What Is Written, What Is Blessed

  بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ 

وَيَرْزُقْهُ مِنْ حَيْثُ لَا يَحْتَسِبُ

وَمَن يَتَوَكَّلْ عَلَى ٱللَّهِ فَهُوَ حَسْبُهُ

إِنَّ ٱللَّهَ بَـٰلِغُ أَمْرِهِۦ

قَدْ جَعَلَ ٱللَّهُ لِكُلِّ شَىْءٍ قَدْرًا

Wa yarzuqhu min ḥaythu lā yaḥtasib.

Wa man yatawakkal ʿalā Allāhi fa-huwa ḥasbuh.
Inna Allāha bālighu amrih.
Qad jaʿala Allāhu li-kulli shay’in qadrā.

“And He will provide for them from sources they could never imagine. And whoever puts their trust in Allah, then He alone is sufficient for them. Certainly Allah achieves His Will. Allah has already set a destiny for everything.”

Sūrat al-Ṭalāq 65:3

There is a story told about Sayyidunā Mūsā عليه السلام.

It is not a story I would present as hadith. It is not something I have found with a chain that makes it an authoritative report. It is a wisdom tale. And wisdom tales must be carried with honesty. They are not proofs. They are mirrors.

And sometimes a mirror is enough to show us the state of our own heart.

Mūsā عليه السلام was once passing through the desert when he was received with kindness by a man. The man had little. Very little. In some tellings, only one loaf of bread was his daily portion. In the version I heard, it was two loaves of bread.

But the number is not the secret. The secret is what the heart does with what it has been given.

The man asked Mūsā عليه السلام to pray for him. He wanted more provision. Perhaps we understand him. Who does not ask for more? More ease. More food. More certainty. More security. More room in life to breathe.

So Mūsā عليه السلام prayed. And the answer came that the man’s provision had been written as only two loaves of bread.

Only that. Just two loaves.

When Mūsā عليه السلام returned and told the man what had been written for him, the man did not collapse into complaint. He did not say, “Is this all?” He did not ask, “Why me?” He did not compare his two loaves with another man’s feast.

He became calm.

Because if Allah had written it, then it would reach him.

This itself is a station.

Many of us are not hungry because our portion is small. We are hungry because our comparison is large.

Many of us are not poor because Allah has withheld from us. We are poor because our eyes are always sitting at someone else’s table.

The man heard: two loaves. And instead of hearing deprivation, he heard guarantee.

This is the difference between the nafs and the heart.

The nafs says: only two? The heart says: written by whom?

If Allah has written it, it is not small. If Allah has promised it, it is not uncertain. If Allah has placed it in your path, it is not random. If Allah has measured it for you, then the measure itself contains mercy.

The Qurʾān says:

لَئِن شَكَرْتُمْ لَأَزِيدَنَّكُمْ

“If you are grateful, I will certainly give you more.”

Sūrat Ibrāhīm 14:7 (Quran.com)

Notice the word is not only “If you possess more.” It is “If you are grateful.” Because increase begins in the heart before it appears on the table.

The man became content. His worry reduced. His grasping softened. His appetite became smaller because his anxiety became smaller. He began to eat what he needed and leave what remained.

And what remained did not disappear.

This is another secret.

When the heart is restless, even abundance is swallowed. When the heart is at peace, even a little begins to remain.

A little bread remained. Then more. Then more. Until there was enough stale bread to be useful to someone else.

A herdsman passed by. His animals needed feed. The old bread, which may have looked like leftovers to one person, became provision for another creature. The man gave what he had. The herdsman, grateful, gave him a pregnant goat.

And from that goat, Allah opened another door.

Days became months. Months became years.

When Mūsā عليه السلام passed by again, the place was no longer the same. The man who had once had only two loaves now had food, milk, cheese, dates, honey, animals, and a garden of provision.

So Mūsā عليه السلام wondered.

Was his rizq not only two loaves?

And the answer of the story is the answer we need.

The two loaves were his written rizq.

The rest was barakah.

SubḥānAllah.

Rizq is what reaches you. Barakah is what Allah places inside what reaches you.

Rizq may be counted. Barakah cannot be counted.

Rizq may be two loaves. Barakah may make those two loaves feed the body, calm the heart, soften the ego, help another servant, nourish an animal, open a relationship, bring a goat, grow a garden, and turn a dry corner of life into a place of mercy.

This is why we should be careful when we ask Allah for “more.”

More of what?

More things?
More appetite?
More comparison?
More anxiety?
More storage?
More fear of loss?

Sometimes we ask for more rizq when what we really need is more barakah.

Barakah in time. So one hour does the work of many.

Barakah in food. So simple bread strengthens the body and does not make the soul heavy.

Barakah in knowledge. So one verse changes the character more than a shelf of unread books.

Barakah in children. So they are not only successful in the eyes of people, but soft, truthful, responsible, and close to Allah.

Barakah in work. So it becomes service, not only survival.

Barakah in speech. So a few words heal instead of many words impressing.

Barakah in a home. So even if it is small, it is filled with mercy.

The man’s life changed when his focus changed. Before, he looked at the bread and saw lack.

After, he looked at the bread and saw Allah’s promise.

The bread did not change first. The seeing changed first.

This is often how mercy enters.

Not always by changing the outside immediately, but by changing the meaning of what is already in our hand.

The same two loaves can be a complaint or a sign.

The same salary can be a prison or a trust.

The same house can be too small or full of warmth.

The same child can be a burden or an amanah.

The same day can be ordinary or filled with openings.

The same life can be “not enough” or “Ya Allah, You have not forgotten me.”

The world trains us to count.

Allah trains us to notice.

The world says: increase your portion.

Allah says: purify your heart before your portion destroys you.

The world says: you are safe when you have more.

Allah says: whoever puts his trust in Allah, He is sufficient for him.

This does not mean we stop working. It does not mean we romanticise poverty. It does not mean we become careless with responsibility. Mūsā عليه السلام did not teach laziness. The prophets did not teach passivity.

But it does mean that work without trust becomes fear.

And provision without gratitude becomes hunger.

And asking without adab becomes complaint.

