Nafs Tricks: The Empty Shirt

Series: The Little Tricks of the Nafs

Post Three: The Empty Shirt

بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Series Qur’anic Anchor

وَنَفْسٍۢ وَمَا سَوَّىٰهَا

فَأَلْهَمَهَا فُجُورَهَا وَتَقْوَىٰهَا

قَدْ أَفْلَحَ مَن زَكَّىٰهَا

وَقَدْ خَابَ مَن دَسَّىٰهَا

Wa nafsin wa mā sawwāhā.
Fa-alhamahā fujūrahā wa taqwāhā.
Qad aflaḥa man zakkāhā.
Wa qad khāba man dassāhā.

“By the soul and the One Who fashioned it, and inspired it with its wrong and its right. Successful is the one who purifies it, and failed is the one who corrupts it.”

Sūrat ash-Shams 91:7–10

The nafs does not only seek comfort. It also seeks an identity.

It wants to say:

“This is me.” “This is my robe.” “This is my title.” “This is my achievement.” “This is my reputation.” “This is how people know me.” “This is how I know myself.”

But the Qur’an teaches us that the soul is not purified by its outer covering. Clothing has its place. A name has its place. A role has its place. A school, a family, a profession, and a reputation may all have their place.

But they are not the self.

The nafs loves to confuse the covering with the person. Once that confusion begins, the heart becomes strangely fragile.

If the covering is praised, the nafs feels praised.

If the covering is questioned, the nafs feels wounded.

If the covering is removed, the nafs feels lost.

This is the third little trick of the nafs:

It makes us live inside an empty shirt.

In the first post, the nafs wanted credit for what Allah had done. In the second, it wanted credit for words that had not become deeds. Here, it wants to mistake the outer sign for the inner self.

يَـٰبَنِىٓ ءَادَمَ قَدْ أَنزَلْنَا عَلَيْكُمْ

 لِبَاسًۭا يُوَٰرِى سَوْءَٰتِكُمْ وَرِيشًۭا ۖ

 وَلِبَاسُ ٱلتَّقْوَىٰ ذَٰلِكَ خَيْرٌۭ

Yā banī Ādama qad anzalnā ʿalaykum libāsan 

yuwārī saw’ātikum wa rīshā; 

wa libāsu at-taqwā dhālika khayr.

“O children of Adam, We have sent down to you 

clothing to cover your nakedness and as adornment. 

But the clothing of taqwā — that is best.”

Sūrat al-Aʿrāf 7:26

This verse does not condemn clothing. It does not condemn beauty. It does not tell us that the outer world has no meaning.

It tells us that clothing has a purpose.

It covers. It protects. It dignifies. It beautifies.

But then the verse lifts the heart:

وَلِبَاسُ ٱلتَّقْوَىٰ ذَٰلِكَ خَيْرٌۭ

“But the clothing of taqwā — that is best.”

There is an outer clothing, and there is an inner clothing.

The outer clothing can be bought.

The inner clothing must be lived.

The outer clothing can be admired by people.

The inner clothing is known to Allah.

The outer clothing can be praised, borrowed, torn, stolen, displayed, or lost.

The inner clothing of taqwā is what remains when the robe is gone.

This is why these Nasrudin stories matter. They are funny, but they are also mirrors. They ask us a painful question:

What have I mistaken for myself? 

 

The Shirt Shot Through the Heart

One evening, in the half-light, Nasrudin saw a white shape in the garden.

He became alarmed.

“Bring me my bow and arrows,” he called to his wife.

She brought them.

Nasrudin aimed carefully and shot at the white shape. The arrow struck it. Then he went outside to see what he had hit.

A few moments later, he came back pale and trembling.

His wife asked, “What happened?”

Nasrudin said, “That was a narrow escape.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was my shirt hanging there to dry. The arrow went straight through the heart. Just imagine — if I had been wearing it, I would have been killed.”

This is absurd.

And yet it is close to us.

Nasrudin’s shirt was pierced. Nasrudin was not pierced.

The cloth was damaged. The person was not touched.

But in his imagination, the shirt and the self had become one.

This happens to us in subtler ways.

