lips is evident here. In his commentary and notes on the Mathnawī, Nicholson refutes the idea that the nay
represents a reed-pen, that is to say, either a pen “whom God controls in His hand, or ‘the Most Exalted Pen’ =
Mohammad as the Logos’”. Nicholson adds, “Those who shut their eyes to significant facts can easily convince
themselves that nay means the Prophet and that the song of the reed is the Qur’an.” See R.A. Nicholson, The
Mathnawi of Jalaluddin Rumi: Commentary on Volume I, p. 9 (note 1).

21
 Although the external reality and function of the nay may be questioned, its lack of
ontological independence, freedom and agency is evident in Jāmī’s third mathnawī, whether
as a flute or a pen. He stated that just as the flute doesn’t act as an independent agent in its
own right, likewise the pen “is the place of manifestation of another’s acts and states: of the
one who affects and has power over it. [The nay] is nothing more than the level of
manifestation.”89
Below, I have translated Jāmī’s third set of mathnawī verses, which reveals how the pen
manifests beautiful, spiritual images, such as the beloved’s face through its calligraphy. To
fully appreciate the poetic skill of these mathnawī verses by Jāmī, it is necessary to remember
the high esteem that Muslims have for the art of calligraphy. Indeed, in some Sufi traditions
the letters of the alphabet were arranged in intricate ways so that the figures of flowers,
animals and humans were more readily recognisable than the sacred words that the letters
represented – a practice that was regarded with suspicion by iconoclast Muslims.90

The pen (khāma) speaks with scratching sounds,

“I’m luring the birds of meaning.
Suddenly I capture them all in a calligraphic trap
And scatter seeds for them with [alphabetical] dots.
From the oppression of unfortunate fate
They have been swept into my ink and have surrendered.
When from that ink I raise [my] head
Night’s ringlets I loosen over the moon’s face.
I blacken (mishkīn) the white surface (ṣafḥa-yi kāfūr)
And adorn the curls (sunbul-i tar) with a wild rose (nasrīn).
Like a comb I split [my hair] with a parting,
And all the time I am a garment-weaver with that comb.
From this task [of weaving] I cast
Black gowns at each moment for the houris of meaning.
I say all of this, yet when you look
Innocent am I of recording my own words.
In the palm of the Scribe I have a permanent home.
I abide in a station “between his two fingers.”91
No movement is derived from my essence
It is He, from moment to moment, that causes motion.
If for just one second He lets me be by myself
I’ll [just] remain in the ground, a dry reed, and nothing more.”92

89
Bahārestān wa rasā’il-i Jāmī, pp. 330-31.
90
The pictorial calligraphy of the Bektashi Sufi order is well known. Some good examples of such “pictures”
are included in F. De Jong, “The Iconography of Bektashiism: A survey of themes and symbolism in clerical
costume, liturgical objects and pictorial art,” Manuscripts of the Middle East, 4 (1989), pp. 7-29. Of particular
interest are the images on pages 27-29.
91
Ḥadīth qudsī, a fuller version is recorded as “The heart of the faithful is between two fingers of the Merciful.”
See B. Furuzānfar (ed), Aḥādīth-i mathnawī (Tehran: Amīr Kabīr 1334 A.Hsh./1955), no. 3.
92
Bahārestān wa rasā’il-i Jāmī, p. 331.

22
The fourth set of mathnawī verses in Jāmī’s Risāla-yi Nā’iya is an anecdote about Abū Sa‘īd
Abī’l-Khayr (d. 1049) also known as the Master (pīr) of Mayhana (or Mihna). In these verses
Jāmī has Abū Sa‘īd compare himself to a mill; whatever hard object is thrown into the mill’s
wheels (or whatever oppression it receives: gar durusht-am mī-dihand), it spins still the
same, as it is powered by another – perhaps by a donkey or by water. Like the flute and the
pen, movement and volition come through another. The product is something beautiful (for
the flute it is music, for the pen it is calligraphic art, and for the mill it is flour). During the
churning of the mill-wheel anything unsuitable for being ground down is cast aside. The
analogy is particularly apt in a treatise on Rūmī because the reader would no doubt associate
the spinning (charkh) of the mill-wheel with the whirling of the Mevlevi Sufis during samā‘.