The old man asked. There is nothing wrong with asking. We should ask Allah for good, for ease, for lawful provision, for expansion, for protection from need and humiliation.

But when the answer came, he accepted.

This is where the story becomes difficult.

Can we accept the answer Allah gives while still hoping in His mercy?

Can we be grateful for the two loaves while still making duʿā for wider good?

Can we stop insulting the door that is open because we are staring at the door that is closed?

Can we say: Ya Allah, increase me, but do not let my desire for increase make me blind to what You have already sent?

The man’s two loaves became a garden because he did not treat them as nothing.

He honoured what came.

He trusted the One who sent it.

He shared what remained.

And Allah placed barakah where the eye did not expect it.

This is the Qurʾānic way.

“And He will provide for them from sources they could never imagine.”

Not always from the door we keep knocking on.

Sometimes from a heap of stale bread.

Sometimes from an animal’s hunger.

Sometimes from a passing herdsman.

Sometimes from the leftovers we thought had no future.

Sometimes from the very thing we were ready to complain about.

We do not know where Allah has hidden the opening.

So do not despise the two loaves.

Do not despise the small beginning.

Do not despise the simple meal.

Do not despise the ordinary day.

Do not despise the child who learns slowly.

Do not despise the work that is unseen.

Do not despise the little strength you still have.

Do not despise the one person you can help.

Do not despise the small act of gratitude that no one claps for.

Allah can place a garden inside two loaves.

Allah can place light inside one sajdah.

Allah can place a future inside one sincere duʿā.

Allah can place healing inside one apology.

Allah can place guidance inside one verse.

Allah can place mercy inside what remains after you have given.

So we ask Allah:

Do not give us rizq without barakah.

Do not give us increase without gratitude.

Do not give us comfort that makes us forget You.

Do not give us hunger that makes us bitter.

Do not let us compare our two loaves with another person’s table.

Do not let us call Your measure small.

Make us people who receive with adab.

People who eat with shukr.

People who share without fear.

People who trust without becoming lazy.

People who work without worshipping work.

People who ask without complaining.

People who know that what is written will reach us.

And what reaches us can be widened by Your barakah.

May Allah place barakah in our bread, our homes, our children, our schools, our work, our time, our health, our intentions, and our endings.

May He make what is little enough.

May He make what is enough blessed.

May He make what is blessed a means of nearness to Him.

Āmīn.

Source note: This piece is based on a popular wisdom tale attributed in retellings to Mūsā عليه السلام. I have not found it as a verified hadith or an authoritative early report, so it should be shared as a reflective teaching story, not as a proof-text. Public versions of the story commonly mention one loaf of bread, the man’s acceptance of his written provision, and later abundance described as barakah rather than the written daily rizq.  

The Sandals That Were Bought Cheap

 بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ 

 وَيُطْعِمُونَ الطَّعَامَ عَلَىٰ حُبِّهِ مِسْكِينًا وَيَتِيمًا وَأَسِيرًا

إِنَّمَا نُطْعِمُكُمْ لِوَجْهِ اللَّهِ لَا نُرِيدُ مِنكُمْ جَزَاءً وَلَا شُكُورًا

Wa yuṭʿimūna al-ṭaʿāma ʿalā ḥubbihī miskīnan wa yatīman wa asīrā.

Innamā nuṭʿimukum li-wajhi Allāhi lā nurīdu minkum jazāʾan wa lā shukūrā.

“They give food—despite their desire for it—to the poor, the orphan, and the captive, saying, ‘We feed you only for the sake of Allah, seeking neither reward nor thanks from you.’”

Sūrat al-Insān 76:8–9 

 

There are gifts that look small because the world measures with a blind eye. And there are gifts that look small because we have not yet learnt how to recognise barakah.

A Chishti legend tells of a farmer ruined by drought.

He had lost much. Perhaps crops. Perhaps animals. Perhaps the quiet dignity that leaves a man when he cannot provide for those who look to him.

So he travelled to Delhi. He went to Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. The Sultan of Saints. The beloved of Delhi.

The friend of the poor. He had heard that no one left that door empty-handed.

This is a beautiful thing to be known for. That the wounded, the hungry, the helpless, and the ashamed could come to your door and find mercy waiting.

But on that day, the khanqah had nothing.

This was not because generosity had failed. It was because generosity had already worked.

Whatever came to Hazrat Nizamuddin was passed on.

Food came. It went.

Coins came. They went.

Cloth came. It went.

Nothing was stored against tomorrow while someone was hungry today.

This is not ordinary charity.

This is faqr.

Faqr is the hand emptied for Allah.

Faqr is the heart that trusts Allah enough to give.

Faqr is not saying, “I have nothing to do with people.”

It is saying, “Whatever Allah has placed with me is an amānah for His creation.”

The farmer stood there.

Needy. Hopeful. Exhausted. And the saint had nothing.

Hazrat Nizamuddin could not bear to send him away with empty hands. Other than the clothes on his body, he only had his sandals.

So he removed his own sandals. And gave them to the farmer.

The farmer accepted them with respect. But his heart sank. To him, the sandals were not treasure.

They were leather. And leather does not fill an empty stomach.

So he left. On the road, he stopped at a caravanserai.

There he met Amir Khusrau. Poet. Courtier. Musician. Lover. Disciple. One of those rare souls who could move among kings and still know where the true throne was.

Khusrau felt drawn to the farmer. He asked him whether he had seen his master. The farmer said yes.

He had gone to Hazrat Nizamuddin. But the saint had only given him a pair of sandals.

Only.That word can hide so much. We often use the word “only” when the unseen has already begun its work.

The farmer brought out the sandals.

Khusrau saw them. But he did not see what the farmer saw. Khusrau saw the trace of his beloved.

The farmer saw what could not be sold. Khusrau saw what could not be priced.

Khusrau offered him a chest of gold tankas.

For the sandals.

The farmer received what he needed.

And Khusrau received what he longed for.

Khusrau returned to Delhi.

He carried the sandals on his head.

This was not theatre. This was adab.

Hazrat Nizamuddin asked him:

How much did you pay?

Khusrau replied:

All my wealth.

The saint smiled.

You bought them cheap.