Someone criticises our work, and we feel that our soul has been attacked.

Someone questions our opinion, and we feel that our worth has been denied.

A child disobeys, and the parent feels personally humiliated.

A student struggles, and the teacher feels his identity as a teacher has been wounded.

A school receives correction, and the adults feel as if their goodness has been shot through the heart.

But sometimes only the shirt was struck.

Not the heart.

This distinction can save us from much pain.

The shirt may need mending.
The work may need correction.
The opinion may need revision.
The plan may need changing.
The school may need reform.
The parent may need to learn.
The teacher may need to adjust.

But the soul is not destroyed because the shirt has a hole.

A person clothed in taqwā can say, “This part needs repair.”

He does not need to say, “I have been killed.” 

 

The Eagle and the Turban

Nasrudin was working outside one day. He took off his turban and placed it nearby.

An eagle swooped down, seized the turban, and flew away.

Nasrudin shouted after it:

“You foolish bird! You are lucky I was not wearing it. Otherwise you would have carried me away too.”

Again, the joke is simple.

The eagle took the turban. It did not take Nasrudin.

But in Nasrudin’s mind, the turban had become so joined to him that he imagined the bird almost carried him away.

A turban can be a sign of honour.

A robe can be a sign of office.

A uniform can be a sign of responsibility.

A title can help people know whom to ask.

These things are not necessarily wrong. But a sign becomes dangerous when we forget it is only a sign.

A person may begin by wearing a title.

Then the title begins to wear him.

A person may begin by using a role to serve.

Then the role begins to demand service from others.

A person may begin by accepting respect as a trust.

Then he begins to need respect as food.

This is where the nafs becomes fragile. Whatever gives the nafs its false life can also take that false life away.

If my self is built on being admired, criticism feels like death.

If my self is built on being obeyed, disagreement feels like rebellion.

If my self is built on being knowledgeable, a question feels like an insult.

If my self is built on being needed, someone else’s independence feels like rejection.

If my self is built on a turban, an eagle can carry me away.

But the clothing of taqwā is different.

Taqwā does not need display.

Taqwā can be present in old clothes.

Taqwā can be present in simple work.

Taqwā can be present when no one claps.

Taqwā can be present when the title is removed.

Taqwā can be present when the eagle flies away with the turban, and the person remains quietly himself before Allah. 

 

Who Am I?

Nasrudin once travelled with a caravan.

Before sleeping, he worried that in the morning he might not recognise himself among all the sleeping travellers.

So he tied a string of eggplants around his neck.

“This way,” he thought, “I will know who I am.”

During the night, a joker removed the eggplants from Nasrudin and tied them around another man.

In the morning, Nasrudin woke up and looked for the eggplants. He saw them around the other man’s neck.

He stared in confusion.

Then he said:

“If that is Nasrudin, then who am I?”

This is one of the deepest of the foolish stories.

Nasrudin had given his identity to something outside himself. When the marker moved, the self became confused.

How often do we do the same?

I am the successful one.
I am the educated one.
I am the mother.
I am the father.
I am the teacher.
I am the leader.
I am the generous one.
I am the wounded one.
I am the clever one.
I am the one who is always right.
I am the one who has suffered most.

Some of these descriptions may be partly true. But they are not the whole self. They are not the soul before Allah. They are not the deepest truth of a person.

They are eggplants on a string.

Useful perhaps for a moment.

Dangerous if mistaken for the self.

Allah says:

وَلَا تَكُونُوا۟ كَٱلَّذِينَ نَسُوا۟ ٱللَّهَ فَأَنسَىٰهُمْ أَنفُسَهُمْ

Wa lā takūnū ka-alladhīna nasū Allāha fa-ansāhum anfusahum.

“Do not be like those who forgot Allah, so He made them forget themselves.”

Sūrat al-Ḥashr 59:19

This is a frightening verse.

Forgetting Allah leads to forgetting the self.

Not because Allah is far from the self, but because without Allah we no longer know what the self is for.

We begin to define ourselves by what changes.

By possessions. By praise. By pain. By clothing. By work. By nationality. By school. By family name. By exam results. By social position. By who needs us. By who hurt us. By what we can show.

