On a quiet afternoon in Nishapur, the warm steam of the public bath curled through the marble corridors like drifting clouds. The ancient hammam echoed with the gentle splash of water, hushed conversations, and the soothing rhythm of wooden sandals against wet stone. It was a place where the physical body was cleansed—but for some, like Abu Sa‘id, it was also a place for the cleansing of the soul.
That day, while Abu Sa‘id, the revered Sufi master, sat in contemplative silence amidst the steam, an eminent scholar arrived at his khaniqah, seeking his wisdom. Upon learning that the master had gone to the public bath, the scholar didn’t hesitate—he made his way there, eager for even a brief exchange with the mystic.
He entered the hammam with careful steps, eyes searching through the mist. When he finally saw Abu Sa‘id, seated simply with nothing more than a towel around his waist and a humble water bucket beside him, the scholar bowed and greeted him.
“How do you like the bath?” Abu Sa‘id asked with a gentle smile, his eyes twinkling with a knowing light.
“It is fine,” the scholar replied politely.
“Why is it fine?” the master asked, his gaze sharp yet kind, as though he was inviting the man to look deeper.
The scholar paused, then offered, “Because the master is here.”
Abu Sa‘id chuckled softly, the steam swirling around him like incense rising from a prayer. “You can answer better than that,” he said, coaxing the truth out of the moment like a pearl from its shell.
“Please, tell me,” the scholar asked, humbled and curious.
“Because,” Abu Sa‘id said, his voice calm and resonant, “you have nothing here but a loincloth and a bucket—and neither of them belongs to you.”
In that fleeting moment, the weight of possessions, titles, and ego melted away like mist in the sun. What remained was a simple, profound truth: freedom lies not in having more, but in needing less—and in being owned by nothing.