Khusrau answered that even if he had paid with his life, they would still have been cheap.

This is not the language of commerce. This is the language of love.

He knows the worth of what touched his master.He knows that nearness to the friends of Allah is not bought with coins.The coins are only the outer price.

The inner price is surrender.

This is why the Qur’anic anchor matters.

Allah praises those who feed the poor, the orphan, and the captive while saying:

We feed you only for the Face of Allah.

No reward. No thanks. No applause. No turning the poor into evidence of our goodness.

Only Allah. Only mercy. Only the Face of Allah.

Hazrat Nizamuddin’s sandals were not merely a gift to one farmer.

They were a mirror held up to every age.

When someone comes to our door in need, do we search for what we can give?

Or do we search for reasons to stay comfortable?

When the cupboards are empty, does the heart close too?

When we serve Allah’s creation, do we still secretly demand to be seen?

And when Allah places barakah before us in a small form, do we recognise it?

A child’s question.

A parent’s tiredness.

A student’s silence.

A worker’s honesty.

A neighbour’s loneliness.

A poor person’s dignity.

A pair of worn sandals.

The world is full of small things carrying large tests.

The farmer thought he had received little.

Khusrau knew he had received much.

The saint knew both had received what Allah had written for them.

This is the Chishti beauty of the story.

It does not separate love of Allah from love of His creation.

It does not say:

Love Allah, but ignore the hungry.

Nor does it say:

Serve people, but forget the One for whose sake service becomes worship.

It joins them.

To love Allah is to seek His Face.

To seek His Face is to become gentle with His creation.

To love the friends of Allah is to learn their mercy.

And to learn their mercy is to make sure that no one leaves our presence more humiliated than when they came.

May Allah give us hearts that give without display.

Eyes that recognise barakah before it passes us by.

Hands that move before excuses gather.

And love that knows the difference between price and worth.

May He make us people who feed, help, comfort, teach, and serve for His Face alone.

And may He never allow us to become so poor in spirit that we see only leather where love has placed a treasure.

Āmīn.

Source note: This retelling draws on the foreword by Pir Zia Inayat-Khan to Morals for the Heart: Conversations of Shaykh Nizam ad-Din Awliya, recorded by Amir Hasan Sijzi as Fawāʾid al-Fuʾād and translated by Bruce B. Lawrence. The foreword presents the story as a legend: a drought-stricken farmer comes to Hazrat Nizamuddin, the khanqah has nothing, the saint gives his sandals, Amir Khusrau later buys them for a chest of gold tankas, carries them on his head, and is told, “You bought them cheap.” The same foreword also cautions that no one can say whether the story is literally true, while saying it is true to the spirit of Hazrat Nizamuddin.  

Of Generosity and Divine Mercy

 

بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ 

وَإِن مِّن شَىْءٍ إِلَّا عِندَنَا خَزَآئِنُهُۥ

وَمَا نُنَزِّلُهُۥٓ إِلَّا بِقَدَرٍ مَّعْلُومٍ

Wa in min shay’in illā ʿindanā khazā’inuhu
wa mā nunazziluhū illā biqadarin maʿlūm.

“There is not any means whose reserves 

We do not hold, only bringing it forth in precise measure.”  

Sūrat al-Ḥijr 15:21

In the life of Baba Farīd Ganj-i-Shakar, there is a beautiful story about a pomegranate.

When Farīd was still young, Shaikh Jalāluddīn Tabrīzī passed through the town. He asked whether there was anyone there who lived in remembrance of Allah. The people told him about a young man, a qāḍī’s son, who was often absorbed in prayer.

So the Shaikh went to see him.

On the way, he received a pomegranate. He brought it to Farīd as a gift. But Farīd was fasting. So he did not eat.

This itself is a lesson.

Not every gift must be taken immediately. Not every opening must be rushed. Not every desire must be answered because it is available.

The pomegranate was there. The hunger was there. The saint was there. But the fast was also there. And adab was there.

So Farīd continued fasting while the rest shared the pomegranate among themselves. After the Shaikh left, one seed of the pomegranate was found. Only one. At ifṭār, Farīd ate that seed. And with that seed, a light opened in his heart.

For years, Farīd wondered what might have happened if he had eaten the entire pomegranate. Perhaps, he thought, the blessing would have been greater. Perhaps the opening would have been wider. Perhaps the heart would have received more.

This is how the human being thinks. We think more always means more. But the path to Allah is not governed by our arithmetic.

His master, Khwāja Quṭbuddīn Bakhtiyār Kākī gauged this insightfully and comforted him.

The barakah was not in the whole pomegranate. The barakah was in that one seed. And that one seed had reached him.

SubḥānAllah.

This is why Sūrat al-Ḥijr is such a beautiful anchor for this story. Allah says that the treasures of everything are with Him, and He sends them down in a known measure.

Known to whom? Known to Allah.

Not always known to us.

We may look at our life and think, “Why only this much?” Why only this opening? Why only this opportunity? Why only this child? Why only this school? Why only this amount of rizq? Why only this little strength left in the body? Why only this small chance?

But perhaps what reached us was not little.

Perhaps it was measured. Perhaps the mercy was not missing. Perhaps it was hidden in the measure itself. The nafs wants the whole pomegranate. The heart trained by Allah learns to receive the seed.

We may want more knowledge so people admire us. More spiritual experience so we feel special. More recognition so our work feels seen. More signs so our uncertainty becomes comfortable.

But maʿrifah is not something we seize. It is something Allah gives.

Do not despise what Allah sends. Do not measure divine mercy only by size. Do not think the gift has missed you because it did not arrive as the whole fruit. Sometimes the whole pomegranate is only the covering.

The real gift is one seed.

And when that seed is written for you, Allah will make it reach your mouth at the right time.

May Allah make us people of adab.

May He protect us from the greed that disguises itself as spiritual hunger.

May He give us what is good for us, in the measure that is good for us, at the time that is good for us.

And may He make one small seed enough to open the heart.

Āmīn. 