The master of Mihna (who among the lords of spiritual witnessing

Was bettered by no-one in witnessing the Truth),
One day was walking around with his followers
And passed by a mill.
He said, “Without speaking verbally, from this mill
A voice reaches the intellect of my ear.
When you look well this is not a [miracle] (nīst kār-i man),
For I am a Sufi and there is nothing but Sufism.
[The mill said], ‘If those who strike analogies oppress me [and throw in some hard grain]
I take [all of the abuse/grain] and return some soft [flour].
I always spin around myself
There is no deviation for a moment in my spinning.
I shun whatever is unworthy,
And cast it aside when I spin around’.”93

Following these four mathnawīs which present the nay as a lifeless object that only functions
through the power of another, Jāmī presents a fourteen-line paragraph, the style of which
stands in stark contrast to his elegiac and figurative mathnawīs. Using terminology that
resembles that employed by the followers of Ibn ‘Arabī, his paragraph unpacks the
ontological taxonomy that encompasses the theosophy that is usually described under the
rubric of “the unity of existence” (waḥdat al-wujūd). Jāmī’s addition of this paragraph at the
end of his Nay-nāma may be interpreted in several ways. On the one hand, it is clear that he
was so enamoured by the doctrine of waḥdat al-wujūd that he simply could not prevent
himself from explaining the first two lines of Rūmī’s Mathnawī through the complex and
Arabicised Persian terminology of the Akbarian school. On the other hand, like most of the
other commentators on the Mathnawī throughout the Muslim world, Jāmī probably wanted to

93
Ibid, p. 332.

23
demonstrate that the world-views of the two great Sufis, Rūmī and Ibn ‘Arabī, were
harmonious, although they were presented in quite different technical terminologies and
literary styles.
In this paragraph, Jāmī elucidates the doctrine of the six levels of existence which
were a key feature of many mystics in the Akbarian school.94 The first of these levels is the
dimension of God’s essence where no existential manifestation has occurred and nothing at
all in existence is distinctly separated from God: there is only complete oneness. In effect, it
is the dimension of the divine that is utterly transcendent, or incomparable. The second level
is the level of the “immutable entities,” described by other commentators as God’s
knowledge of things. Of this level, Jāmī says that “although there is no essential distinction in
terms of the divine realities, there is a theoretical distinction (imtiyāz-i ‘ilmī). On this level ...
the multiplicity of immutable entities (made numerous from [the view of different] relations)
are non-existent (ma‘dūm) with regard to the annihilation of their external existence.” Jāmī
then adds an important point linking this ontological taxonomy to Rūmī: “And perhaps
Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Balkhī Rūmī – a peerless intoxicant - implied this level [when he
referred to] the reed-garden (nayistān-i bāghistān) of the original non-existence of the entities
and their relational multiplicity, or the level prior to that.”95 The third level is that of the
spirits, the fourth level is that of the world of images (the imagination), and the fifth level is
that of the physical bodies. The sixth and final level is that which reflects the reality of the
previous four levels, that is to say, the the level of the Perfect Man (insān-i kāmil).96
While it is possible to argue that Rūmī’s writings explained the reality behind all of these
levels, nowhere is it described in such a succinct and coherent fashion in the Mathnawī.97
Following this dense paragraph, Jāmī presents another set of twenty-four mathnawī rhyming
couplets which are designed to explain the second line of Rūmī’s Mathnawī, but which
instead merely present his ontological schema in a fashion that is only slightly more lyrical
than his prose.

94
On such an ontological taxonomy see William Chittick, “Five Divine Presences: from al-Qūnawī to al-
Qayṣarī,” The Muslim World, 80.2 (1982), pp. 107-28.
95
Bahārestān wa rasā’il-i Jāmī, p. 323.
96
Jāmī’s understanding of the perfect man is presented in more detail in William Chittick, “The Perfect Man as
the prototype of the Self in the Sufism of Jāmī,” Studia Islamica, XLIX-LII, 1979-80, pp. 137-57.
97
Indeed, it is difficult to discover a systematic scheme in the Mathnawī which has been termed “a huge and
chaotic tapestry of mystical love and passion.” See R.W.J. Austin, “The Sophianic Feminine in Ibn ‘Arabi and
Rumi,” p. 238. More recently claims have been made to an overall structure in the work. See Seyed Ghahreman
Safavi and Simon Weightman, Rumi’s Mystical Design: Reading the Mathnawī, Book One (Albany: SUNY
2009).

