A stream, from its source in far-off mountains, passing through every kind and description of countryside, at last reached the sands of the desert. Just as it had crossed every other barrier, the stream tried to cross this one, but it found that as fast as it ran into the sand, its waters disappeared.

It was convinced, however, that its destiny was to cross this desert, and yet there was no way. Now a hidden voice, coming from the desert itself, whispered: “The wind crosses the desert, and so can the stream.”

The stream objected that it was dashing itself against the sand, only getting absorbed: that the wind could fly and this was why it could cross a desert.

“By hurtling in your own accustomed way you cannot get across. You will either disappear or become a marsh. You must allow the wind to carry you over to your destination.”

But how could this happen?

“By allowing yourself to be absorbed in the wind.”

This idea was not acceptable to the stream. After all, it had never been absorbed before. It did not want to lose its individuality. And, once having lost it, how was one to know that it could ever be regained?

“The wind,” said the sand, “performs this function. It takes up water, carries it over the desert, and then lets it fall again. Falling as rain, the water again becomes a river.”

"How can I know that is true?"

"It is so, and if you do not believe it, you cannot become more than a quagmire, and even that could take many, many years; and it is certainly not the same as a stream."

"But can I not remain the same stream that I am today?"

"You cannot in either case remain so," the whisper said. "Your essential part is carried away and forms a stream again. You are called what you are even today because you do not know which part of you is the essential one."

When he heard this, certain echoes began to arise in the thoughts of the stream. dimly, he remembered a state in which he - or some part of him, was it? - had been held in the arms of a wind. He also remembered - or did he? - that this was the real thing, not necessarily the obvious thing to do.

And the stream raised his vapour into the welcoming arms of the wind, which gently and easily bore it upwards and along, letting it fall softly as soon as they reached the roof of a mountain, many, many miles away. And because he had had his doubts, the stream was able to remember the details of the experience.

The stream was learning. But the sands whispered: “We know, because we see it happen everyday and because we, the sands, extend from the riverside all the way to the mountain.”

And that is why it is said, the way in which the stream of life is to continue on its journey is written in the sands.

It is related that the Sufi Master, Ibrahim Ben Adam, was sitting one day in a forest clearing when two wandering dervishes approached him. He made them welcome, and they talked of spiritual matters until it was dusk.

As soon as night fell, Ibrahim invited the travellers to be his guests at a meal. Immediately they accepted, a table laid with the finest of foods appeared before their eyes.

"How long have you been a dervish ?", one of them asked Ibrahim. "Two years," he said.

"I have been following the Sufi path for nearly three decades and no such capacity as you have shown us has ever manifested itself to me," said the man.

Ibrahim said nothing.

When the food was almost finished, a stranger in a green robe entered the glade. He sat down and shared some of the food. All realized that this was Khidr. They waited for him to impart some wisdom to them. When he stood up to leave, Khidr said, "You two dervishes wonder about Ibrahim. But what have you renounced to follow the dervish path?"

"You gave up the expectations of security and an ordinary life. Ibrahim was a mighty king, and threw away the sovereignity of the Sultanate of Balkh to become a Sufi. This is why he is far ahead of you. During your thirty years too, you have gained satisfactions through renunciation itself. This has been your payment. He has always abstained from claiming any payment for his sacrifice."

And the next moment Khidr was gone.

Sheikh Firoz has recited this tale :

There was once a king who wanted to become a Sufi.

The Sufi whom he approached about the matter said :

"Majesty, You cannot study with the elect until you can overcome heedlessness."

"Heedlesness!" said the king. "Am I not heedful of my religious obligations ? Do I not look after people ? Whom can you find in all my realm who has a complaint against me on the grounds of heedlessness ?"

"That is precisely the difficulty." said the Sufi. "Because heedfulness is so marked in some things, people imagine that it must be a part of their texture."

"I cannot understand that sort of remark", said the king. "And perhaps you will regard me as unsuitable because I cannot fathom your riddles."

"Not at all," said the Sufi, "But a would-be disciple cannot really have a debate with his prospective teacher. Sufis deal in knowledge, not in argument. But I will give you a demonstration of your heedlessness, if you will carry out a test and do what I ask in respect to it."

The king agreed to take the test, and the Sufi told him to say 'I believe you' to everything which should be said to him in the ensuing few minutes.

"If that is a test, it is easy enough to start becoming a Sufi", said the king.

Now the Sufi started the test.

He said : "I am a man from beyond the skies."

"I believe you." said the king.

The Sufi continued :

"Ordinary people try to gain knowledge, Sufis have so much that they try not to use it."

"I believe you." said the king.

Then the Sufi said : "I am a liar."

"I believe you." said the king.

The sufi went on : "I was present when you were born."

"I believe you." said the king.

"And your father was a peasant." said the Sufi.

"That is a lie! " shouted the king.

The Sufi looked at him sorrowfully and said :

"Majesty, since you are so heedless that you cannot for one minute remember to say 'I believe you' without some prejudice coming into play, no Sufi would be able to teach you anything."