M1:1729 — ای دریغا ای دریغا ای دریغ / کانچنان ماهی نهان شد زیر میغ

Translation: Alas, alas, alas, alas! How such a moon (beloved) became hidden beneath a cloud! Meaning: This verse expresses deep regret and lament over the loss or concealment of a precious beloved or truth.

This verse, with its poignant repetition of 'alas' (دریغا), seems at first glance to express the deepest regret and sorrow over the concealment of a radiant moon – undoubtedly a metaphor for a beloved or a sublime, shining truth. However, from Rumi's perspective, this lamentation and regret for the past is, in itself, a veil over the present reality and a heedlessness of the now. I contend that Rumi, in this and similar verses, does not merely avoid regretting a past that is gone; rather, he fundamentally regards 'alas' as a destructive phenomenon, an impediment to true knowledge. In Hafez's work, we often encounter 'Yād bād' (remember that time); a sweet recollection of a past that is gone and will not recur. Saʿdi, too, looks to future generations who will pass over our dust. These are different modes of attending to the past and future. But in Rumi's spiritual journey, living in the present, being an 'Ibn al-Waqt' (son of the moment), is the most fundamental principle. He himself used to tell Sufis who spoke of the future and past: 'A Sufi is the son of the moment, my friend / Saying tomorrow is not part of the path.' Rumi calls this act of saying 'alas' a 'seeing of imagination' that severs one 'from the cash of one's existence,' meaning from the truth of the present moment. This lamentation signifies losing the capital we possess right now. In the story of the Parrot and the Merchant, when the parrot feigns death, the merchant repeatedly exclaims, 'Alas! Alas for my sweet-voiced bird!' But Rumi immediately brings him back to the present, saying: 'These alas-es are the vision of fancy / And are cut off from the ready cash of existence' and instantly reminds him: 'It was God's jealousy, and against God there is no remedy / What heart is not rent a hundredfold by God's decree?' This means that what occurred was by God's jealousy and will, and against God's will, there is no recourse. So why burn your heart over this past? This is the surrender to divine decree that prevents futile regrets. Shams-e Tabrizi, as recounted in Aflaki's anecdotes, also opposed saying 'alas.' It is reported that Sheikh Badr al-Din, in the presence of Rumi and his companions, spoke of Shams-e Tabrizi and uttered, 'Alas, alas, alas!' Rumi grew angry and asked: 'Alas for what? What is alas? What does alas have to do with our gathering?' This shows that in his assembly and school, there is no place for regret. He himself says: 'You are now with someone in whom there are a hundred thousand Shams-e Tabriz,' meaning, think of the present. Even in his elegy for his dearest disciple and successor, Salah al-Din Zarkub, in a long and heart-wrenching qasida, when he says: 'Alas, alas, alas, alas / Our visible eye wept over that hidden eye,' his regret is not for Salah al-Din. This 'alas' is in truth a regret and longing for our own condition, for our outwardly seeing eyes that weep over his inwardly seeing eye. It is as if he is saying: 'We, the blind, are weeping over the seer.' This implies that one should weep for the living who cannot see, not for the dead who are visionaries. Therefore, this 'moon hidden beneath a cloud,' though seemingly a source of sorrow, is at its core an invitation to transcend this sorrow and join a current in which everything that exists is from God's jealousy and will. Lamentation is a hidden rebellion against divine destiny and a heedlessness of the present, from which Rumi strongly warns.

Key takeaways

• Lamenting the past with 'alas' creates a veil over perceiving and experiencing the present reality.
• Unlike Hafez and Saʿdi, Rumi emphasizes living in the present and being an 'Ibn al-Waqt' (son of the moment).
• What has occurred is due to Divine jealousy and will; therefore, there is no recourse but submission and the absence of regret.
• Rumi's sorrow, even for his loved ones, is not for their absence but for the inability of our own eyes to truly see.
• In Rumi's school, there is no place for 'pity' or 'alas'; one must contemplate the 'now'.