Another narration of the same incident

 

بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ 

وَيُطْعِمُونَ ٱلطَّعَامَ عَلَىٰ حُبِّهِۦ

مِسْكِينًا وَيَتِيمًا وَأَسِيرًا

إِنَّمَا نُطْعِمُكُمْ لِوَجْهِ ٱللَّهِ

لَا نُرِيدُ مِنكُمْ جَزَآءً وَلَا شُكُورًا

Wa yuṭʿimūna al-ṭaʿāma ʿalā ḥubbihī
miskīnan wa yatīman wa asīrā.

Innamā nuṭʿimukum li-wajhi Allāh;
lā nurīdu minkum jazā’an wa lā shukūrā.

“And they give food—despite their desire for it—to the poor, the orphan, and the captive, saying, ‘We feed you only for the sake of Allah, seeking neither reward nor thanks from you.’”

Sūrat al-Insān 76:8–9 

Baba Farīd was fasting.vHis stomach was empty. His heart was turned towards Allah.

A pomegranate had been given to him. It was not an ordinary gift. It had come through the hand of a saint. He was told that this will grant him the gift of maʿrifah that he was so eagerly waiting for. It was something he could have kept for himself. It was something he could have waited to eat at ifṭār. And perhaps no one would have blamed him. He was opening the pomegranate up, removing seed by seed, while doing dhikr (remembrance of Allah) until all of it was peeled, and the seeds were in a plate, ready to be eaten. He would break his fast with them. The pomegranate of maʿrifah. Given to him by a saint. It was his. 

But then someone came at the door and asked for food in the name of Allah. Baba Farid had nothing in his home except this pomegranate.

Because there are moments when Allah tests not what we say we believe, but what we are willing to release.

It is easy to speak of generosity when the table is full. It is easy to speak of trust when the cupboard is not empty. It is easy to speak of sacrifice when the thing being asked from us is not the thing we were waiting for. But what happens when the only thing in our hand is asked from us? What happens when the gift we were keeping becomes someone else’s need?

What happens when “for the sake of Allah” knocks at the door while we are still hungry and only possess something that we love dearly?

Farīd gave the pomegranate away.

All of it.

He did not give what was left over. He did not give what he disliked. He did not give what was safe to lose. He gave the thing he was waiting to eat. The one thing he was told would grant him the maʿrifah.

This is why Sūrat al-Insān is such a fitting anchor.

Allah praises those who feed others while they themselves love the food, need the food, desire the food.

This is one of the highest forms of freedom.

Then he cleaned up. The plate. The skin. The small remains of what had once been placed before him.And there, stuck to the skin, hidden where it could easily have been missed, was one seed.

Only one.

He took that one seed and opened his fast with it.

And Allah placed the gift in that seed. The gift was not lost because he gave. The gift was protected because he gave.

The mercy of Allah does not become smaller when we are generous. Our portion does not disappear because we fed someone else. What is written for us will come to us.

Even if it is hidden in the skin. Even if it remains after everything has been given away. Even if it looks like the last thing left.

This is a lesson many of us need.

We are afraid to give. Afraid to lose. Afraid to be used. Afraid that if we share, there will not be enough. Afraid that if we help someone else, our own door will close.

But Allah is Generous. Allah is not limited. Allah is not dependent on the pomegranate.

He can place maʿrifah in one seed. He can place rizq in one meeting. He can place healing in one duʿā. He can place protection in one act of service. He can place the future of a child in one teacher’s kindness. He can place the salvation of a person in one moment of sincerity.

The world teaches us to hold tightly. Allah teaches us to hold with trust. The world says, “Keep it. You may need it.” Allah says, “Give for My sake, and I know what you have given.”

This does not mean we become careless. It does not mean we fail in responsibility. It does not mean we give what belongs to someone else.

But it does mean that when Allah opens a door of generosity, we should not close it out of fear.

There are things we lose by keeping. And there are things we keep by giving.

Farīd gave away the fruit. Allah left him the seed. And in that one seed was the opening.

This is the secret.

The one who gives for Allah does not become empty. He becomes a place where Allah’s mercy can pass through.

May Allah make us people who give without humiliating others.

May He make us people who serve without needing praise.

May He protect us from fear disguised as caution.

May He place barakah in what remains with us, and acceptance in what leaves our hands.

May He make us generous with food, with time, with attention, with knowledge, with forgiveness, and with love.

And may He place our hidden opening in the one seed we never expected.

Āmīn.

 

Do Not Be a Donkey Carrying Books

  بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

مَثَلُ ٱلَّذِينَ حُمِّلُوا۟ ٱلتَّوْرَىٰةَ ثُمَّ لَمْ يَحْمِلُوهَا

 كَمَثَلِ ٱلْحِمَارِ يَحْمِلُ أَسْفَارًۢا

Mathalu alladhīna ḥummilū at-Tawrāta thumma lam yaḥmilūhā 

kamathali al-ḥimāri yaḥmilu asfārā.

“The example of those who were entrusted with the Torah, then did not bear it, 

is like the donkey carrying books.”

Sūrat al-Jumuʿah 62:5

There are books that enter the hand. And there are books that enter the heart. There are books that increase the shelf. And there are books that increase the servanthood. There are books that become a burden. And there are books that become a bridge.

The Qurʾān gives us an image that should alert every student, every teacher, every preacher, every writer, every person who has ever loved knowledge.

A donkey carrying books.

The books may be noble. The words may be sacred. The weight may be impressive. But the animal remains untouched by the meaning. It carries the texts. It does not carry the guidance.

This is one of the great dangers of religious life.

Not ignorance only. But knowledge that does not become transformation. Not lack of books only. But books that never become adab. Not absence of words only. But words that never become light.

One of the famous stories told about Mawlānā Rūmī and Shams of Tabrīz begins with books.

There are a few versions.

In one telling, Rūmī is near water with his books. In another, the scene is placed by a pool. In popular retellings, it becomes a river, sometimes with a donkey laden with books.

The details move. The meaning remains.

Rūmī is the great scholar. The teacher. The jurist. The man of discourse. The man of students. The man of books.

Then Shams appears.

He asks: “What are these?”

Rūmī, perhaps with the confidence of the learned, says something like: “These are discussions. These are debates. These are matters you would not understand.”