24
 Following his mathnawī verses in which the Perfect Man figures as the all encompassing
reality of being, Jāmī then begs the question, “If someone asks that if the aforementioned
person [i.e. the Perfect Man] has realized the station of Union (maqām-i wuṣūl), then whence
comes this story of distance and whither this complaint of separation?” The answer is quite
simple, for man will complain as long as he persists in his own existence. A second answer
that Jāmī offers is that the poem takes the perspective of the past tense, being narrated by
someone who has not yet achieved annihilation, and therefore the complaint is due to “the
reprimand for negligence and the confusion of the lords of the veils (tashwīr-i arbāb-i
ḥijāb).”98
The final set of mathnawī verses relates a story about a caged parrot which realised that
his origin was to be found in the free expanse of the sugar-cane fields. Jāmī chose to tell this
particular tale because both sugar-cane and parrots are thematically related to the nay in
Rūmī’s Mathnawī. The stalk of sugar-cane is a long and hollow form of the reed or nay, two
explanations of which Jāmī had already presented. In drawing parallels between sugar-cane
and the flute, Schimmel has observed, “... both are filled with the friend’s sweetness; both are
dancing already in the reedbed or in the field in the hope of the lip of the Beloved.”99
(However, it should be noted that the nay as flute and pen serve as analogies for the human
condition whereas the sugar-cane fields should be understood as symbolizing man’s origin
and the ultimate spiritual destination that he seeks).
In these final short mathnawī verses, Jāmī paraphrased a well-known episode in Rūmī’s
Mathnawī in which an Indian parrot is kept caged by a merchant.100 On taking a trip to India,
the merchant asked the parrot if there was a message that he could give to the bird’s kin. The
parrot simply replied that the merchant should deliver a message to the effect that he was in a
cage. As soon as he had arrived in India, the merchant repeated the bird’s message to the first
group of parrots that he encountered. When the parrots heard this message, one among the
group fell down and died. Having returned from his trip the merchant told his parrot what had
happened, and immediately the parrot too fell down, seemingly dead. The merchant took the
parrot out of the cage and threw it away. However, now released, the parrot flew up to the

98
Bahāristān wa rasā’il-i Jāmī, p. 334.
99
Annemarie Schimmel, The Triumphal Sun: A Study of the Works of Jalāloddin Rumi (London and the Hague:
East-West Publications, 1980), pp. 211-2.
100
Mathnawī, I: 1547-1848. Rūmī himself developed the tale from a story found in ‘Aṭṭār’s Asrār-nāma (see
R.A. Nicholson, The Mathnawi of Jalaluddin Rumi: Volume I and II Commentary, p. 112). For an essay on
parrots in Persian literature see John R. Perry, “Monty Python and the Mathnawī: The Parrot in Indian, Persian
and English Humor,” Iranian Studies, 36/1 (2003), pp. 63-74.

25
nearest tree, free at last from its cage. The parrot had learnt the lesson of the Indian parrots,
which in Sufi context meant annihilation (fanā’) from the self, which results in a return to its
original homeland. Concluding the tale with the annihilation of self (fanā’) Jāmī emphasises
God’s likeness to creation and immanence (tashbīḥ): “Be with Him by your soul in one heart
and in all sincerity / In fact, you should obliterate yourself and be Him.” In this conclusion,
Jāmī adopts a far more ecstatic perspective than in any of his earlier mathnawī verses that he
composed in his short treatise on the reed. In those earlier mathnawī verses, although the reed
was under the control of the Creator and had no independent agency its very existence
begged a form of duality. In the conclusion of the treatise all duality is set aside, and utter
unity is the goal. There is neither reed nor pen: everything is Him.

Get up Jāmī! Stretch out the wings of aspiration

And soar towards the nest of your origin.
How long will you be the sweet-talking parrot,
Trapped within a cage of crows?
A long time ago with a group of parrots
Your nest [was in] the pure sugar-cane fields.
You were among those giving thanks (shukr),
Scattering sugar (shakkar) and being grateful.
[But] you have forgotten your original abode,
[And] affliction and distance have now embraced you.
You have severed [your] heart from old friends,
[And] withdrawn from the [company of] the loyal folk.
There was a time when you would remember [your] pals -
Take your things [back] to [your] original house.
Abandon the courier’s coming and going,
Fold away the tale of the message and the letter.
Make space in the hut of your non-existence
Turn to the qibla of your desire.
Be with Him by your soul in one heart and in all sincerity,
In fact, obliterate yourself and be Him.
In subsistence in Him you will be completely annihilated,
You will be alive eternally. There is no more!101

Jāmī’s contribution to the popularisation of Rūmī was based upon several brief
biographical entries, one short versified treatise on the nay, and the apocryphal verses that
had elevated the Persian master to almost prophetic status. Any assessment of Jāmī’s
promotion of Rūmī needs to be considered in the context of the former’s whole oeuvre, and
with this in mind it is patently clear that he placed a far greater emphasis upon the worldview
of Ibn ‘Arabī. As the celebrated historian of Persian Sufism, ‘Abd al-Ḥusayn Zarrinkūb,

101
Bahārestān wa rasā’il-i Jāmī, p. 336.

26
observed, “In truth Jāmī spoke about and explained Mawlānā’s writings with recourse to the
school of Ibn ‘Arabī, and in this way he was one of the first who attempted to correlate the
Mathnawī of Mawlānā with the views of that school.”102

