29th May, 2020
Narrated Abu Huraira: A man said to the Prophet (ﷺ), "Advise me! "The Prophet (ﷺ) said, "Do not become angry and furious." The man asked (the same) again and again, and the Prophet (ﷺ) said in each case, "Do not become angry and furious." (Bukhaari)
Chapter 15:
Breaking Through Anger
Fatima smiled, looking at her tattered copy of the Qur'an, knowing how blessed she was for His Words to reside in her heart. She was a hafidh for almost fifteen years, yet she couldn't forget those moments when she used to cry out of sadness when it became too hard. She couldn't forget how she clutched her copy of the Qur'an every last third of the night, when everyone slept, wishing for the words to lighten her soul.
Nobody knew it, not even Samir. And she wondered for the hundredth time what his reaction would be if she told him. Now that she was thinking in daylight, the istikhaara prayer showed her the only way to happiness; accepting Samir's proposal. But still, there were many things he did not know about her, she wondered if they mattered as much as the importance she was giving them.
After all, his love for me isn't a simple one. She thought. It goes above the skies, it spreads as far and wide as the vast lands of Jannah.
She knew that. But above all of that, she couldn't help but wonder if they really were compatible. Perhaps it was the part of her brain which had seen too much reality that was speaking. But she believed him, so much so that she wondered if she was doing it right. He would take care of her like he had done for so many years, he was a careful person. But something he had once revealed left her worried, more for him than for herself...
"Samir?" Fatima looked towards him.
"Hmm?" He replied, popping a jamun plum in his mouth.
Fatima halted, the look on his eleven-year-old face making shadows in the sun. She wondered if she had the authority to ask him a question she had forever been curious about.
"What, Fatima?" He prompted her, as she looked around nervously.
"Promise me you won't get mad." She uttered, making him raise an eyebrow.
"Okay, I promise." He said anyway, then chuckled at her apparent relief.
"How did your parents die?" She asked.
"Aah..." He sighed, leaning back against the large tree. She couldn't see any trace of anger, only remorse, or perhaps sadness. "I was waiting for you to ask me that."
"Really?" She almost smiled. "You can tell me without me asking too, you know?"
"Yeah, but this is different." He shrugged. "I could've been long dead with them, then I'd never know you and you'd never know me." He felt a little guilty at the expression on her face. "I mean, I didn't want to think about not knowing you."
"I don't know what I'd do without you." She declared, a little aghast at the idea.
He laughed, suddenly wondering what the texture of her brownish-black hair was. It looked splendid in the sun, not to mention how the breeze seemed to make her ponytail sway back and forth gently. Like a boat out on a calm lake, voyaging with the waves within his heart.
"So how did they die?" She asked again, adamant on getting an answer.
"It was the night of the first of Ramadhan, we finished taraweeh and went to sleep." Samir started. "I was five, it was going to be the first Ramadhan I would be fasting... but nothing happened like how I planned it..."
Gunshots riddled the air, but perhaps it was his sister's scream that woke him up. It sounded far scarier than anything he had ever heard; a blood-curdling echo of terror and desperation, of doom and hopelessness. It had awoken Samir from the joyful dreams his mind had been painting.
He rushed to his door and peeked around it, half-scared and half-curious. "Perhaps she's playing one of her jokes again." The five year old mind spoke. But he knew it was more than that, he knew it before the two men walked into view, simply pointed their weapons at his sister and drenched her in blood before her screams extinguished.
Samir had a strong urge to run towards his elder sister, but he was smarter than that. His eyes bore into the scene before him, memorising every detail it had to offer. And when he realised that they were looking to kill whoever was left, he tiptoed to his bed and lay down as if he hadn't witnessed anything.
"Aah, look at this one." One of the men cackled, pushing the door open wider. "He's been sleeping through the zombie apocalypse."
"Let him be, he's just a child." The other one said.
"The one you just shot was a child too." Came the reply.
"This one's too young, and he's not a witness." The man said. "If he saw us, he'd be hiding under his bed, look at his position."
But if they had touched him, they would've found his hands cold, because he could feel his heartbeat on his fingertips. Samir was hardly able to keep still, shaking violently with fear, yet somehow, they hadn't noticed it at all.
"What benefit would it give you?" The question was asked.
"I'll keep tabs on him... We never know what the future holds."
"That's what he said." Samir told Fatima. "I don't think he would bother though..."
"But... why would they kill your parents?" Fatima asked, worry evident on her face. "Why would anybody do that?"
"I don't know, Fatima." Samir replied. "I'm so angry at them, I don't know a lot of things."
Fatima could only wish that nobody had kept tabs on him, for marrying him would mean getting herself involved, which meant getting Khadijah involved. She didn't want Khadijah to be dragged into a mess, even if her love for Samir was greater than life itself. Khadijah was an amaanah entrusted to her by her Lord, and she would never pick herself over her daughter.
He wouldn't want you to do that either. A voice spoke in her head. He wouldn't ask for your hand in marriage if there was potential danger.
However, unbeknownst to her, a message arrived on Samir's phone, rendering him confused.