It is a dangerous moment when knowledge makes the tongue quick and the heart slow. It is a dangerous moment when a person knows the name of a thing but not its secret. It is a dangerous moment when the scholar thinks the stranger has nothing to teach him.

Then Shams takes the books and throws them into the water.

Imagine the shock.

These were not cheap papers. These were not casual notes. These were precious books. Rare books. The labour of years. The companionship of the scholar.

Rūmī is distressed. The books are ruined. Or so he thinks.

Then Shams retrieves them from the water.

One by one. Dry. Untouched. No damage. No stain.

Rūmī asks: “What secret is this?”

And Shams answers in the language of state, not explanation. This is not something reached by argument alone. This is not something held by the hand only. This belongs to ḥāl. To inward condition. To the knowledge that has crossed from the page into the soul.

But we must be careful.

This story should not be read as an insult to books. Islam is not a religion of anti-knowledge. The first command was Read. The Qurʾān speaks of the pen. The Prophet ﷺ taught. The Companions learned. The scholars preserved. The jurists reasoned. The reciters transmitted. The people of knowledge carried the trust of the ummah through centuries.

So the problem is not the book.

The problem is the donkey.

There is a kind of knowledge that makes the servant softer. And there is a kind of knowledge that makes the ego sharper.

There is knowledge that teaches a person to say: I do not know.

And there is knowledge that teaches the ego to say: No one knows like me.

The donkey carrying books is not only someone else. It may be me. It may be you. It may be the student memorising without changing. The parent advising without modelling. The teacher explaining without embodying. The believer quoting without obeying. The preacher speaking without repenting. The seeker collecting spiritual language while the nafs remains untouched.

This is why the river story is so piercing. The books entered the water and came out dry. But the heart of Rūmī did not remain dry.

Perhaps the real miracle was not that the books did not get wet. Perhaps the real miracle was that the scholar did.

Shams did not come to make Rūmī less learned. He came to ask whether the books had destroyed the ego. Information can sit on a donkey. Wisdom must enter a servant.

And then there is the other meeting. The more weighty meeting. In the famous account, Shams meets Rūmī and asks a question about Bayazid Bistami and the Prophet ﷺ. Bayazid is remembered in Sufi tradition for the ecstatic utterance:

سُبْحَانِي، مَا أَعْظَمَ شَأْنِي

Subḥānī, mā aʿẓama shaʾnī.

“Glory be to me, how great is my station.”

The Prophet ﷺ, in the Sufi telling, is remembered with words of utter humility: 

سُبْحَانَكَ، مَا عَرَفْنَاكَ حَقَّ مَعْرِفَتِكَ

Subḥānaka, mā ʿarafnāka ḥaqqa maʿrifatika.

“Glory be to You; we have not known You as You deserve to be known.”

and

سُبْحَانَكَ، مَا عَبَدْنَاكَ حَقَّ عِبَادَتِكَ

Subḥānaka, mā ʿabadnāka ḥaqqa ʿibādatika.

“Glory be to You; we have not worshipped You as You deserve to be worshipped.”

Shams asks Rūmī: How can this be? How can Bayazid say, “Glory be to me,” while the Messenger of Allah ﷺ speaks with such humility? Who is greater?

Rūmī was speechless. All his knowledge could not answer it. But then with the teachers wisdom, he answers with the clarity of a heart that knows the rank of the Prophet ﷺ.

Bayazid reached a station and was overwhelmed. He saw something of grandeur and could not contain himself.

But the Prophet ﷺ did not stop at one station. He was always being taken further. Every nearness opened into greater nearness. Every unveiling opened into a deeper sense of Allah’s greatness.

The saint may have a state. But the Messenger ﷺ gives the path.

The saint may be overcome. But the Messenger ﷺ is the measure.

The saint may utter a word in spiritual intoxication. But the ummah cannot build its life on intoxication.

The ummah builds its life on the Qurʾān and the Sunnah.

This was the greatness of Shams’s question.

He was not asking for information. Rūmī already had information.

He was asking for orientation. Where does your heart face?

Does it face the dazzling utterance? Or does it face the humble Messenger ﷺ?

The question was not : Who is greater?

The question was: What kind of greatness do you understand?

This is why the Prophet ﷺ remains the teacher of all true love. He was not less because he was humble. He was humble because he knew most.

He did not say “we have not known You” because he was distant. He said it because he was near enough to know that Allah is beyond all knowing.

This is real maʿrifah.

The first story warns the scholar: Do not become a donkey carrying books.

The second story warns the seeker: Do not become drunk on your own state.

The first story says: Knowledge must become life.

The second story says: Love must become following.

The first story asks: Have your books entered your heart?

The second story asks: Has your heart entered the Prophetic path?

Together, they give us one of the most needed lessons of our time.

We are surrounded by information.

A phone may carry more books than a medieval library. But the soul holding it may still be restless, vain, cruel, impatient, and untrained.

The question is not only: What have we read?

The question is: What has our reading done to our character?

Has it made us more truthful?

Has it made us more tender?

Has it made us more responsible?

Has it made us more careful with the weak?

Has it made us more ashamed of our sins?

Has it made us quicker to apologise?

Has it made us slower to humiliate?

Has it made us more obedient to Allah?

Has it made us more loving toward the Messenger of Allah ﷺ?

Has it made us people of service?

Or have we only become loaded?

A donkey carrying books.

A mind carrying quotations.

A tongue carrying sacred words.

A public image carrying piety.

But the heart still not bearing the trust.

Rūmī’s meeting with Shams matters because it is not only about Rūmī.

It is about every person who has become too comfortable with what they already know.

So we ask Allah:

Do not make our knowledge a load upon our backs.

Make it a light within our hearts.

Do not make our books witnesses against us.

Make them means of guidance.

Do not let us speak of humility while secretly worshipping recognition.

Do not let us speak of love while refusing to follow.

Do not let us admire the saints while neglecting the Messenger of Allah ﷺ.

Do not let us mistake intensity for sincerity.

Or information for wisdom.

Or vocabulary for state.

Or state for obedience.

O Allah, make us people of knowledge that bows.

People of love that follows.

People of books that become character.

People of dhikr that becomes mercy.

People of longing that becomes service.

