The Day the Water Stopped

Every morning, Mustafa had a glass of water with his breakfast. Glug, glug, gone. "Alhamdulillah," he would say, already sliding down from his chair.

But one Saturday in Blackburn, something strange happened. Mustafa turned on the bathroom tap to brush his teeth, and the tap gave a cough. Then a splutter. Then nothing. Not one drop.

"Dad!" he called. "The tap's broken!"

Dad looked out of the window. Down the street of terraced houses, a van was flashing orange lights. Workers in yellow jackets stood around a hole in the road, full of muddy, bubbling water.

"A pipe has burst under the road," said Dad. "They've turned off our water while they mend it. It should be back tonight, in sha Allah."

At first, Mustafa thought it was exciting. Then he began to notice things.

He couldn't brush his teeth until Mum opened a bottle of water. Dad rinsed Mustafa's felt-tip fingers with bottled water. The dirty plates piled up by the sink in a wobbly tower. And when Mustafa came in from playing outside, hot and thirsty, he ran to the tap, then remembered.

Mum poured him a small cup from the very last bottle.

Just then, Auntie Rehana from next door knocked with a big pack of bottles. "They're giving out water at the park," she said. "I brought extra for you."

"JazakAllahu khayran," said Mum.

"Let's take some bottles to Mrs Kelly at number nine," said Dad. "She can't carry heavy things."

Mustafa carried two bottles. They were heavier than they looked! Mrs Kelly's face crinkled into a smile when she opened the door. "Oh, you are kind," she said.

At Asr time, Nana, Mum's dad, made wudu over a bowl. Mustafa poured the water from a bottle, slowly, slowly, so that not a drop was wasted.

"When I was your age," said Nana, rolling down his sleeves, "there was no tap in my village in Gujarat. Every morning I walked to the well with a heavy pot. A long way there, and a long way back."

"Every morning?" said Mustafa. His arms ached just thinking about it.

"Every morning," said Nana. "And there are still children in the world who walk a long way for water every day."

After Maghrib, Mustafa tried the kitchen tap, just in case. There was a gurgle. Then a rumble. Then, whoosh! Water gushed out, clear and sparkling.

Mustafa filled a glass, sat down and held it up to the light. "Bismillah," he whispered. No glug, glug, gone this time. He drank it slowly, every cool, fresh sip.

Mum sat down beside him. "In the Quran, Allah asks, 'And have you seen the water that you drink?' Nobody can bring it down from the clouds except Allah. He could have made it salty and bitter, too horrible to drink, but He made it fresh and good for us. And then Allah asks: why are you not grateful?"

Mustafa looked at the last bright drops in his glass.

"Alhamdulillah," he said. And this time, he meant it all the way down to his toes.

That night, Mum put a glass of water by his bed. Mustafa whispered, "Bismillah," took one small sip and whispered, "Alhamdulillah." Then he asked Allah to bring fresh water close to every child who has to walk a long way for it.

Outside, the orange lights had gone and the street was quiet. Under the road, the water hummed softly through the pipes to every house. Mustafa snuggled under his blanket and drifted off to sleep.