In the ancient town of Bastam, where the air still carried the whispers of saints and sages, there lived a devout ascetic. He was known for his piety, for fasting without fail and keeping vigil through the darkest nights. Among the townsfolk, he was revered, his austerity a badge of honour. And often, he would find himself in the circle of the great mystic, Bayazid Bastami—drawn by the light of his wisdom.
One day, unable to contain his frustration, the ascetic approached the master and said, “O Bayazid, for thirty long years I have fasted by day and prayed by night. I’ve attended your gatherings, listened to your teachings with an open heart, and affirmed all you’ve said. Yet, I’ve gained nothing. No illumination, no unveiling, no sign of transcendence. Why is that?”
Bayazid looked at him, eyes serene, voice calm yet piercing. “Even if you continue this path for three hundred years,” he said, “you will not taste a single drop of the Truth.”
The ascetic stood stunned. “Why not, Master?” he finally asked, struggling to mask his dismay.
“Because,” Bayazid said softly, “you are veiled… by your ego.”
The ascetic’s face twitched. “And what is the cure?” he asked quickly, with the desperation of a man parched in the desert.
“There is a cure,” said Bayazid, “but I do not believe you will accept it.”
“I will accept it,” the ascetic declared, chest swelling with determination. “I have searched for it all my life!”
“Very well,” the master said, his gaze unwavering. “Then go. Shave your head and your beard. Strip off your fine cloak and put on a coarse loincloth. Take a bag—fill it with walnuts. Then, go to the market square, to the very neighbourhood where you are most recognized, where people bow their heads in respect at the sight of you.”
The master paused, watching the ascetic’s face carefully.
“Sit there,” he continued, “and place the bag of walnuts in front of you. Call the children over, and say: ‘For every slap you give me, I will give you a walnut—one for one, two for two, and so on.’ Let them strike you, laugh at you, mock you. Let them chip away at your pride. And once you’ve done that, walk the streets. Show your face. Let the whole town see you in that state. This,” Bayazid said, “is the medicine your soul requires.”
The ascetic’s mouth fell open. His face turned pale. “There is no god but God!” he shouted, aghast.
Bayazid nodded slowly. “Yes… if you were an unbeliever, saying these words would have made you a believer. But in this moment, they reveal something else: duality. When you said ‘There is no god but God,’ you were not glorifying the Divine—you were glorifying yourself. You used the name of God to shield your pride.”
The ascetic lowered his gaze. His hands trembled. “I cannot do what you ask,” he admitted at last, voice barely a whisper. “Tell me another way. Another cure.”
Bayazid shook his head gently. “This is your cure,” he said. “And I warned you—you would not accept it.”
