Chapter 6

"Allah is as His slave expects Him to be."

His words struck deep.

It was only then that I'd realised that deep down I'd always held a simmering sense of resentment towards the hand that destiny - that Allah - had dealt me. Always, tucked away in a little corner of my heart like a glowing ember of ash, I'd expected the worst. I'd fully resigned myself to living as an outcast, flung far from any sense of human warmth, and so that's what Allah had created for me, shaping my reality to the my heart's wrong actions. Always, I'd entertained that niggling doubt that Allah would let me down in any endeavour that I pursued, and it was precisely that that He'd created for me. I'd made the choice, and Allah had created for me the consequences of my choice.

We walked, Musa and I, as free men, entering the stream of people that poured into the souk, the shimmering mid-day heat ringing with the calls of the traders and the protests of the hagglers. Fractured sunlight glinted off the wares spread out on the various stalls, streaking up through the flawlessly blue, cloudless sky, as we were drenched with a wave of noise, eager and merry.

The scene opened up in my eyes and I viewed it afresh - no longer did I see it as a chaotic mix of random actions that were to be feared or that could prick me with the itch of irritation; no, now I saw it - and the world - for what it truly was - the manifestation of the acts of Allah. It was Allah who created these needs in his Creation, and it was He that created the means for those needs to be fulfilled. It was a simple thought, and one that took root in my heart. Everything that I saw before me - the sun and its heat and light, the people with their needs waiting to be fulfilled, the traders who earned their livelihood by fulfilling those needs, everything was nothing more than the manifestation of His acts of Generosity and Mercy.

"You’re learning," Musa said as he tugged on my shirt, pulling me into a line of people waiting in front of a rust stained water pump. The earth around the pump was drenched, the air stinging with the tang of metal. A young boy waited on it, his fingers crimson and raw as he pushed down on the lever. The line was long and I was suddenly aware of my parched throat and the sweat that made my tunic cling to my back. My head spun for a heartbeat, my eyes glancing down the line. Most of the people shuffled impatiently, their sandals scuffing the earth. Some growled, others spat out irritated curses. One or two jostled with each other, their eyes burning with anger, their faces flushed scarlet.

A creeping sense of dismay curled around my heart, threatening to drag it down. I wallowed in the emotion for a moment - and then stopped. Closing my eyes, I let out a deep breath, then focused my heart on the reality of the situation. Allah had created my need for water, He'd created the means for my thirst to be slaked, He'd created this line for me to stand in, and so, if I succumbed to anger, how could I be angry at these people who - along with their actions - were nothing more than His creations, too?

A sense of peace flowed through me, relaxing my limbs. I pondered further - if Allah had created all this, then, out of His Generosity and Mercy, He could create an opening for me to get my water sooner. I repeated the words like a mantra, focusing my whole being upon them. Allah, in His Generosity and Mercy, could create for me an opening... Allah, in His Generosity and Mercy, could create for me an opening... Allah, in His Generosity and Mercy, could create for me-

"Water, sir?" I opened my eyes to find a small girl, a grin spread across her soft features, holding up a small leather pouch, clear water jostling inside and sometimes spilling over the edge.

"May Allah reward you," I murmured as I let myself be submerged under the wave of gratitude I now felt. I took the pouch, brought it to my lips, then let the cool water tingle my lips, and then handed it over to Musa, who took one sip before giving it back to the girl. The child's grin grew wider, and she skipped away happily.

I glanced up to catch Musa observing me with a lop-sided grin. "As simple as that?" I asked.

He gave a small nod. "As simple as that."

I stretched my neck to look down the line. "But the others..."

He shushed me with a gesture. "Dear boy, you’re not listening," he said, though his tone was warm, not scolding. "Allah promised that He is as His servant thinks He is." He thrust a thumb back at the others. "They didn’t hope in Allah's Generosity and you did - so Allah created for them one reality, while He created for you the true reality."

Finally I knew why Musa had been so calm back at the Governor's palace - he'd always expected the best from Allah and it was that that had won us our freedom. I knew a moment of pride as that realisation came to me, but then I saw Musa regard me with a sharp glance.