III. Husayn Wā‘iẓ-i Kāshifī

Jāmī played a pivotal role in introducing another important Sufi, Husayn Wā‘iẓ-i Kāshifī to
the ranks of the Naqshbandīs in Central Asia in the fifteenth century. Kāshifī had journeyed
to Herat in the hope of meeting the great Naqshbandī master, Sa‘d al-Dīn Kāshgarī (d. 1455).
On reaching Herat, he discovered that Kashgārī had passed away, but fortunately encountered
Jāmī at his tomb. The two must have become great friends for a time at least, as Kāshifī
married Jāmī’s sister,103 and the former clearly respected the latter’s poetic mastery.104
Kāshifī composed a number of important works on a number of topics ranging from
Qur’ānic interpretation, alchemy, ethics, commemoration of the martyrdom of Ḥusayn at
Karbala, and Sufism.105 That he was a practicing Sufi there can be little doubt as he held the
custodianship of a khānaqāh in Herat,106 and his Futuwwat nāma-yi Sulṭānī provides
sufficient evidence of intimate knowledge of details relating to the clothing, and rules of
conduct that Sufis were expected to observe.107 There has been some doubt about Kāshifī’s
Naqshbandī lineage,108 although the strength of the Naqshbandīs at the Timurid royal court in
Herat where Kāshifī soon secured a prominent position, suggests that his appreciation of
Sufism endorsed the Naqshbandī position. Kāshifī’s understanding of Sufism, however,
requires more investigation, as a number of his treatises are still in manuscript form and have
yet to be investigated. Of particular interest in this regard is a spiritual genealogy of Shaykhs
of the Naqshbandī order entitled Ṭabaqāt-e Khwājagān-i Naqshbandiya (“The Generations of

102
‘Abd al-Ḥusayn Zarrinkūb, Dunbāla-yi Justujū dar taṣawwuf-i Irān (Tehran: Amīr Kabīr 1369 A.Hsh./1990),
p. 155.
103
For a more extensive introduction to Kāshifī, see Lloyd Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism
(London: Routledge 2010), pp. 92-99. On Kashīfī, also see M.E. Subtelny, “Kāšefi, Kamāl-al-Din Ḥosayn
Wā‘eẓ,” EIr, XV, pp. 658-61. Some scholars attest to a Shī‘ite tendency in Kāshifī writings, which would not
have pleased the more staunchly Sunni Naqshbandīs like Jāmī.
104
For example, Kāshifī cites Jāmī’s “The Rosary of the Pious”, in his Risāla-yi ḥatimiya (Treatise of Ḥatim).
See Lloyd Ridgeon, Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press 2011), p.
197.
105
For an examination of Kāshifī’s diverse interests, see the special issue of Iranian Studies, 36/4 (December
2003) entirely devoted to studies on his works.
106
See Mihdī Munfarid, Paywand-i siyāsat wa farhang dar ‘aṣr-i zuwwāl-i Tīmūriyān wa ẓuhūr-i Ṣafawiyān
(Tehran: Anjuman-i Āthār wa Mufākhir-i Farhangī, 1382/2003-4), p. 320.
107
Kāshifī, Futuwwat nāma-yi Sulṭānī translated by Jay R. Crook as The Royal Book of Spiritual Chivalry
(Chicago: Great Books of the Islamic World 2000). See in particular Part III, pp. 87-141.
108
Mihdī Munfarid, Paywand-i siyāsat wa farhang, p. 320.

