The horizon was still a mystery—shades of deep indigo melting into a soft, silver-blue—as the first whispers of dawn stirred the ancient city of Nayshapour. In the hush of the early morning, when even the breeze seemed to walk barefoot through the streets, a devoted disciple of the great Sufi master Davoud Taa’ie (d. 782) rose from prayer, his heart still warm with remembrance of the Divine. Cloaked in the silence of devotion, he made his way toward his master’s abode, eager to sit in his presence.
The bazaar, usually overflowing with shouts, scents, and movement, lay still and asleep. But as the disciple turned a corner near the spice merchants' row, he came upon a scene that pierced the serenity like a sudden crack of thunder.
There, beside a crumbling wooden stall, knelt one of his fellow Sufis—a darvish known to walk the same path of truth. Yet now, he was dishevelled, his robe stained, his breath heavy with wine, and his body convulsing in sickness. Around him, a pack of stray dogs lingered—silent sentinels of the fallen.
The disciple recoiled, face contorting with disgust and shame. He hurried past, heart pounding with a mixture of confusion and condemnation. How could one sworn to the path of purity stoop to such disgrace? he wondered bitterly, cloaking his own face with his sleeve as though hoping the moment would erase itself from time.
Upon reaching his master, he bowed and wasted no time in recounting the spectacle, his voice tinged with both self-righteousness and lingering embarrassment. But instead of the expected nod of approval or words of correction for the erring darvish, the master’s face darkened—not in anger, but in sorrow.
“Go to him,” the master said with stern compassion. “Carry him home. Now.”
No explanation. No indulgence. Only a command.
Bewildered but obedient, the disciple retraced his steps. By now, the city had awakened. Merchants were opening their shutters, housewives sweeping their thresholds, and the air buzzed with the rustle of commerce. The disciple found the darvish not far from where he had been—slumped, unconscious, humiliated before the eyes of the world.
Lifting the darvish onto his shoulders was no small task. His body was heavy, and the disciple’s spirit heavier still with dread. As he stumbled through the bazaar with his limp burden, the world turned sharp. Fingers pointed. Voices sneered. “Drunkards!” someone spat. A woman, face twisted with disdain, hurled a bag of waste that struck the disciple’s robe.
Shame burned hotter than the morning sun. He longed to vanish, to peel his skin from the spectacle, to undo the journey altogether.
That night, as the city slept once more, the disciple tossed restlessly, haunted not by the weight of the darvish, but by the echo of judgment in his own heart. His soul had tasted bitterness—not the wine of his brother, but the venom of his own pride.
At dawn, he returned to his master, seeking perhaps some reassurance, perhaps relief. But the master met him not with solemnity—but with laughter. Deep, thunderous, knowing laughter that filled the room like sunlight pouring through a broken shutter.
“You suffered because you revealed what you should have concealed,” the master said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Had you simply lifted your brother and brought him home when you found him, without making him into a tale, without making yourself his judge, you would not be standing before me in such misery. You see, you too were drunk—drunk on the illusion of your own piety.”
And still he laughed.
