Konya and Ankara:
Mevlana (Rumi) and Shams had locked themselves up for more than week now. Rumi's followers were bothered- who was this delirious Shams, he who has casted a spell on our scholar, they would wail in despair. Unmindful of what was brewing in the streets of Konya, the rumor mill was rife- Rumi and Shams continued their enclosed contemplation, immersed in meditation and spiritual talk. In a dimly lit room, twinkling in wisdom, Shams spoke to Rumi : "They keep reminding everyone that on the Day of Judgement all human beings will be forced to walk the Bridge of Sirat, thinner than a hair, sharper than a razor. Unable to cross the bridge, the sinful will tumble into the pits of hell forever. Those who are virtuous will make it to the other end, where they will be rewarded with exotic fruits, sweet waters and virgins. This, is in nutshell, their notion of afterlife. I tell them Mevlana, is there a worse hell than the torment a man suffers when he knows deep down in his conscience that he has done something wrong, awfully wrong? Ask that man. He will tell you what hell is. Is there a better paradise than the bliss that descends upon a man when bolts of universe fly open and he feels in possession of all secrets of eternity and united with God, Ask that man. He will tell you what heaven is. Motivated by neither the fear of punishment in hell nor the desire to be rewarded in heaven, Sufis love God simply because they love Him, pure and easy, untainted and nonnegotiable."
While they were contemplating these issues Rumi suddenly closed his eyes and uttered the following lines:
"Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu, Buddhist, Sufi or zen. Not any religion or cultural system. I am not of the East, nor of the West…..My place is placeless, a trace of the traceless."
Konya is Turkey's 'Bible Belt', treading delicately on the path between its historical significance of swirling Dervishes and citadel Seljuk culture and its modern importance as economic boom town. The city derives considerable charm from this peculiar dichotomy of old and new.
The only reason for me to come to Konya was to visit the Mevlana museum, the former lodge of swirling dervishes. The Green Dome as it is popularly known as, is located in the old part of Konya- offering a savory treat to lovers. While entering the mausoleum through the main gate, a persian calligraphed couplet welcomes you. It reads: "This place has become a shrine of lovers, the ones who are incomplete before are now complete". I may not have grasped the power of this couplet while I entered, such claims are wide and frequent at all spiritual abodes. However, a little later when I was leaving from the Green dome, on a crisp Konya day, in the lambency of mild winter sun, I was transcending; what I seeked, was actually what was seeking me.
Inside the mausoleum under the fluted dome is the Mevlana Tomb (the largest) flanked by that of his son Sultan Veled and other eminent dervishes, all covered in shrouds with gold embroidery. In a very bizarre way, the tomb of Mevlana's father Bahaeddin Veled's stands on one end, leading the devotees to believe that Mevlana was so holy that even his father stands to show respect. I sat for sometime near Mevlana's tomb, hands folded- lips silent; my heart had a thousand tongues. I prayed. I don't know when was the last time I had prayed, but here I was opening myself. In the mystical cramp my soul floated. I surrendered my mangled spoils, I freed my scars, I left my wound open- the pull of force, the tug of gravity, the pianos of pining poured from my heart into this ocean of love. It heard me. It convinced me.
There are various other important things to see in the Mevlana museum. Notably the original Masnavi dated to 1256 A.D, with beautiful persian calligraphy. Or the dervish cells ( where dervishes used to live). There are some personal Mevalan belongings too- the turban and cloak.
Immediately after visiting Mevlana, I set out for searching Shams Tabrizi's mausoleum, taking directions from passers by. Shams's mausoleum is right in the center of the old Konya. The esoteric feel to this small tomb, which has lot wood work inside, most of which is new, is not surprising at all. Shams pertinent to mention here, had coerced Mevlana to leave his comfort. The meeting of these two men was like meeting of two mighty rivers.
I spent rest of the day in Konya tip toeing through the Tile museum- which has outstanding collection of ceramics from Seljuk times and the museum of Artefacts and wood carving.
On advise of a friend, I tried a Konya speciality- Etliekemek- which is basically bread with tender lamb meat. It tasted heavenly.
My original plan was to travel back to Istanbul from Konya. However, I chose to stay for a night at Ankara. I'm glad I did so, for I loved Ankara totally. Right from its 1920ish Train station to clean wide roads. A very modern city, built by Kemal Attaturk in 1920s- the stout Turk did not step foot in Istanbul for 9 years, resolving to built a new Turkey, away from the legacy of Ottomon's that lured in every creaky street of Istanbul.
Ankara has a very strong bohemian culture, which I got to witness in Alkizay- a central potpourri of student commix. Over a street dotted by maple trees, which had the flavor of spring beginning to cite, people played music, sang songs and by late evening encroached these streets into episodic and highly alluring sale of second hand books. They had everything from Che's Motor cycle Diaries to Fuhrer, from Kafka to Nabokov. Sadly, for me, mostly in Turkish.
In the two weeks that I travelled across Turkey-from Istanbul to Izmir on the west coast and then to central Anatolia in Konya and Ankara, perhaps the most rewarding experience laid in the fact that I wasn't around myself all the time. It was as if I was living someone else's life. I wasn't doing any of those things that I do everyday- what we call as mundanity of life: Wake up, take shower, have breakfast, drive to office and come back in the evening. Day in and out. And yet, in one moment of solitude when I looked out through the window of the train, it must have been somewhere between Izmir and Konya, with wandering eyes settled over a vast expanse, where tiny little Hamlets- of maroon tiled rooftops, farmers tilling the earth, families stood nestled in a small backyard, I missed the concern in my mothers voice. It is perhaps in such moments when you realize your wealth. The Irish novelist George Moore couldn't have possibly said it better: A man travels the world in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.
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