27
the Naqshbandī Masters”), a text which sheds light on his understanding of this Order’s form
of Sufism. A preliminary observation regarding Kāshifī’s Sufism and mysticism is that it was
very different from that of Jāmī. Wheras the former was a great champion of the school of
Ibn ‘Arabī, Kāshifī’s writings do not betray the slightest inclination towards the type of
technical terminology and metaphysical explanations favoured by the Akbarian school.109
Rather his sympathies and tastes lean heavily towards Rūmī which may be witnessed, firstly,
in Kāshifī’s penchant for illustrating his arguments with citations from the Mathnawī,110 and
secondly by his own works on Rūmī, which have yet to receive serious academic
consideration. Perhaps the most important of these is his Sharḥ-i Mathnawī (“Explanation of
the Mathnawī”).111
Another of these works is entitled Lubb-i lubāb-i ma‘nawī (“The Heart of the
Quintessence of Spiritual Meaning”)112 which Kāshifī compiled in 875/1470–71.113 In his
own preface Kāshifī states that it is a selection of another work of his entitled Lubāb-i
ma‘nawī fī intikhāb-i Mathnawī (“The Spiritual Quintessence of Selections from the
Mathnawī”).114 Although the Lubb-i lubāb has been mentioned by several Western scholars it
has not received anything more than a passing mention.115
As the title suggests, the book is an anthology of Rūmī’s Mathnawī. Although it has also
been termed “a verse précis of the Masnavi”116 it is still a significantly long collection,
amounting to some 419 pages in Nasru’llāh Taqavī’s edited version. The treatise is primarily
selections from the Mathnawī, with an exceedingly short introduction that offers no opinion
of either Rūmī or the Mathnawī’s merits (for example, the benefits or imperfections of its
rhetorical style or its didactic elements). It simply bunches together couplets from Rūmī’s
109
This is mentioned in ‘Alī-Akbar Dihkhudā, Lughat nāma, new edition, Vol. 11, p. 15887.
110
See for example, the Futuwwat nāma-yi Sulṭānī cites the Mathnawī on at least five occasions; see the English
translation of Jay R. Crook, The Royal Book, pp. 21, 49, 61, 117, 331. See also the citations of the Mathnawī in
Kāshifī “Treatise of Ḥātim”, translated by Ridgeon, Jawanmardī, p. 176.
111
This is mentioned in ‘Alī-Akbar Dihkhudā, “Kāshifī”, Lughat nāma (new edition, 1994-5), Vol. XI, p.
15887; and by Subtelny, “Kāšefi, Kamāl-al-Din,” EIr, XV, p. 660. Dihkhudā’s article gives a list of treatises
that were supposedly written by Kāshifī, and twenty-fifth on this list is the Sharḥ-i mathnawī. I have been
unable to locate this, but it is likely that a manuscript copy exists somewhere.
112
Confusingly, the published edition of this work is called Lubb-i lubāb-i Mathnawī. Sa‘īd Nasīfī, who wrote
an introduction to the edited version and confuses the work with the earlier Lubāb-i Ma‘nawī fī ikhtikhāb-i
Mathnawī (p. 9). The Lubb-i Lubāb has been published as Lubb-i lubāb Mathnawī edited by Naṣru’llāh Taqavī
(second printing : Maṭbū‘ātī-yi Afshārī, 1362 A.Hsh./1983-4). A new version of the same text has been
published recently, edited by ‘Abd al-Karīm Surūsh as Lubb-i lubāb-i Mathnawī (Tehran: Sīrat 1385
A.Hsh./2006-7). I have not seen this edition.
113
See Ghulām Ḥusayn Yūsufī, “Kāshifī, Kamāl al-Dīn Ḥusayn b. ‘Alī”, EI2, IV (1978), pp. 704-05.
114
Lubb-i Lubāb Mathnawī, p. 17.
115
This is most probably due to the nature of the works by scholars of Rūmī, the focus of whose concern was
not on Rūmī’s commentators or interpreters. See Schimmel, The Triumphal Sun, p. 374, and Lewis, Rumi, Past
and Present, p. 469.
116
Lewis, Rumi, Past and Present, p. 469

28
work that have the same theme, without referencing their location in the Mathnawī. For
example, Kāshifī’s praise of Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī (in a preliminary section of the
anthology) clubs together some forty rhyming couplets which either mention or refer to
Ḥusām al-Dīn (there are more couplets in the Mathnawī about Chalabī that Kāshifī did not
include). In itself, sifting through the Mathnawī in search of such particular verses must have
been a time-consuming and laborious task. For example, the section on Chalabī shows that
Kāshifī had to trawl through volumes III, IV, V and IV. The task of classifying the Mathnawī
in such a coherent and systematic fashion was certainly a monumental task, especially as the
arrangement of topics within the six volumes of the Mathnawī do not appear to have been
disposed in any particular logical order. Most recently Coleman Barkes commented that the
Mathnawī “is wildly self-interrupting, exploring tangents, returning to lost threads ... [and
scholars have acknowledged] this plan-less sequentiality, the spontaneity, the mirroring of
life as it is actually happening, its episodic, impromptu hilarity.”117 It is open to speculation
whether Kāshifī had assistance in compiling his anthology, for perhaps professional
Mathnawī-reciters (Mathnawī-khwān) who may well have memorised the whole text, were at
hand to offer help. The existence of such Mathnawī recitors in Kāshifī’s lifetime cannot be
verified, although the profession is mentioned in a seventeenth-century waqf document for a
madrasa in Bukhara, and the possibility of the existence of such individuals in the late
fourteenth-century Herat, where the culture of Sufism was prevalent, cannot be discounted.118
The waqf document makes provision for a stipend for such an individual and states that every
day, right after the morning-prayer, two ḥāfiẓs (those who have memorised the Mathnawī?)
are to recite the Mathnawī with the students of the madrasa who had good voices.119
In some respects his efforts at producing an anthology of the Mathnawī for his dervishes
accords with Abbas Amanat’s view that “Kāshifī’s great expertise was in rendering, revising,
compiling and popularising a wide range of Persian classical texts.”120 Yet Kāshifī was far
more than a simple transmitter of popular texts, as his composition of treatises such as his
Futuwwat nāma and his Treatise of Ḥātim demonstrate. Arley Loewen has argued that the

