The King and the Handmaiden and the Doctor

The poem I chose to look at for today's post is rather large so we'll have to look at it in bits! First I'll post it in its entirety then we'll go through it a bit at a time. OK?

a photo I took of rust on a wreck in the bay...

The King and the Handmaiden and the Doctor

Do you know why your soul-mirror does not reflect as clearly as it might?

Because rust has begun to cover it. It needs to be cleaned. Here’s a story about the inner state that’s meant by

soul-mirror.

In the old days there was a king who was powerful in both kingdoms, the visible as well as the spirit world.

One day as he was riding on the hunt, he saw a girl and was greatly taken with her beauty. As was the custom, he paid her family handsomely and asked that she come to be a servant at the palace. He was in love with her.

The feelings trembled and flapped in his chest like a bird newly put in a cage.

But as soon as she arrived, she fell ill.

He brought doctors together. "You have both our lives in your hands. Her life is my life. Whoever heals her will receive the finest treasure I have, the coral inlaid with pearls, anything!"

So the doctors began, but no matter what they did, the girl got worse.

The king saw that his doctors were helpless. He ran barefooted to the mosque. He knelt on the prayer rug and soaked the point of it with his tears.

He dissolved to an annihilated state. He cried out loud for help, and the ocean of grace surged over him. He slept on the prayer rug in the midst of his weeping.

In his dream an old man appeared. "Good king, tomorrow a stranger will come. He is the physician you can trust. Listen to him."

As dawn rose, the king was sitting up in the belvedere on his roof. He saw someone coming, a person like the dawn.

He ran to meet this guest. Like two swimmers who love the water, their souls knit together without being sewn, no seam. The king said, "You are my beloved,

not the girl!" He opened his arms and held the saintly doctor to him. He kissed his hand and his forehead and asked how his journey had been. He led him to the head table.

"At last, I have found what patience can bring, this one whose face answers any question, who simply by looking can loosen the knot of intellectual discussion."

They talked and ate a spirit-meal. Then the king took the doctor to where the girl lay.

The secret of her pain was opened to him, but he didn’t tell the king. It was love, of course.

Love is the astrolabe that sights into the mysteries of God. Earth-love, spirit-love, any love looks into that yonder, but whatever I try to say

A pen went scribbling along. When it tried to write

If you want to expound on love, take your intellect out and let it lie down in the mud. It’s no help.

Nothing is so strange in this world as the sun. The sun of the soul even more so. You want proof that it exists, so you stay up all night

Finally you sleep as the sun comes up. Look at it!

Word of that sun, Shams, came, and everything hid. Husam touches my arm. He wants me to say more about Shams.

Not now, Husam. I don’t know how to make words make sense, or praise. In the Friend-place nothing true can be said. Let me just be here.

But Husam begs, "Feed me. Hurry! Time is a sharp downstroke. A Sufi is supposed to be a child of the moment! Don’t say

explaining love is embarrassing! love, it broke. talking about it. tomorrow or later." I reply,

"It’s better that the way of the Friend  

be concealed in a story. Let the mystery come through what people say around the lovers, not from what lovers say to each other."

"No! I want this as naked and true as it can be. I don’t wear a shirt when I lie down with my beloved."

"Husam! If the Friend came to you naked, your chest could not stand it. Ask for what you want, but within some limits!" This has no end.

Go back to the beginning, the end of the story of the king and the lovesick maiden and the holy doctor, who said,

"Leave me alone with the girl." He quietly began, "Where are you from? Who are your relatives? Who else are you close to in that region?"

He held her hand to feel the pulse. She told many stories mentioning many names. He would say the names again to test the response of her pulse.

Finally he asked, "When you visit other towns, where are you most likely to go?" She mentioned one town and another, where she bought bread and where salt,

until he happened to say

"Where exactly does he live?" "At the head of the bridge on Ghatafar Street." "Now I can heal you."

Samarkand! The dear city sweet as candy. She blushed. Her breath caught. Oh, she loves a goldsmith in Samarkand! She misses him so.

The doctor went to the king and told him only part of the story. "On some pretext we must bring a certain goldsmith from Samarkand."

The king’s messengers went and easily persuaded the man to leave his town for a while. He arrived, and the doctor said,

"Marry the girl to this man and she will be completely cured." It was done, and for six months those two loved and made love and completely satisfied themselves with each other. The girl was restored to perfect health.

Then the physician gave the goldsmith a potion, so that he began to sicken. His handsomeness faded. He became sunken-cheeked and jaundiced and ugly.

The girl stopped loving him. Any love based on physical beauty is not the deepest love. Choose to love what does not die. The generous one is not hard to find.

But what about the doctor’s poisoning the poor goldsmith! It was not done for his friend the king’s sake.

The reason is a mystery, like Khidr’s cutting the boy’s throat. When someone is killed by a doctor like this one, it’s a blessing, even though it might not seem so.

Such a doctor is part of a larger generosity. Don’t judge his actions. You are not living so completely within the truth as he is.

commentary: First of all - this is a slightly shorter and different version than in the Essential Rumi but it is still a translation by Bark.
Can you understand my dilemma? This is a very complicated poem and really I don't much love it when I read it. Even as I sat with this story in my mind it seemed a trick - a story about a King who has to have someone they've fixated on - someone who like Dante's Beatrice they've had a glimpse of - so they buy that person, essentially. The girl does not love the King back, she pines for someone she's met once. The King calls for a wise doctor,  the doctor comes and WHAT? The King falls in love with the doctor but still needs to go through with the farce of making the woman well so she can love him. Huh? The doctor, being all wise, figures out that the girl is in love with someone she's probably glimpsed once - that person is brought (bought) and married to the girl. Like slaves would be treated fundamentally. OK - so I'm looking at this within the wrong context. I am not understanding that these things stand for other things - this is poetry - these are metaphors! The Handmaiden perhaps stands for the material world. In order to fix the fixation on the material world, the King asks for spiritual healing - the spiritual healer, the doctor, indulges the King and in fact intensifies the desire to own this person. But then we see that trying to grasp our passion makes the passion itself wither and die. I wish I could get away from the story of this but I am struggling. I will try again tonight. Sorry this is so blathery but I'm trying to be honest here. What do you Rumi folks think? I couldn't believe all the stuff on the net about this poem being an anthem for gay guys. Hmmm...

I'm just going up to meditate and I'm going to try to meditate just on the first bit. Please be patient with me:

Do you know why your soul-mirror
does not reflect as clearly as it might?

Because rust has begun to cover it.
It needs to be cleaned.
                           Here's a story
about the inner state that's meant by soul-mirror.