Luqman's Advice and the Mustard Seed

"Too easy, Dadu! Honestly, it was too easy."

Imran dropped into the chair opposite his grandfather. They had prayed Isha, and the kitchen still smelled of Mum's fish curry and warm mustard oil.

"Last ten seconds," he said, "and whoosh. Winning basket. Then I walked back across the court like this." He puffed out his chest and spread his arms. "Shouting, 'Too easy! Too easy!'"

Dadu smiled, set his tea aside, and lifted down the big Quran with the English beside the Arabic, opening it carefully on its wooden stand. Every night they read one page together. Tonight it was Surah Luqman.

"Who was Luqman?" asked Imran. "A prophet?"

"Most scholars say no," said Dadu. "A wise man. The Quran doesn't tell us about his life. It tells us that Allah gave him wisdom, and told him to be grateful to Allah. Whoever is grateful is grateful for his own benefit."

Imran thought of his winning shot. He hadn't said Alhamdulillah. He'd said "too easy", as if it had all been him.

Dadu recited the Arabic first, low and steady, the way he had learned it as a boy in Sylhet, then ran his finger under the English.

"Luqman said to his son, while he was instructing him: 'O my son, do not associate anything with Allah. Indeed, association with Him is great injustice.'"

"Associate?" asked Imran.

"It means never worshipping anyone or anything except Allah," said Dadu. "Luqman began his advice with that." He tapped the Arabic. "Ya bunayya. 'O my son', but the soft way of saying it. My dear son. He isn't shouting at the boy. He loves him."

Imran knew that softness. It was in Dadu's voice every day.

"In the middle," Dadu went on, "Allah speaks to every one of us about our parents. 'His mother carried him, in weakness upon weakness… Be grateful to Me and to your parents.'"

Dadu read on, back to Luqman's words. "'O my son, indeed if it should be the weight of a mustard seed, and should be within a rock, or anywhere in the heavens or in the earth, Allah will bring it forth. Indeed, Allah is Subtle and Aware.'"

"If what should be?" asked Imran.

Dadu reached for Mum's spice tin and dropped a single black mustard seed onto Imran's palm. It was tiny. One sneeze and it would be gone.

"Something we do," said Dadu. "Many scholars say it means the tiniest wrong or the tiniest good. Hide something this small inside a rock, and Allah would still know exactly where it is. Not one kind thing is ever wasted."

Next, Luqman told his son to keep up the prayer, command what is right, forbid what is wrong, and be patient.

"'And do not turn your cheek in contempt toward people, and do not walk through the earth exultantly. Indeed, Allah does not like everyone self-deluded and boastful.'"

"Turn your cheek?"

Dadu lifted his chin and turned his face away. "Like that. Someone speaks to you, and you look away, as if you're better than them. And walking exultantly is strutting about, showing off."

Imran went very still.

There was a bit he hadn't told Dadu. After the match, a new Year 4 boy called Kofi had asked, "Can I play tomorrow?" Imran hadn't even looked at him. He'd kept his eyes on his mates, said "Maybe," and strolled off with his chin in the air.

He could see Kofi's face now.

"'And be moderate in your pace and lower your voice,'" Dadu read. "'Indeed, the most disagreeable of sounds is the voice of donkeys.'"

Imran's mouth twitched. "Donkeys?" But the smile faded. "Dadu," he said quietly, "I think I sounded like a donkey today." And he told him about Kofi.

Dadu listened without frowning. "That's a lot of wisdom for one page. You don't have to fix it all tonight. Which piece will you take?"

Imran looked at the seed on his palm. "The cheek one," he said at last. "Tomorrow, in sha Allah, I'll find Kofi. I'll look at him properly, and ask him to be on my team."

Dadu nodded slowly, as if Imran had just made the best shot of the day. Then he closed the Quran gently. "Goodnight, ya bunayya."

Imran climbed the stairs. Not stomping, not strutting. Just walking.

In his room he set the mustard seed on the windowsill, a tiny dark dot against the white paint. Rain whispered on the glass. So small, he thought, and still Allah knew exactly where it was.

"Alhamdulillah for the winning shot," he whispered. It hadn't been too easy. It had been a gift.

Imran pulled the duvet up to his chin and said his bedtime dua, soft and low, the way Dadu recited. Then he closed his eyes.