117
Coleman Barks, review of Seyed Ghahreman Safavi and Simon Weightman’s “Rumi’s Mystical Design:
Reading The Mathnawī, Book One,” Mawlana Rumi Review, I (2010), p. 137.
118
This document is in the Central State Archive of Uzbekistan, Fond I-323 (waqf collection), doc. no. 1195/6.
119
Information about this waqf document was sent to me by Prof. Maria Subtelny in a private email (11th
January 2011).
120
Abbas Amanat, “Meadow of the Martyrs: Kāshifī’s Persianization of the Shi‘i Martyrdom Narrative in Late
Timurid Herat,” in F. Daftary & J. Meri (eds), Culture and Memory in Medieval Islam (London: I.B. Tauris,
2003), p. 258.

29
former treatise reveals Kāshifī’s distinctly Naqshbandī form of Sufism,121 while the latter
work demonstrates his skill as an artist in creating a chronological account that describes the
ethics of the idealised jawānmardī of the pre-Islamic Arab, Ḥātim al-Ṭā’ī, from disparate
sources.122
The anthology then, is neither “simple” nor “innocent” because Kāshifī placed his own
distinctive stamp on the Mathnawī. His restructuring of the Mathnawī in the anthology
reveals much about his own perception of the masterpiece, and so too, provides an insight
into another “Naqshbandī” response to the message conveyed by Rūmī. An anthology of the
Mathnawī could have been arranged in a number of ways. For example, it would have been
possible to order the anthology by prophets, friends of God, places and names. It would also
have been possible to structure the work by subjects on an alphabetical basis.
Kāshifī’s “verse précis” was not merely a concordance that filtered the text haphazardly
into small constituent parts; rather, it arranged the poem’s text thematically, and inevitably
the themes that he chose reflected his own preferred form of Sufism. Yet, to repeat, the task
of re-structuring the Mathnawī cannot have been an easy task, especially when Rūmī’s work
is commonly viewed as so complex and convoluted. Perhaps Kāshifī shared similar
sentiments, and so attempted to frame the Mathnawī in a more “rational” fashion that
accorded with a well-reasoned, familiar and recognised Sufi journey. This appears to be the
case when an overall perspective is taken of the contents of Lubb-i lubāb Mathnawī.
The treatise is divided into three water springs (‘ayn). The first is called “an explanation
of the comprehensive dimensions of the holy Law (sharī‘at).” The second spring is entitled
“An explanation of the intricacies of the secrets of the Sufi Way (ṭarīqat).” The third spring
bears the title, “An explanation of the flashes of lights of the divine Reality (ḥaqīqat).” In
effect, Kāshifī simplified and systematised the diverse and diffuse teachings of the Mathnawī
into the comprehensible ternary schema of sharī‘at, ṭarīqat and ḥaqīqat that would have been
familiar to all Sufis. Such a classification had been well-known to Sufis, at least from the
time of Abū Naṣr al-Sarrāj (d. 988) whose Kitāb al-Luma‘ offered just such a gradation.123
Perhaps Kāshifī’s treatise may even have served as a guidebook for aspiring Sufis, and as
such, there is no reason to doubt his own claim that “a group from the friends of the [Sufi]
way (jam‘ī az rufuqā-yi ṭarīq) requested another selection of this book (nuskha) which they
named Lubāb-i ma‘nawī fī intikhāb-i Mathnawī, in such a way that its benefits are more

121
Arley Loewen, “Proper conduct (Adab) is everything: the futuwwat-namahi sultani of Husayn Va‘iz-i
Kashifi’, Iranian Studies, 36/4 (December 2003), pp. 543–70.
122
For a translation of this treatise see Lloyd Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, pp. 175-214.
123
See Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 16.

