Saving the Drowning

بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

صاحِب‌دِلی بِه مَدرَسِه آمَد زِ خانِقاه
بِشِکَست عَهدِ صُحبَتِ اَهلِ طَریق را

گُفتَم: مِیانِ عالِم و عابِد چه فَرق بُود
تا اِختِیار کَردی اَز آن، این فَریق را؟

گُفت: آن گِلیمِ خویش بِه‌دَر می‌بَرَد زِ مَوج
وین جَهد می‌کُنَد کِه بِگیرَد غَریق را

Meaning:

A man of heart came to the madrasa from the khanqah
and broke his bond with the people of the spiritual path.

I said: what difference did you see between the scholar and the worshipper,
that you chose this group over that one?

He said: that one carries his own rug out from the wave,
but this one strives to take hold of the drowning.

Language:

Persian/Farsi

Transliteration:

Sāhib-dilī be madraseh āmad ze khāneqāh
Beshikast ʿahd-e sohbat-e ahl-e tarīq rā

Goftam: miyān-e ʿālim o ʿābid che farq būd
Tā ikhtiyār kardī az ān īn farīq rā?

Goft: ān gelīm-e khwīsh be-dar mī-barad ze mowj
V-īn jahd mī-konad ke begīrad gharīq rā

Origins:

These lines are from Saʿdī’s Golestān, chapter two, “On the Morals of Dervishes” — باب دوم در اخلاق درویشان — in story number 38 as given by Ganjoor. In that passage, Saʿdī first discusses the value of receiving wisdom even from an imperfect teacher, and then closes with this image of the scholar and the worshipper. (Ganjoor)

The Golestān was completed in 656/1258 and is often described as one of the most influential works of Persian prose. It is not only prose. It is prose filled with short poems, moral turns, stories, rebukes, jokes, and sudden sentences that stay in the mind. (Encyclopaedia Iranica)

Brief Explanation:

This poem is about the difference between private safety and public mercy.

Saʿdī does not begin with an argument. He begins with a movement.

A صاحبدل — a person of heart, a person awake inside — leaves the خانقاه, the Sufi lodge, and comes to the مدرسه, the place of learning. This is not a small movement. He is not simply changing buildings. He is changing company. He breaks the bond of companionship with the people of the path and joins the people of knowledge.

So the question comes naturally:

What difference did you see between the scholar and the worshipper?

That is the heart of the matter.

The worshipper is not being mocked because he worships. Worship is not the problem. Devotion is not the problem. Prayer, solitude, fasting, remembrance, tears, and discipline are not the problem.

The problem is when a person’s religion becomes only the protection of himself.

Saʿdī gives the answer through water.

That one carries his own rug out from the wave.

The image is plain. A flood has come. The water is rising. A man looks at his own rug, his own small possession, his own comfort, his own corner of the house. He works to save that.

He may be sincere. He may be careful. He may even be successful.

But his concern is narrow.

He saves his own گِلیم.

That word matters. A گِلیم is a flat woven rug. In the line, it becomes more than a rug. It becomes the symbol of the self. My place. My safety. My purity. My reward. My escape. My name. My little portion that must not get wet.

There is a whole kind of life hidden in that rug.

A person may become very religious and still remain small. He may fear sin, but not carry mercy. He may protect his record, but not protect another human being. He may keep himself clean, but never enter the water where people are drowning.

Then Saʿdī turns to the other figure:

And this one strives to take hold of the drowning.

This is the scholar.

Not the scholar who merely gathers words.

Not the scholar who enjoys being called learned.

Not the scholar who uses knowledge to rise above people.

That kind of scholar is also carrying his own rug.

Saʿdī is speaking about the scholar whose knowledge has become service. He sees the drowning person and moves toward him. His learning has made him responsible. His understanding has given him work. He does not look at the water only to explain it. He enters it to save someone from it.

That is a severe test of knowledge.

Does it rescue?

Does it guide?

Does it make the confused steadier, the young wiser, the weak safer, the lost less alone?

If not, then it may be information, but it has not yet become mercy.

To my ear, the strongest word in the poem is غَریق — the drowning one.

Saʿdī could have said “people.” He could have said “students.” He could have said “the ignorant.” But he says the drowning one.

A drowning person does not need a speech from the shore. He does not need someone to describe water. He does not need someone to admire his own dry clothes. He needs a hand.

This is where education becomes a moral act.

A teacher is not only someone who knows. A teacher is someone who notices drowning.

A child drowning in confusion.

A child drowning in anger.

A child drowning in shame.

A child drowning in carelessness because no adult has taught him how to carry responsibility.

A child drowning in cleverness without humility.

A child drowning in marks without meaning.

A child drowning in noise because silence was never made beautiful to him.

The teacher’s work is not only to preserve his own rug. It is to stretch a hand.

That hand may be a lesson.

It may be correction.

It may be patience.

It may be a hard truth spoken without cruelty.

It may be the repeated explanation of something simple until the child’s face opens.

It may be the refusal to give up on a student who has already given up on himself.

This is why the poem belongs in schools.

It asks what kind of adult stands before the child.

One adult says: I have done my duty if I remain safe.

The other says: I have not done my duty until I have tried to save.

The first adult wants personal innocence.

The second adult accepts public responsibility.

There is a difference.

A note about the wording:

The contrast depends on آن and وین.

آن — that one — points to the worshipper whose concern remains with himself.

وین — and this one — points to the scholar whose concern reaches another person.

The phrase گِلیمِ خویش به‌در بردن has the force of an idiom: to get one’s own rug out, to save oneself, to escape with one’s own portion protected. Saʿdī then places beside it بگیرد غریق را — to take hold of the drowning person. The grammar is simple, but the moral distance is wide.

One hand pulls a rug.

The other hand pulls a human being.

That is the whole poem.

Moral Use:

These lines are useful before teaching.

Before correcting a student.

Before praising achievement.

Before choosing what kind of school we are trying to build.

Before calling ourselves religious.

Before calling ourselves educated.

They ask one clean question:

Who is being saved by what I know?

Not, how much do I know?

Not, how much do people think I know?

Not, how carefully have I protected my own rug?

Who is less lost because I learned?

Who is more truthful because I taught?

Who is safer because I had authority?

Who is steadier because I was patient?

Who is closer to goodness because I used my knowledge well?

This does not reduce worship. It completes it.

Private devotion must not become private escape. Knowledge must not become public vanity. Both must become service.

Saʿdī’s judgment is clear.

The better person is not the one who merely keeps himself dry.

The better person is the one who sees the drowning and reaches.