Unknown [07:48 PM]: The last living son of Al-Hudaify household stands taller in society than I had anticipated. Congratulations on your intelligence, perhaps I miscalculated it when you escaped death.
***
Laeeq Abdullah ran into the driveway that led to his house, the pre-breakfast jog gone exceedingly well. He couldn't remember the last time he had taken a holiday for himself from the hospital. He couldn't even remember the last time he had eaten all three meals at home. His mother had made it a point that he takes at least a week's leave until he was eased into fasting for Ramadhan. It would be his last jog for a month if Taraweeh was announced that night.
Partly why he'd taken a week's holiday was because of Samir. Fatima could say "yes" anytime, and Samir working Laeeq's extra hours now could mean his leave request wouldn't be rejected for the wedding. Another reason, though he wished it wouldn't matter to him as much as it seemed to, was Leila Muhammad. The poor girl hadn't done anything, it was him who was caught in a quicksand with all her no-nonsense talk and effortless good manners.
Another reason, the bigger one, was that his mother was adamant on making everything right between Laeeq and his father. There was nothing wrong as such, but that incident had left him hanging on the hinges of his household. Perhaps that's why he was skeptical when his mind took him to Leila, he didn't know what he was even doing there. He felt like he should go around with a red sticker on his forehead that announced danger, because he wasn't sure how much wrong he was capable of doing, and he didn't want to find out.
His biggest weakness had always been his heart, and he knew it looked like a treasure to most. But that was hardly the case, his wrongs could be counted in negatives. He had tried so hard over the years to set himself right, to earn the deeds he needed. He couldn't let himself off track again, especially when it was about someone like Leila Muhammad. She was too pure and innocent for him to "try" his shot with her. He wouldn't be able to bear the guilt if something happened to her too.
Because eight years ago, on the eve of Ramadhan, death had knocked on the door of two souls he had cherished.
It was because of him, that much was hinted at by the note left behind.
Laeeq felt sick everytime he thought about her. It had driven a wedge between him and his father when the police had knocked on his door. Then onwards, he had repelled the feeling with a certain rudeness he wished he wasn't a captive of. His trust in love had evaporated, and he was adamant it would stay that way for as long as possible. He was too inexperienced, and shamefully terrible at handling the emotion.
The loose gravel crunched under his shoes as he slowed to a brisk walk on the grey path that led to his house. The tamarind trees in the corner swayed in the breeze, overshadowing his mother's garden. He wondered what Leila would say about the plants if she ever visited, and if she would want to plant her own. Like the seeds she had done unknowingly planted in his heart... It was understatement to say that they had sprouted the most beautiful flowers.
He was sometimes frustrated at how he felt, she kept messing with his thinking. It wasn't like he wasn't trying, but avoiding his own thoughts was a big task. When he thought he had succeeded, his mind showed him just how easily it could bring all those feelings back. The purple hijabi got you tongue-tied, huh? His mind would smirk.
Truth be told, she was too nice not to be liked, even by her enemies, if they existed. That was one of the characteristics of the Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ), whose enemies described him as the best of men. And it wasn't really his fault if she possessed a smile that lit up the universe, right?
This isn't love. He kept telling himself, because he had a tendency to keep doing that. This is just attachment; an unhealthy one. Forget her love for knowledge, forget her virtues and talents, forget all the good you've seen her doing. But is it better to forget her influence? Is it better to ignore that she has helped you overcome hurdles in your mind? Does she not deserve a word of thanks? Or perhaps the honour in your heart? Should you not be grateful for the flowers she has planted in your soul?
She was not her. Leila Muhammad functioned on the principles of sabr, tawakkul and Du'a. She wouldn't give up on him like the girl last time, right? Wasn't it with a try if she reminded him of the women of Jannah?
"And that's the difference between tax exemption and tax deduction." Leila spoke, underlining the words on a printed paper as Laeeq, Joseph and Lily looked at it blankly.
"I still don't get it." Laeeq shook his head.
"Me neither." Joseph spoke.
"Okay..." Leila chuckled. "You just have to sign on this, I've got it understood here." She pointed at her brain.
"Yeah, but we should know what it's about too, right?" Lily questioned.
"She's been trying to tell us though." Laeeq interjected.
"I honestly thought doctors knew everything." Leila leaned back in her chair, she had been explaining for more than twenty minutes now. "Ever since I was young, I was amazed at how they could know the secrets of what we ate if we have a stomach-ache."
"Not really." Lily grinned. "Maybe Laeeq is a bit smarter than usual because cardiologists like physics, but the rest of us are just fact-finders."
"But it's a well-known fact that we hate numbers and everything to do with it." Laeeq said, making Leila narrow her eyes at them.
"My aunty is a doctor and she loves calculus." Joseph pointed out, raising an eyebrow.
"The point is, we're all human enough to not be smart in all areas of evolution." Laeeq said gently. "We can't all be exceptions, right?" Laeeq used her words. He could almost swear he'd seen her eyes dancing with amusement before she handed him a pen to end the conversation. And he looked away, wondering what had possessed him to say such a thing in front of her.
It wasn't that he couldn't form his own words, but he had grown afraid of them. He had been a great poet once upon a time, so great that it lured people to death.