30
general and comprehensive, and its favours more complete and perfect with regard to the
beginners of the way of the [Sufi] path and the spiritual wayfarers of the roads of the
Truth.”124
From the spring of the sharī‘at, seven rivers (nahr) flow forth which bear the stamp of
what may be termed “exoteric Islam”. The first river in turn divides into the three tributary
streams (rashḥa): of faith (īmān), testimony of Islam (shahādat) and worship (’ibādat). The
second river branches off into the six tributary streams of ritual purity (ṭahārat), prayer
(namāz), fasting (rūza), paying the alms tax (zakāt), pilgrimage (to the Ka‘ba), and jihād. The
third river divides two streams: fate and pre-destination (qaḍā wa qadar), and compulsion
and free will (jabr wa ikhtiyār). The fourth river flows into the two tributary streams of
knowledge (‘ilm) and reason (‘aql). The fifth river likewise branches off into the two
tributary streams of hope (rajā’) and fear (khawf) of God. The sixth river divides into the
three tributary streams of justice (‘adl), tyranny (ẓulm) and retribution (mukāfāt). From the
seventh river flow off the eight tributary streams of the existence of another world (wujūd-i
jahānī-yi digar), the honour of [good] acts (‘arḍ-i a‘māl), the wisdom behind death (ḥikmat-
hā-yi marg), the immortality of the spirit (baqā-yi rūḥ), the Resurrection (ḥashr), yearning for
death (shawq-i marg), voluntary death (marg-i ikhtiyārī), and heaven and hell (bihisht wa
dūzakh). It is clear from this list that the topics pertain to the fundamentals of faith and ritual
practice, although of course, within each of these, Rūmī’s teachings held spiritualised
meanings.
From the second spring (that of the ṭarīqat or Sufi Way) emerge six rivers. The first river
is divided into the four tributary streams of chastisement (tanbiya), repentance (tawba),
association with inappropriate people (ṣuḥbat-i nā-jins) and seeking (ṭalab). The second river
divides into the two tributary streams of “the shaykh who has the capacity for spiritual
guidance of disciples” (shaykhī kih irshād shāyad) and “observance of the courtesies in
relation to the shaykhs of the way” (murā‘‘āt-i adab nisbat bā mashā’ikh-i ṭarīqat). The third
river divides into the four tributary streams of methodical progression on the Sufi Way
(sulūk), obedience to the spiritual guide (mutāba‘at-i rāhbar), prudence and caution (ḥazm
wa iḥtiyāṭ), and finally attraction (jadhba). The fourth river branches off into the ten tributary
streams of: renunciation of this world (tark-i dunyā), renunciation of the ego’s desires (tark-i
hawā-yi nafs), solitude and seclusion (khalwat wa ‘uzlat), silence (ṣamt), wakefulness
(sahar), hunger (jū‘), forebearance (ṣabr), renunciation of blind imitation (tark-i taqlīd),

124
Lubb-i lubāb Mathnawī, p. 17. Ghulāmm Ḥusayn Yūsufī states that it was “compiled at the suggestion of
Musayyib, one of the eminent officials at the court of Harāt.” See his article, “Kāshifī”.

31
spiritual need and supplication (niyāz wa du‘ā), and obscurity (khumūl). The fifth river
likewise branches off into ten tributary streams: a pleasant disposition (ḥusn-i khulq),
sincerity and loyalty (ṣidq wa wafā), generosity (jūd), gratitude (shukr), satisfaction and the
renunciation of jealousy (riḍā wa tark-i ḥasad), contentment and the renunciation of greed
(qinā‘at wa tark-i ḥirṣ), trust in God (tawakkul), humility and the renunciation of self-conceit
(tawāḍu‘ wa tark-i ‘ujb), gentleness (ḥilm) and sincerity (ikhlāṣ). The sixth river divides into
the eight streams of spiritual dancing (samā‘), remembrance of God (dhikr), spiritual
reflection (tafakkur), certainty (yaqīn), gnosis of man (ma‘rifat-i insān), gnosis of the heart
(ma‘rifat-i qalb), gnosis of the spirit (ma‘rifat-i rūḥ), Sufism and spiritual poverty (taṣawwuf
wa faqr).
In effect, it can be said that the second spring describes the correct character traits that
novices must possess and certain ritual activities that they should perform, all of which are
associated with Sufism. Kāshifī’s structuring of Rūmī’s spiritual teachings within this
pedagogical classification of the Sufi Way (ṭarīqat) conforms to the general parameters of the
familiar doctrines of Sufism. Indeed, it would be difficult to identify this framework as
specifically reflecting a Naqshbandī, or for that matter, a distinctly Mevlevī tradition.
The third spring, that of the divine Truth or Reality (ḥaqīqat), branches off into three
rivers. The first flows into six tributary streams which are the attributes of love (ṣifāt-i ‘ishq),
the attributes of the lovers (ṣifāt-i ‘ushshāq), the annihilation of the lovers (fanā-yi ‘ushshāq),
metaphorical love (‘ishq-i majāzī), the isolation of the lovers (tajrīd-i ‘ushshāq), and the
unity of the lovers (ittiḥād-i ‘ushshāq). From the second river five tributary streams flow off:
spiritual witnessing (mushāhada), expansion and contraction (qabḍ wa basṭ), the intoxication
of love (sukr-i ‘ishq), proximity [to God] (qurb) and connection [to God] (waṣl). Finally,
there are three tributary streams that branch off from the last river: gnosis and its levels
(ma‘rifat wa marātib), annihilation and subsistence in God (fanā’ wa baqā’), and divine
Unity and its degrees (tawḥīd wa darajāt). Kāshifī’s comprehension and elaboration of the
esoteric dimension of the “divine Truth or Reality (ḥaqīqat)” in the Mathnawī predictably
conforms to the usual themes and tropes associated with the higher stages of Sufism that
focus on God rather than on Sufi ethics or rituals.
Kāshifī’s Lubb-i lubāb Mathnawī provides another example of the ways in which
Naqshbandī Sufis popularised and promoted Rūmī and his Mathnawī. Kāshifī’s lack of
referencing to specific books, verses or sections of the Mathnawī in the course of his thematic
restructuring of the grand poem suggests that he had a considerable knowledge of the text,
perhaps he had even memorised large sections of it, or else he had a number of associates