People of the Qurʾān who are carried by the Qurʾān, not merely people who carry it.

May our books not be burdens.

May our learning not become pride.

May our states not become display.

May our hearts be washed without our trust being drowned.

May we be taken from the donkey carrying books to the servant carrying light.

May Allah make us true followers of His Beloved ﷺ.

Āmīn.

Source note: The Bayazid question is the stronger early Rumi–Shams meeting tradition, appearing through Shams’s Maqālāt and later accounts such as Sepahsalar and Aflaki; the books-in-water story is a later teaching tale, with versions in Jami, Amin Ahmad Razi, and Azar, while the donkey detail appears in a related but separate retelling. Franklin Lewis discusses these layers and cautions that the water/books story is mythical in character rather than firm biography. (Internet Archive) The Qurʾānic anchors used above are Sūrat al-Jumuʿah 62:5, Sūrat al-Isrāʾ 17:1, and Sūrat Āl ʿImrān 3:31. (Quran.com)

When Shayṭān comes with the Language of Permissiveness

 بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

وَإِمَّا يَنزَغَنَّكَ مِنَ ٱلشَّيْطَـٰنِ نَزْغٌۭ

 فَٱسْتَعِذْ بِٱللَّهِ ۚ إِنَّهُۥ سَمِيعٌ عَلِيمٌ

Wa immā yanzaghannaka mina ash-shayṭāni nazghun 

fa-staʿidh billāh. Innahu samīʿun ʿalīm.

“If you are tempted by Satan, 

then seek refuge with Allah. Surely He is All-Hearing, All-Knowing.” 

Sūrat al-Aʿrāf 7:200

It is told of Shaykh ʿAbdul Qādir al-Jeelani that he once went out into the wilderness as he usually would, to pray, contemplate and reset. Days passed. Water was not found. Thirst became severe.

Then a cloud came. It shaded him. From it descended something like dew.

He drank. The body was relieved.The thirst was cooled.

Then he saw a light. A light spread across the horizon. A form appeared. And from it came a voice:

“O ʿAbdul Qādir, I am your Lord, and I have made lawful for you what I made unlawful for others.”

This was the test. A voice claiming sacred permission.

This is one of the dangerous things about Shayṭān. He does not always come with horns. He does not always come with vulgarity. He does not always come through the door of open rebellion.

Sometimes he comes as relief. Sometimes he comes as sweetness. Sometimes he comes as an opening. Sometimes he comes as a voice saying:

You are different. You are special. The rule is for others. The limit is for others. The command is for others. You have reached a station where obedience is no longer required.

This is not guidance. This is poison wearing the clothing of light.

Shaykh ʿAbdul Qādir al-Jeelani was not deceived.

He did not say: A light has appeared, so it must be true.

He did not say: A voice has spoken, so it must be divine.

He did not say: I have been chosen, so the law no longer applies to me.

He said:

أعوذ بالله من الشيطان الرجيم

I seek refuge with Allah from Shayṭān, the accursed.

Away with you, accursed one.

Then the light became darkness.

The mask fell.

The Shaykh was saved because he did not measure truth by appearance. He measured it by obedience.

The voice had said: I have made lawful for you what was unlawful. That was enough.

The Shaykh knew. Allah does not guide a servant by cancelling the path of His Messenger ﷺ.

Allah does not honour a person by freeing him from prayer, truthfulness, restraint, humility, and taqwā.

Allah does not bring a heart near by making it careless with ḥalāl and ḥarām.

A sainthood that asks to be excused from obedience is not sainthood.

It is arrogance. It is a mirror in which the nafs has dressed itself as spirituality.

This story is not only about one saint in the wilderness.

It is about every human being.

Because every soul has its wilderness. A place of thirst. A place of tiredness. A place where relief is desired so deeply that the heart may become careless.

A person becomes lonely. Then a voice comes.

A person becomes admired. Then a voice comes.

A person becomes knowledgeable. Then a voice comes.

A person becomes successful. Then a voice comes.

And the voice says:

You are not like others. Your anger is justified. Your desire is understandable. Your situation is unique. Your pain gives you permission. Your knowledge gives you permission. Your status gives you permission. Your intention makes this clean. Your heart is pure, so the action does not matter.

This is how the forbidden enters politely.

It does not always enter as rebellion. Sometimes it enters as an exception.

The nafs loves exceptions.

It loves to be told:

For you, the rule is different. For you, the boundary can move. For you, the command can bend.

But the people of Allah are not saved by flattering themselves.

They are saved by refusing false permission. They are saved by saying no when the no is for Allah. They are saved by knowing that the path is not above the Messenger ﷺ, but behind him.

This is why the Qur’ānic anchor is so exact:

فَٱسْتَعِذْ بِٱللَّهِ

Seek refuge with Allah.

Not with your cleverness. Not with your spiritual reputation. Not with your years of worship. Not with your title. Not with your learning.

With Allah.

This is important because Shayṭān’s second trap came after the first one failed.

When the devil was exposed, he said to the Shaykh in meaning: You escaped me through your knowledge.This was another test.

The first test was disobedience. The second test was pride.

Many people survive the first and fall into the second. They refuse the sin, then admire themselves for refusing it. They avoid the temptation, then secretly worship their own strength. They say no to Shayṭān, then say yes to the ego.

But Shaykh ʿAbdul Qādir al-Jeelani replied in meaning: The favour and grace belong to my Lord.

This is the completion of the lesson. He rejected self-admiration after rejecting the false light.

He knew that even recognizing deception is a gift.

Even saying “aʿūdhu billāh” is a gift. Even remaining firm is a gift. Even knowledge is a gift. Even the ability to obey is a gift.

A servant does not defeat Shayṭān by becoming impressed with himself.

He is protected by Allah. And then he thanks Allah for the protection.

This story should change how we look at spirituality.

We should not be hungry for strange experiences. We should not chase lights, voices, dreams, unveilings, feelings, and states while neglecting the plain commands of Allah.

This is a great lesson for tarbiyah too.

We should teach children that a good feeling is not always a good guide. We should teach them that beauty needs truth. We should teach them that confidence needs humility. We should teach them that not every opportunity is a blessing. We should teach them that the ḥarām does not become ḥalāl because we want it, because we feel it, because everyone is doing it, or because we can explain it beautifully.