"What actually happened?" Samir had asked him one day, raising an eyebrow at a piece of Laeeq's poetry that was written years ago.
"I'm not very sure." Laeeq had responded.
He scrolled down in his notes, arriving at the verses that had elicited the reaction from Samir. Laeeq could only sigh at the meaning behind each word.
It's more bitter than the pause after poetry
Like ruffling the pages of my heart for over a century
Walking past secrets I haven't yet discovered
Only to reach heights, you flew, with the Jannah bird
It's like how the sun brightens, but burns
Focused, yet vast, like how my mind learns
If I had known how much I now know
I would've sealed me before you could sow
Laeeq had no intention of collecting his old broken self anymore. He wasn't thrilled to have lived through it, and would prefer not to be reminded of it. Even if that meant ceasing his poetry into mere thoughts that drifted away from him. He had let go of it all. As his forefinger hovered over the delete button of the entire file on his phone, he realised there was one more thing he had to clarify.
What would Leila say? He wondered. Should I delete it all, Miss Leila? Forget that I existed in a storm that I created on my own? Forget this anger?
Last week, when the hospital's biggest sterilizer was undergoing maintenance, Laeeq and his colleagues had set up a bubbling bath of distilled water to disinfect surgical instruments. It was well hidden behind a tall hedge, but that was probably why Leila thought there was nobody besides the ten year old girl who was fuming.
"I hate them all." The girl huffed. "I hate every single one of them."
"Whom are you talking about, Halimah?" Leila's soft voice floated through the hedge.
"The doctors. The nurses." Halimah spoke accusingly.
"Why?" Leila asked.
"They've saved my uncle from dying." Halimah said in a low whisper. "They've created more problems for my family. He doesn't let my father do fair business, you know, Leila Di?" The girl looked at her friend. "He always does wrong things and blames it on my father."
A moment of silence followed, and Laeeq looked through the branches and leaves to make sure they hadn't yet left.
"Tell me, Halimah, how are your Qur'an classes going?" Leila asked.
"Huh?" The child questioned confusedly.
"When someone is irrationally angry, we must look at their status with the Qur'an." Leila told her.
"Am I irrationally angry?" Halimah asked truthfully. "I just think that when somebody's time to die has come, we shouldn't stop them. Whoever does is at fault."
"Where did you learn that?" Leila asked in alarm.
"My mother always says so" Halimah said timidly.
"If you saw somebody throw stones at a bird because it's eating their tree's fruit, would you get angry?" Leila chose her words carefully.
"Yes."
"Don't you think it is natural that you help the bird get better? Regardless of why it got hurt?"
"Yes."
"Don't you think people should help each other if they get hurt, regardless of the reason?"
"Maybe..."
"Would you like it if the bird died? Even if it was eating from your garden? Would you feel at ease if you knew that you could've helped, but didn't?"
"No. I would be sad."
"Exactly. The doctors and nurses have no fault, they help people because everybody deserves a second chance. It is only Allah who decides when death arrives for a soul." Leila clarified.
"Then should I be angry at Allah?" The girl asked. "Would that make it rational?"
Leila laughed.
"Oh habibti, He does not harm, remember that." Leila spoke. "There is wisdom behind every cloud that moves, every ant that crawls. Maybe it is too grand for us to realise, but it is there. It's going to be okay."
"Then I have no one to be angry at!" Halimah's shoulders drooped.
"The Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ) advised us not to become angry and furious." Leila said gently. "But there is one thing you can do; pray and make du'a."
"Will it be better than being angry?"
"Yes. A million times better." Leila spoke. "Anger gets us nowhere. Instead, seek forgiveness and make du'a."
Laeeq felt like she was speaking right at him when she said that. He had a tendency to get angry at his past self for being so incalculative. When he did, he got angry with everyone around him; it tired him out.
"How do I unload this?" His heart had asked, tired of the burden. "How do I forget and delete?"
For years, after what seemed like an eternity, after wandering bitterly in the dark for hours, he had finally found the answer to his question in her words.
"Pray, oh servant of Allah. In the last third of every night, when cities are blanketed with heaviness. Pray, when Laylatul Qadr arrives at your doorstep, and the sky welcomes you, twinkling with blessings. Pray, when it rains on the lands of Al-Maalik, soothing your soul like dewdrops on the petals of roses and jasmines. Pray, in the last hour of Asr on Fridays, before the glorious descent of the sun. And make du'a, for miracles lie only a few words away."
She had specified that she wasn't a writer several times, but her words seemed to loosen the chains around his heart. Like she had found a way of setting him free; through sabr and tawakkul.
He confidently pressed the delete button on his phone, and a new wave of euphoric calmness settled in his veins. By mistake, his thumb touched on the record button and he blinked for a moment before an idea sparked in his head.
"May Allah reward you for all the goodness you leave for others, Miss. Leila." He spoke, holding the phone up to his mouth. "This might never reach you, but I want to document how much you've changed me. Perhaps one day, I will listen to this myself to keep reminding my soul that it was a blessing to have come across you. I am stooped in reality checks, and I have forgotten how to dream. But you've made me break through the anger in my heart today, and I wonder what else Allah has written for us."