His father looked up, his eyes hollow. "Son, your words are like arrows shot into the dark. I hear the echo, but I cannot catch them. You recite 'There is no god but God' with your tongue, but your heart recites, 'I hope my father is saved.' That hope is a veil. You are still clinging to me —to my name, my body, my past. You have not yet said the true tahlil ."
He told Kemal to do this: "Tonight, instead of reciting the tahlil for your father, sit in silence. Feel the presence of 'Allah' alone. Let every other name—including 'father' and 'Kemal'—dissolve. Then, whisper the tahlil as if God is reciting it to God. For in the end, there is no one to save and no one to be saved. There is only the One." tahlil arwah rumi
In the winding alleys of Konya, there lived a master weaver named Kemal. He was a student of Rumi’s Masnavi , but like many, he was tangled in the letter of the law, not the spirit. Every Thursday night, Kemal would gather his family to recite Tahlil Arwah —the sending of blessings and the creed "La ilaha illallah" to the souls of the departed. But he did so with a heavy heart, worrying whether the words "reached" his late father, a harsh man who had never prayed. His father looked up, his eyes hollow
Rumi smiled and picked up two stones. "If I throw this stone at a clay pot," he said, "the pot shatters. If I throw this second stone at a river, what happens?" You recite 'There is no god but God'
"Nothing," said Kemal. "The river absorbs it."