We should teach them that the strongest person is not the one who claims special treatment. The strongest person is the one who remains a servant.

The Shaykh was not saved by suspicion of Allah’s mercy. He was saved by knowing what Allah’s mercy does not look like.

Allah’s mercy does not invite us to disobey Him. Allah’s nearness does not make us arrogant. Allah’s love does not cancel the Sunnah. Allah’s gifts do not make the servant lawless.

True light makes us more obedient.

True light deepens humility.

True light brings the servant nearer to the Messenger ﷺ.

May Allah protect us from false lights.

May He protect us from voices that make sin sound spiritual.

May He protect us from the ego that wants to be an exception.

May He make the Qur’ān the judge over our feelings.

May He make the Sunnah dearer to us than our desires.

May He grant us knowledge that humbles us, worship that purifies us, and spiritual longing that never leaves the path of obedience.

May He save us from Shayṭān when he comes in darkness.

And may He save us even more when he comes dressed as light.

Āmīn.

Source note: This retelling draws on Ibn Rajab al-Ḥanbalī’s Dhayl Ṭabaqāt al-Ḥanābilah, in the entry on Shaykh ʿAbdul Qādir, where the account is transmitted from Mūsā, the son of the Shaykh. The account includes the wilderness, the thirst, the cloud, the false claim, the Shaykh’s seeking refuge, the light becoming darkness, and his explanation that he recognized the deception when the voice claimed to make the forbidden lawful. 

The Justice We Owe Those We Dislike

بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

يَا أَيُّهَا الَّذِينَ آمَنُوا

كُونُوا قَوَّامِينَ لِلَّهِ شُهَدَاءَ بِالْقِسْطِ

وَلَا يَجْرِمَنَّكُمْ شَنَآنُ قَوْمٍ عَلَىٰ أَلَّا تَعْدِلُوا

اعْدِلُوا هُوَ أَقْرَبُ لِلتَّقْوَىٰ

وَاتَّقُوا اللَّهَ

إِنَّ اللَّهَ خَبِيرٌ بِمَا تَعْمَلُونَ

Yā ayyuhā alladhīna āmanū kūnū qawwāmīna lillāhi shuhadāʾa bil-qisṭ.

Wa lā yajrimannakum shanaʾānu qawmin ʿalā allā taʿdilū.

Iʿdilū huwa aqrabu lit-taqwā.

Wa-ttaqū Allāh.

Inna Allāha khabīrun bimā taʿmalūn.

“O believers! Stand firm for Allah and bear true testimony.

Do not let the hatred of a people lead you to injustice.

Be just! That is closer to righteousness.

And be mindful of Allah.

Surely Allah is All-Aware of what you do.”

Sūrat al-Māʾidah 5:8

There are stories that expose the soul gently. And there are stories that expose it sharply.

This is one of those stories.

Not because the outward event is large. No kingdom falls. No army moves.No public trial takes place.

Only a person dislikes another person.

Only a saint notices something in his own heart.

The Prophet ﷺ appears in a dream. And suddenly a hidden fault is brought into the light.

Ibn ʿArabī tells us that he was in Tlemcen in the year 590 AH.

He had heard of a man who spoke against Shaykh Abū Madyan.

This mattered to him.

Abū Madyan was not an ordinary name in the heart of Ibn ʿArabī.

He was one of the great knowers of Allah.

One of the masters whose light had reached Ibn ʿArabī even though the two had not met physically.

Through Abū Madyan’s disciples, especially Shaykh Yūsuf al-Kūmī, Ibn ʿArabī had entered more deeply into spiritual discipline, adab, and the inner training of the soul.

So when Ibn ʿArabī heard that this man disliked Abū Madyan, something in him turned against the man.

This is understandable. Yet dangerous.

Understandable, because love has loyalty. Dangerous, because loyalty can become unjust.

That night, Ibn ʿArabī saw the Messenger of Allah ﷺ in a dream.

The Prophet ﷺ asked him: Why do you dislike this man?

Ibn ʿArabī replied: Because he dislikes Abū Madyan.

Then came the correction. Does he not love Allah and love me?

Ibn ʿArabī admitted that he did.

Then why, the Prophet ﷺ asked him, did you dislike him for disliking Abū Madyan, instead of loving him for loving Allah and His Messenger?

What a question. So simple. So piercing. So capable of ruining our false pieties.

The Prophet ﷺ did not tell Ibn ʿArabī that Abū Madyan was unimportant. He did not tell him that loyalty to the righteous has no value. He did not tell him that criticism of the awliyāʾ is harmless. But he put the matter back in its true order.

Allah first. His Messenger ﷺ next. Then every other love beneath that light.

Even the love of a saint must remain obedient to Allah. Even the defence of a teacher must remain inside justice. Even loyalty to the people of Allah must not make us unjust to someone who loves Allah and His Messenger.

This is where many hearts fail.

Not in hatred alone. But in religious hatred. 

Not in loyalty alone. But in loyalty that forgets the Scale.

A person criticises someone we love. A scholar. A teacher. A parent. A movement. A community. A lineage. A way of thinking.

And suddenly we no longer see the person.

We see only the offence. 

We forget his prayer. We forget her sincerity. We forget their tears. We forget their service. We forget their love for Allah.

We reduce a whole human being to one wound they caused us, or one wound they caused someone we honour.

This is not justice.

It may wear the clothing of loyalty. It may speak the language of truth. It may even seem like zeal.

But it is not justice.

The Qurʾān does not tell us to be just only when our hearts are calm.

It does not tell us to be just only with people we already like.

It says:

Do not let the hatred of a people lead you to injustice.

This means the real test of justice is not how we treat those we love. The real test is how we treat those we dislike. The one who agrees with us. The one who praises us. The one who honours our teachers. The one who belongs to our circle. Being fair to such a person is easy.

The harder test is the person who irritates us.

The person who has spoken wrongly. The person who has misunderstood someone dear to us. The person whose tone offends us. The person whose presence awakens an old hurt.