"It was Allah who created that knowledge in you," he said softly, "so there’s nothing to be conceited about. Instead, all that’s left for you is gratitude."

He was right, and it was that overwhelming sense of thankfulness that bubbled then fountained into my heart just then. And, for the first time in a very very long time, I felt a true, genuine smile spread across my lips. How could anyone worry when their Lord was so Generous and Merciful? I felt like laughing, I wanted to proclaim to the world the joy that was cleansing my soul just then.

A horse-drawn cart trundled into our path, its wooden frame shuddering with the effort, the round, ripe vegetables it bore giving off a grassy scent. There was a sudden snap, like a whip cracking the air, then a panicked shout. The horse broke free from the cart, reared up on its back legs, then broke into a run. I knew a jolt of pure shock as I saw the animal bear down on me, saw its eyes burn red, saw its snout flare. Fear and horror fought for dominance in my mind, but somewhere deep inside my panicked heart frantically repeated the following thoughts - Allah created the horse, created its actions, He can divert it from me, He can divert it from me, Hecandivertitfrom-

At the very last moment, the horse veered away from me, and I flung myself to the ground, choking on dust and feeling my skin burn against the sun-drenched earth. I lay there for a while, panting, my heart thudding wildly in my chest. I just wanted to stay there, clinging to solid ground, but then I felt a pair of arms - Musa's no doubt - pull me up.

I opened my eyes and looked at my friend. "As simple as that?" I asked weakly.

He flashed me a grin and laughed. I felt myself tremble then, as though a knot had been untied in my soul, a chuckle flew free from my mouth, before erupting into a laugh. It wasn't long before the two of us, oblivious to the stares we were receiving, were engulfed in howls of amusement.

My eyes, their vision blurred with tears of joy, fell upon a masjid, its marble form glistening as it caught the sun's ray, its minaret spearing the sky, crowned as it was by a ring of clouds. I looked at my friend. "There’s something I have to do."

Musa simply nodded, offering no questions. I asked him, "The Prophet, upon him be blessings and peace, said that he who prays two rak'ats and asks Allah for forgiveness, then Allah will forgive him." I paused to swallow. "Is this true?"

Musa's eyes twinkled. "It is."

"But-"

He held up a hand. "There is no 'but,'" he said quickly. "If the Prophet said it, then it's true." Again, as though reading my thoughts, he added, "No matter how many wrong actions you have. In the sea of Allah's Mercy, your sins are nothing but a speck of dirt."

I turned towards the masjid, relief tingling me once more. He is as His servant thinks He is. Such a simple phrase, one that I'd heard so many times, but I'd never let it take a firm handhold in my heart. Could it be that the ummah was beset with enemies just because we'd forgotten that simple teaching? The shade of the masjid fell upon me, cooling my skin instantly. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the sudden loss of light. Salat-al-Tawba and a good opinion of my Lord, that's all I needed.

"And obedience." It was Musa. I hadn't even heard him follow me in. I gave him a quizzical glance. "And obedience," he continued. "But know that it's Allah who creates your good deeds, out of His Generosity and out of His desire to fulfil for you your purpose - that you were created to worship Him. It's your nafs that chooses wrong actions, that takes you away from that purpose, and that's why tawba is necessary, but never feel that you own your good deeds; it's as I said - just Allah fulfilling your purpose."

"So, all I have..."

"...is gratitude." Musa smiled his familiar smile. "Gratitude that He chose you to as one of those whom He uses for the reason they were created." His fingers curled around my arm and, even through my tunic, I felt the cool touch of his skin. "He chose you not because of anything you did, or because you deserve it, He chose you simply out of His Love for you, just like He enters people into His Jannah, not because of what they did - since He created what they did - but because of His Mercy. He chooses from His Love and He turns away others out of His Wisdom. Once you realise this, you realise slavehood, and a slave is always grateful to a Generous Master." I felt tears prick my eyes and took in a deep, trembling breath.

As though noticing my discomfort, the muqaddam glanced up at the sky, and added, "Do what you need to do." He turned away. "After the dhuhr prayer, we leave to fulfil the task placed upon us."