A certain quiet dervish often used to attend the weekly meals given by a cultivated and generous man. This circle was known as the 'assembly of the cultured'. The dervish never took part in the conversation but simply arrived, simply shook hands with all present, seated himself in a corner, and ate the food provided.
When the meeting was over he would stand up, say a word of farewell and thanks, and go his way. Nobody knew anything about him, though when he first appeared there were rumors that he was a great saint. For a long time the other guests thought that he must indeed be a man of sanctity and knowledge and they looked forward to the time when he might impart some of his wisdom to them. Some of them even boasted of his attendance at their meetings to their friends, hinting at the special distinction which they felt in his presence.
Gradually, however, because they could feel no relationship with this man developing, the guests came to suspect that he was an imitator, perhaps a fraud. Several of them felt uncomfortable in his presence. He seemed to do nothing to harmonize himself with the atmosphere, and didn't even contribute a proverb to the enlightened conversation which they had come to prize as a necessary part of their very lives.
A few, on the other hand, became unaware that he was there at all, since he drew no attention to himself.
One day the dervish spoke. He said, "I invite all of you to visit my monastery. Tomorrow night you shall eat with me."
This unexpected invitation caused a change in the opinions of the whole assembly. Some thought that the dervish, who was very poorly dressed, must be mad, and surely could provide them with nothing. Others considered his past behavior to have been a test. At last, they said to themselves, he would reward them for their patience in bearing with such dreary company. Still others said to one another. "Beware, for he may well be trying to lure us into his power."
Curiosity led them all, including their host, to accept the hospitality. The following evening the dervish led them from the house to a hidden monastery of such size and magnificence that they were dazed. The building was full of disciples carrying out every kind of exercise and task. The guests passed through contemplation halls filled with distinguished-looking sages who rose in respect and bowed at the dervish's approach. The feast which they were given surpassed all powers of description. The visitors were overwhelmed. All begged him to enroll them as disciples forthwith. But the dervish would only say to all their entreaties, "Wait until the morning."
Morning came and the guests, instead of waking in the luxurious silken beds to which they had been conducted the night before, clad in gorgeous robes, found themselves lying stiff and stark, dispersed on the ground within the stony confines of a huge and ugly ruin on a barren mountainside. There was no sign of the dervish, of the beautiful arabesques, the libraries, the fountains, the carpets.
"The infamous wretch has tricked us with the deceits of sorcery!" shouted the guests. They alternately condoled with and congratulated one another for their sufferings and for having at least seen through the villain, whose enchantments obviously wore off before he could achieve his evil purpose, whatever that might be.Many of them attributed their escape to their own purity of mind. But what they did not know was that by the same means which he had used to conjure up the experience of the monastery, the dervish had made them believe that they were abandoned in a ruin. They were in fact in neither place.

He now approached the company as if from nowhere and said, "We shall return to the monastery." He waved his hands and all found themselves back in the palatial halls. Now they repented, for they immediately convinced themselves that the ruins had been the test and that this monastery was the true reality. Some muttered, "It is as well that he did not hear our criticisms. Even if he only teaches us this strange art it will have been worthwhile."
But the dervish waved his hands again and they found themselves at the table of the communal meal, which they had in fact never left.
The dervish was sitting in his customary corner eating his spiced rice as usual, saying nothing at all. And then watching him uneasily all heard his voice speak as if within their own breasts, though his lips didn't move.
He said, "While your greed makes it impossible for you to tell self-deceit from reality, there is nothing real which a dervish can show you -- only deceit. Those whose food is self-deceit and imagination can be fed only with deception and imagination."