(Words: Hafiz, 14th Century Poet, from "The Gift"
Translated by Daniel Ladinsky, 1999)
ISBN 0 14 01.9581 5

A saintly man and a Perfect One both resided on the
Outskirts of a beautiful city.
Though several miles apart.

One day it came to the attention
Of these two households that a visiting prince
Desired to pay his respects to the most revered spiritual
Leader in that province,
Wanting to gift a small fortune to that man
To help further God’s work.

As there had for years been some question
Amongst the population who in fact was
The most spiritual of these two figures,
The prince devised something of a contest,
As he only had time to visit
One of these personages.

The prince sent word:
“In three days I would like to meet with,
In my quarters, the chief representative of each
Of these two renowned religious men
And after questioning them extensively
I and my ministers will then determine
Who in fact of their teachers is the
Closer to God, and thus
To whom we will gift God’s own bounty.”

The saint upon receiving this news met with
All his close ones. The council discussed the situation
For hours, exploring every nuance,
And considering how much this gold could mean to them.
Then, with a clear majority vote—
Ramjoo was chosen.

Ramjoo was a strikingly young handsome man,
A great hunter, a legendary warrior, a renowned artist.
His intellect was superb, his manners impeccable,
He spoke twenty different languages
And was descended from royal blood himself—
A great-aunt was a queen.
Someone in the saint’s camp also knew this prince
Enjoyed the company of men as well as women.
Ramjoo, they all nodded, was the right choice.
The Perfect One on receiving this “news”
From the prince immediately called for Yasamin;
No consultation with anyone was needed.

Yasamin was a servant woman in the master’s
Household.
She was nearly eighty; a famous hag,
And had worked for him all her life—
No one else in the city would hire Yasamin
As she was completely mad
(Perhaps just God-mad), nevertheless her qualifications
For this essential, delicate diplomacy were exact:

She had not combed her hair or bathed for months;
She mostly muttered unintelligible sounds
In her own secret language
That only the master knew.
She often made obscene gestures
While exposing her private regions.

She compulsively picked her nose
And threw boogers with astounding accuracy.
No one had ever known her to go five minutes
Without loudly farting at least four times.
She was psychic too,
And would probably start beating the prince if
She “saw” he had ever gone too far romantically—
With his camels.

Yasamin, the Perfect One knew,
Was the right choice to be his envoy
Especially when she agreed with a deep, enlightened laugh
To add to her already majestic—sublimely free—being
The crown of three live chickens
She would proudly drape over her head
Come the appointed
Royal minute.

The day of the prince came. The two envoys entered
The prince’s quarters but were kept separate
And did not even see one another.

Ramjoo went in first
And from behind a door Yasamin could hear singing,
And light lively talk that went on for two hours.

She knew what was happening.
The prince was falling in love with his new guest.

Then Yasamin was brought in
And the prince could not believe his eyes.
He felt tremendously insulted and even became
A bit terrified when, in fact, Yasamin being
Able to “see” into the prince’s past,
Started shouting things even he could understand
About that one regrettable night in the desert—
With that young, gorgeous camel.
She even hit the prince with two gigantic boogers
From twenty feet away;
Bouncing off his forehead
They both fell right into his tea,

Yasamin was ordered
Beaten and thrown out.

She returned to master ecstatic
And has never been happier since.

That night the prince could not sleep, but
Finally dozed off for a few minutes just before dawn.
During that short sleep he had this dream:

The Prophet Muhammad
Was seated on a magnificent white horse
And behind the Prophet sat a man smiling wonderfully
At the prince for a moment, before saying,

“Why did you beat my dear Yasamin,
When she spoke only the truth to you?”

The prince bolted awake
And sat up in bed trembling with sweat.

He called for his horse to be saddled
And with ten of his soldiers rode right then
To the saintly man’s house pleading to see him.

Upon seeing this man and realizing
He was not the person in the dream,
He then dismissed his soldiers and taking off his shoes,
Weeping now,
Began to walk to the Prefect One’s household.

Dear ones,
Use your own storytelling abilities
To end this tale

In a way that will most
Uplift your heart.