32
who would have helped him compile the anthology.125 The fact that Kāshifī did not make any
prefatory statement to expound the purpose of his book perhaps meant that he thought the
Mathnawī to be such a classic and profoundly important poem as to need no such
introduction for his readers. Perhaps Kāshifī’s own views on the poem may be found in his
Sharḥ-i Mathnawī (“Explanation of the Mathnawī”) which exists in manuscript form, a
question which is left to other researchers to explore.

Conclusion

Two main conclusions may be drawn from the above study.

The first is that commentaries are never innocent: neutral perspectives simply do not
exist, as Rūmī says, “Each person through his own supposition became my friend.”126
Although the three authors examined here regarded Rūmī’s Mathnawī as a masterpiece of
didactic Sufi poetry, their commentaries were all shaped by their own particular views and
preferences. For Charkhī it was the early Naqshbandī influence, with its stress on the role of
the Sufi shaykh, the commitment to social engagement and specific forms of practice. Jāmī’s
exposition of the Proem of the Mathnawī enabled him not only to display his poetic skills but
at the same time propound and interpret Rūmī’s poetry in the context of Akbarian doctrines.
Kāshifī’s offering typically manifested his skills at re-arranging and thematic organization, so
that certain topics within the melange of meanings contained in the Mathnawī could be
grasped quickly by aspiring dervishes or more advanced practitioners.
Even if these commentaries espoused completely different agendas, they contributed to
the general promotion and popularity of the Mathnawī in fifteenth-century Central Asia and
the Persian-speaking world. In addition, this ensured that when the Naqshbandī Order spread
into the Indian subcontinent, Rūmī’s message travelled along with it, eventually becoming
the most popular Islamic text to be commented on after the Qur’ān, a phenomenon typified
by the adage, as popular in India as in Safavid Iran and Ottoman Turkey, that the “Mathnawī
is the Qur’ān in Persian”.127 Moreover, given the sheer range of topics in the Mathnawī, many
of the “new” themes included by Charkhī and Jāmī are perhaps not new at all, but simply
reformulations of existing ideas, or the development of embryonic ideas, or as Rūmī himself
might have expressed it, “old wine in new bottles”.
125
In terms of referencing, Kāshifī introduces a topic under a short heading and then says something like, “... as
he [Rūmī] – may He sanctify his secret – said”. To repeat, Kāshifī does not cite the number of the verse or book
of the Mathnawī from which a particular couplet may derive.
126
Mathnawī, I: 6.
127
In private email (3/XII/2010) Franklin Lewis claims that almost all nineteenth-century editions of the
Mathnawī printed and calligraphed in India feature this adage on their frontispiece.

33
 The second and final conclusion to be drawn from our survey of these commentaries is
related to the nature of Sufism that the three authors propagated. Offering a general
characteristic of the Naqshbandīs, Annemarie Schimmel commented that “The
Naqshbandiyya is a sober order, eschewing artistic performance – mainly music and the
samā‘.”128 The survey of the three major Naqshbandī Sufis examined in this article reveal
that such generalisations are difficult to maintain, as the reflections of the three Sufis on
Rūmī’s didactic yet ecstatic verses reveal that they did not consider it problematic to endorse
and espouse such literature.

128
A. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 365. The tendency to describe the Naqshbandīs in such a
fashion may in part be attributable to the legacy of the founding fathers of this order including ‘Abd al-Khāliq
Ghujduwānī (d. 1179 or 1220) and Bahā’al-Dīn Naqshband (d. 1389) who emphasised the principle of seclusion
within society “khalwat dar anjuman,” that is to say, the ideal was to devote complete attention to God while
being engaged in society (K.A. Nizami, “The Naqshbandiyyah Order,” p. 166). The Naqshbandī legacy
continued the Malāmatī tradition of covering one’s own spirituality in an attempt to ward off any praise or
words of commendation that may nurture feelings of pride and even arrogance. For this reason, the order has
usually been associated with a “sober” form of Sufism.

34