M6:1290 — ای عجوزه چند کوشی با قضا / نقد جو اکنون رها کن ما مضی

Translation: O old hag (ʿajūza), why do you strive against fate (qazā)? Seek the present (naqd-i hāl) now, let go of what has passed (mā maḍā). Meaning: Rumi admonishes an aging person, symbolizing anyone consumed by past regrets, to cease struggling against fate and bygone events, and instead to embrace and cultivate the present moment.

Here, I see Rumi addressing not merely a literal old woman grappling with the regrets of a life gone by, but more importantly, hypocritical pretenders who, by external showmanship and feigned mysticism, adorn themselves for public display yet remain inwardly destitute. This "old hag" (ʿajūza) is, in truth, anyone who has squandered their life, youth, and capacity for action and repentance, and is now entangled in a past filled with regret.

To this ʿajūza, Rumi speaks with a firm and unequivocal tone: "Ey ʿajūza chand kōshī bā qazā?" Why do you struggle with qazā – with what has passed and been decreed? The past is irrevocably gone; it cannot be altered. Contesting mā maḍā (what has passed) yields nothing but deeper despair and ruination. Qazā, whether divine will or events unfolding in time, is now an unchangeable reality.

Instead of this futility, Rumi commands: "Naqd jū aknūn" – seek the present moment. This is a foundational teaching of all Sufi schools: "The Sufi is the son of his moment." The Sufi lives in the now. A past that cannot return and a future that has not yet arrived must not deter us from the present moment. Focusing on the present provides the opportunity for inner action and transformation. This is what Rumi elsewhere implies when he states, "There is no 'alas for the past' in the Masnavi," contrasting with Hafez who often laments bygone days; Rumi continually calls the reader to the present and forbids regret over the past.

Addressing these false claimants who "steal a tithe from written knowledge" and "the words of God's men" for self-promotion, hoping their "faces become colored like an apple," Rumi warns that these are "borrowed colors" and they are not inwardly "rosy." All such external displays will "vanish" upon the "khīz-khīzān-i raḥīl" – the moment of departure (death). Then, one will face the "world of silence," and "woe to him whose inner self offers no companionship." All that we attach to ourselves externally will fall away, and only what has become "part of our soul" will remain.

So, what is the solution? "Ṣayqalī kun yak do rūzī sīna-rā / Daftar-i khwod sāz ān āyīna-rā" – for a day or two, polish your breast; make your heart that mirror. Instead of all the disputes and showing off, sit and polish your heart. Make your heart a clear mirror in which truths are reflected, rather than an accumulation of borrowed terms and stolen knowledge. Even in such seemingly hopeless conditions, he offers a message of hope; just as the old Zulaikha is rejuvenated by Yusuf's shadow, or the dry palm branch yields fresh dates for Maryam. These examples demonstrate that if a "Mariam-like ardor" (sūz-i Maryamī) and true longing awaken within, even in old age and barrenness, rejuvenation and freshness are possible. But all this is contingent on being a "seeker of the present" and abandoning the struggle with "what has passed."

Key takeaways

• Do not fruitlessly contend with the unchangeable past or divine decree (qazā).
• The most crucial task for the seeker is to attend to the "present moment" (naqd-i ḥāl), not to regret the past or fear the future.
• True human worth lies within, not in external displays or borrowed knowledge that dissipate with death.
• Death confronts one with the "world of silence"; prepare for that moment by cultivating inner companionship now.
• Even in despair and old age, inner transformation and rejuvenation are possible if true longing awakens.