Then, when the marker moves, we become lost.

Who am I if I am no longer praised? Who am I if my child fails? Who am I if my work is not recognised? Who am I if I am not needed? Who am I if the role is taken? Who am I if the eggplants are around someone else’s neck?

The answer cannot come from the eggplants.

It must come from returning to Allah.

I am a servant of Allah. I am entrusted. I am tested. I am needy. I am answerable. I am honoured only by what Allah honours.

And the best clothing is taqwā. 

 

The Robe

Nasrudin once lent his robe to a friend.

They walked together through the village.

When they met someone, Nasrudin introduced his companion:

“This is my friend. And the robe he is wearing is mine.”

His friend was annoyed.

“Please do not mention the robe,” he said.

Nasrudin apologised.

A little later, they met another man.

Nasrudin said, “This is my friend. And I will not say anything about the robe.”

His friend glared at him.

Nasrudin apologised again.

Soon they met a third person.

Nasrudin tried very hard.

“This is my friend,” he said. “Whether the robe is his or mine is not important.”

The robe had not left Nasrudin’s mind.

Even when he tried not to mention it, he mentioned it.

Even when he tried to be generous, he wanted the generosity to be known.

Even when he tried to let go, he wanted people to know what he had let go of.

This is another small trick of the nafs.

The nafs can give something and still keep ownership of the praise.

It can lend the robe and then make the whole meeting about the robe.

It can serve and then keep reminding people of the service.

It can sacrifice and then make others live under the shadow of the sacrifice.

It can forgive and then keep announcing the forgiveness.

It can say, “It does not matter,” while proving that it still matters very much.

Sometimes we think we have let go because our hands are empty.

But the heart may still be holding tightly.

So the question is not only: Did I give?

The question is:

Did I give, and become free?

Did I serve, and not demand a throne?

Did I apologise, and not expect applause?

Did I forgive, and not keep the person imprisoned in my story?

Did I lend the robe, or did I only move it from my body into my ego?

This is where taqwā becomes the inner clothing. Taqwā asks what people cannot always see.

It asks what the heart is doing while the hands are doing good.

 

Why We Are Here

One day, Nasrudin saw a group of horsemen approaching in the distance.

He became afraid.

Perhaps they were enemies.
Perhaps they were thieves.
Perhaps they had come for him.

His imagination ran faster than the horses.

So Nasrudin ran away and hid in an open grave.

The horsemen saw him running. They had not been chasing him, but now they became curious.

Why was this man running?

So they followed him.

They found him lying in the grave.

“What are you doing here?” they asked.

Nasrudin looked at them and said:

“That depends on how you look at it. I am here because of you, and you are here because of me.”

This is a sharp story.

Fear created the scene.

Nasrudin saw horsemen.

Then fear added a story.

The story made him run.

His running made the horsemen follow.

Their following became proof that there had been something to fear.

This happens often.

A person fears being disliked, so he behaves strangely. People keep their distance, and he says, “See, they dislike me.”

A leader fears being challenged, so he becomes controlling. People resist, and he says, “See, they are rebellious.”

A parent fears the child will fail, so he removes every difficulty. The child becomes weak, and the parent says, “See, the child cannot manage.”

A community fears criticism, so it hides its mistakes. Trust is damaged, and the community says, “See, people are against us.”

Fear can create what it fears.

This is why Allah says:

فَإِنَّهَا لَا تَعْمَى ٱلْأَبْصَـٰرُ وَلَـٰكِن تَعْمَى ٱلْقُلُوبُ ٱلَّتِى فِى ٱلصُّدُورِ

Fa-innahā lā taʿmā al-abṣār, wa lākin taʿmā al-qulūbu allatī fī aṣ-ṣudūr.

“It is not the eyes that become blind, but the hearts within the chests that become blind.”

Sūrat al-Ḥajj 22:46

Nasrudin’s eyes saw horsemen.

His heart saw danger.

The eyes saw shapes.

The frightened heart made a world.

