Just Come: A short story about a woman and son attending a Rumi poetry reading.
Just Come
By Arash Bahman
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Arash Bahman
Smashwords
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About the Author
The author is a parent, a student, and a seeker of knowledge, love, truth, and wisdom. The published written works are getting their initial beginning as individual eBooks, but printed books are in process. All of the short stories, poems, and essays written by this author are currently being complied in to various collections. The collective written works will be published and sold as paperbacks or hardcover printed books. Look for these collections to beginning appearing within the coming year.
Additional Works by this Author are available on Smashwords
Just Come
It was a misty, damp, and chilly night to be wondering around the USC horseshoe for the first time since my childhood. Already dark outside due to the shorter November days, the fallen leaves wet from the light rain, made the bricked walk slippery and precarious. With my son at my heels, we searched for the Rutledge chapel.
Upon finding and entering the chapel, there was already a small crowd gathering in the pews. The plain white interior boasted a set of magnificent organ pipes, located in the balcony of both the left and right side of the room. The complete absence of religious symbols reminded me of the chapel’s inter-religious function, and made me smile.
As the room filled, a USC professor, likely a department head figure but whose name escapes me, offered a brief introduction. He quickly yet exuberantly supplied background information on the renowned Sufi poet, Jalauddin Rumi, whose works we were there to hear. The excited professor also offered a glowing introduction of Peter Rogan and Arsalaan.
A highly respected authority on Jalauddin Rumi, Peter Rogen has been reciting, reading, and interpreting Rumi’s poetry for 25 years. Once properly introduced, Peter Rogen took a few moments to also describe Jalauddin Rumi in his own words, and what Rumi’s poetry meant to him. A distinguished man resembling Sean Connery, his seasoned voice rich with emotion, obviously still delighted in the poetry he was about to read.
The gifted musician, Arsalaan, was also seated on stage that night, sitting alongside Rogen. He spoke quietly only once or twice when addressed and introduced, shifting in his seat to position the two instruments he brought with him. Throughout the event, he would sit quietly as in reflective meditation, sometimes playing the flute, and other times reaching for the drum; expertly blending both the instrument and the melody, to the mood of the poetry currently being read.
As Rogen began reciting and reading Rumi’s poetry, calm filled the room. As if lost in a time warp, the traffic and faulty windshield wipers faded in the far distance, while my consciousness was filled with images of moonlight dancing and sunlight alighting. A warm feeling of peace drifted throughout the room along with the hint of incense. The mild scent adding to the richness of the sensations, barely noticeable, a pleasant surprise with unexpected effects, I settled deeper into my seat.
The reed flute, its tone raspy and rich, mellow and earthy, completely real, blended effortlessly; the melody drifting, rising and falling, flowing with the rhythm of the poem. The poems, messages of love and softness, embracing and understanding, inviting us to: “Come, come, whoever you are. Worshipper, wanderer, lover of leaving, ours is not a caravan of despair. Though you have broken your vows a thousand times, come, come again, just come!”
The quiet gentle repetition of chosen phrases, with intuitive tone and inflection, brought the feelings and emotions of the poet to life. A multitude of sounds rumbled from a simple hand held drum. The gentle thunder transforming into a steady constant rain, the wind rushing past, all produced with the masterful touch of the artist’s hand. Earthy sounds from within the chapel matched Mother Nature’s weather production outside the chapel. The methodical pulse of a heartbeat full of love followed the poem’s message for the lover.
For me the hour passed very quickly, the serenity only sporadically interrupted by my son tapping me on the arm to ask “how much longer”. Looking around I noticed a few like my son, who were not as mesmerized as I. The difference in priorities, passions, pastimes, and pleasures were duly noted, as was my own personal satisfaction with my surroundings and the venue.
At the conclusion of the event, Rogen answered one or two questions from the audience, offering additional comments for us to consider. He elaborated on the differences in translations and explained the benefits of those differences, for readability with different audiences. We were all invited to continue a lighthearted discussion and mingling upstairs, with food and refreshments provided by a local restaurant.
My son and I slipped outside. I knew he would not appreciate any extension of his required participation, but I do think he secretly enjoyed the poetry. We headed back out into the chilly damp misty night, but now the streetlights shone a little brighter. The warm glow matched the feeling I carried with me, back across the horseshoe toward my old car; at peace, in spite of the malfunctioning windshield wipers.