Can we still see their good? Can we still admit their love of Allah? Can we still refuse to lie about them? Can we still keep the Scale straight?

This is the moral secret of the story.

The Prophet ﷺ did not allow Ibn ʿArabī to make Abū Madyan greater than the command of Allah.

This is love with adab.

To love the awliyāʾ without turning them into excuses for injustice. To defend truth without betraying truth. To honour our teachers without making our teachers into walls between us and fairness.

A teacher of Allah would not want to be defended through disobedience to Allah. A saint of Allah would not want his name to become a reason for ugliness in the heart. The friends of Allah are not honoured by our cruelty. They are honoured when we become more truthful, more merciful, more just, more awake.

When Ibn ʿArabī awoke, he did not merely admire the dream.

He acted.

This is important.

Some people collect spiritual experiences. The people of sincerity are corrected by them. He took a valuable gift and went to the man’s house. He told him what had happened.

The man wept.

He accepted the gift. And he understood that the dream was also a warning for him.

Because he, too, had a wound.

Ibn ʿArabī wanted to know why this man disliked Abū Madyan. The answer was painfully human. He had once been with Abū Madyan in Béjaïa. It was ʿĪd al-Aḍḥā. Sacrificial animals had come to Abū Madyan. Abū Madyan distributed them among his companions. But he gave nothing to this man.

That was it.

A missed portion. A forgotten share. A wound of not being included. And from that wound grew criticism.

How many grand objections begin like this?

Not from truth. But from injury. Not from principle. But from feeling unseen. Not from careful judgement. But from the memory of being passed over.

A person says, “I am only concerned for truth.” But beneath the concern there may be an old humiliation.

A person says, “I am only warning people.” But beneath the warning there may be envy.

A person says, “I am only defending the Sunnah.” But beneath the defence there may be a need to win.

A person says, “I am only being honest.” But beneath the honesty there may be the pleasure of wounding.

This does not mean every criticism is false.

No.

Truth must remain truth. Wrong must remain wrong.

But the heart must be examined. Because the nafs can hide inside noble sentences.

It can turn a personal wound into a public principle. It can turn resentment into scholarship. It can turn jealousy into advice. It can turn disappointment into doctrine.

This is why the story corrects both men.

Ibn ʿArabī is corrected for disliking a man because of his dislike of Abū Madyan.

The other man is corrected for allowing an old wound to become dislike of Abū Madyan.

One heart is trapped by excessive loyalty. The other by old resentment.

Both need the Prophet ﷺ. Both need the Qurʾānic Scale. Both need justice.

There is something deeply merciful here.

The dream did not humiliate them publicly. It healed them privately.

The correction did not make Ibn ʿArabī smaller. It made him greater.

Because true greatness is not never being wrong. True greatness is accepting correction when Allah sends it.

Some people defend their mistakes because their image matters more than their soul.

Ibn ʿArabī repented immediately. He did not say: But my intention was good.

He did not say: But I was defending a saint.

He did not say: But the other man started it.

He said, in meaning: I slipped. I was heedless. Now I repent.

This is the speed of the sincere.

They do not negotiate with guidance. They return.

And this is a lesson for us.

We live in a time of camps. Religious camps. Political camps. Family camps. School camps. Intellectual camps. Even spiritual camps.

Each camp has its heroes. Each camp has its enemies. Each camp has its approved language. Each camp has its forbidden names.

And once someone is placed outside the circle, we give ourselves permission.

Permission to exaggerate. Permission to mock. Permission to ignore their good. Permission to attribute the worst motives. Permission to turn one mistake into their whole identity.

But Allah does not allow the Scale to tilt because our group is offended. Allah does not allow injustice because our teacher was criticised. Allah does not allow falsehood because our feelings are hurt.

Allah says:

Be just. That is closer to taqwā.

The Qurʾān is not interested in slogans that do not survive emotion.

It wants justice at the moment hatred rises.

It wants truth when the nafs has a reason to bend it.

It wants taqwā when the heart has been provoked.

The story of Ibn ʿArabī in Tlemcen is not only about one man and one saint.

It is about every heart that loves something good and then uses that love badly. It is about every wound that grows into judgement. It is about every loyalty that needs to be purified. It is about the danger of becoming unjust while thinking we are defending the righteous.

So let us ask ourselves:

Who is our Abū Madyan? Whose honour makes us lose balance? Which teacher, group, idea, institution, or memory do we defend so fiercely that we forget justice?

And who is our al-Ṭarṭūsī?

Whom have we reduced to one fault? Whose love for Allah have we ignored because they offended someone we love? Whose good have we hidden because their criticism hurt us?

These are not small questions.

They are questions of taqwā.

May Allah protect us from injustice disguised as loyalty.

May He protect us from resentment disguised as principle.

May He protect us from defending the people of Allah in ways that displease Allah.

May He make our love for our teachers obedient to our love for the Messenger ﷺ.

May He make our love for the Messenger ﷺ obedient to our love for Allah.

May He give us eyes that see the good even in those who wound us.

May He give us hearts that repent quickly when corrected.

May He keep the Scale straight in our hands, our words, our homes, our schools, and our communities.

And may He never allow our hatred of people, or our love of people, to lead us away from justice.

Āmīn.

Source note:  

The retelling draws mainly on Ibn ʿArabī’s al-Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya, chapter 560, where he places the dream in Tlemcen in 590 AH, says he disliked a man for speaking against Abū Madyan, reports the Prophet’s ﷺ correction, and then describes visiting the man with a gift; the same passage gives the man’s reason for resentment: in Béjaïa, sacrificial animals were distributed among Abū Madyan’s companions, but he received nothing. (The Single Monad Model of the Cosmos) Claude Addas identifies the man as Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-Ṭarṭūsī and notes the Tlemcen setting in 590/1194, citing al-Durra al-fākhira and al-Futūḥāt. (Internet Archive) Addas also explains Ibn ʿArabī’s deep link with Abū Madyan: although Ibn ʿArabī did not meet him physically, Abū Madyan became one of the masters most often mentioned in the Futūḥāt, and Ibn ʿArabī came under his influence through disciples such as Shaykh Yūsuf al-Kūmī. (Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi Society)