This is why the inner life matters. A heart full of fear will misread people. A heart full of pride will misread correction. A heart full of envy will misread another person’s success. A heart full of suspicion will misread silence. A heart full of self-importance will misread service.

The world we see is often mixed with the state of the heart that sees it.

So the question is not only: What happened?

The question is also: What did my heart add to what happened?

  

The Qur’anic Mirror

Allah says:

وَلِبَاسُ ٱلتَّقْوَىٰ ذَٰلِكَ خَيْرٌۭ

“But the clothing of taqwā — that is best.”

Sūrat al-Aʿrāf 7:26

The shirt may be pierced. The turban may be carried away. The eggplants may be moved. The robe may belong to someone else. The horsemen may not be enemies.

But taqwā remains the best clothing.

Taqwā teaches us where the self truly stands.

Not before the crowd. Not before the mirror. Not before the title. Not before the reputation.

But before Allah.

This is why the believer must not build the self on things that can be moved by a prankster, torn by an arrow, stolen by a bird, borrowed by a friend, or distorted by fear.

The outer garment is temporary. The inner garment is what matters.

And even the inner garment is not ours to boast about.

It is a mercy from Allah.

We ask for it. We guard it. We repair it when it is torn. We do not use it to look down on others.

Because the moment a person becomes proud of his taqwā, he has already stained it.

 

Where This Appears in Us

These stories are not about old fools in old villages.

They are about us.

They are about the child who thinks his marks are his worth. They are about the parent who thinks a child’s behaviour is a public verdict on the parent. They are about the teacher who cannot receive feedback because the lesson plan has become the self. They are about the leader who cannot apologise because the title has become the heart. They are about the generous person who gives the robe, then keeps asking everyone to notice the robe. They are about the religious person who wears the signs of piety but has not clothed the heart in taqwā. They are about the fearful person who runs from imagined enemies and then wonders why people are following.

They are about anyone who has forgotten that Allah sees beneath the cloth.

A school can also make this mistake.

It can mistake its building for education. Its uniform for discipline. Its assemblies for community. Its values board for character. Its reputation for goodness. Its language for truth. Its programme for transformation.

These things may help. They may even be necessary. But they are not the heart.

The real questions are quieter:

Are the children becoming more truthful? Are the adults becoming more just? Are the strong learning to protect the weak? Are mistakes being corrected without crushing the person? Are we serving Allah, or only protecting an image?

Are we wearing the clothing of taqwā, or only arranging the outer garment?

 

Closing Reflection

Nasrudin’s shirt was empty, but he imagined himself inside it.

The eagle took a turban, but he imagined it nearly took him.

The eggplants moved, and he forgot who he was.

The robe was lent, but his ego kept wearing it.

The horsemen approached, and fear created the story.

This is the work of the nafs.

It joins the self to what is not the self. Then it suffers when that thing is touched. It joins the self to clothes, names, roles, achievements, wounds, praise, fear, and reputation.

Then it says: If this is damaged, I am damaged. If this is questioned, I am threatened. If this is lost, I am lost.

But the Qur’an calls us deeper.

The best clothing is taqwā.

Not the shirt. Not the robe. Not the turban. Not the label. Not the reputation. Not the role.

Taqwā.

This is the final movement in these little tricks of the nafs.

First, the nafs says, “Because of me.” Then it says, “My words are enough.” Then it says, “My covering is me.”

So we return to Allah before the trick becomes our life.

Yā Allah, do not let us mistake the covering for the soul.

Do not let us build ourselves on what can be stolen, praised, torn, borrowed, or moved.

Do not let fear become the interpreter of our lives.

Do not let our service become self-display.

Do not let our roles swallow our servanthood.

Clothe our hearts with taqwā.

Let us wear the outer garments with dignity, but never worship them.

Let us repair what needs repair without feeling destroyed.

Let us give without remaining secretly attached.

Let us remember You, so that we do not forget ourselves.

Āmīn. 

Source Note

These are teaching stories from the Sufi and Islamic wisdom tradition. They should be shared as adab stories, not as hadith, unless a story has a clear Qur’anic or hadith source. Nasrudin/Nasruddin stories often work through humour: the joke opens the door, but the lesson is deeper than the joke.