The day felt like any other. The sun was high, casting golden rays over the village, and the scent of fried kosai lingered in the air. Women balanced clay pots on their heads, children kicked up dust as they ran barefoot, and men gathered outside the madrasa, deep in discussion.
I walked beside Baba, my hands clasped behind my back, listening as he spoke with another scholar about the upcoming Mawlid celebrations. My father was well respected, and men often sought his counsel on matters of faith.
"A Muslim should live with certainty," Baba was saying, his voice firm. "Doubt is a weakness Shaytan preys upon. If one's heart wavers, he must return to the Qur'an for guidance."
I nodded in agreement, though my mind wandered. Lately, I had found myself questioning things I never used to. The rhythm of my prayers felt different, the verses I had recited since childhood carried a weight I couldn't explain.
"Nasir, you will lead the younger boys in their recitation today," Baba instructed, turning to me. "It is good practice. A man must learn to guide others in faith."
I bowed my head slightly. "Yes, Baba."
---
At the madrasa, the younger boys sat cross-legged in neat rows, their eyes bright with eagerness. I took my place before them, the Qur'an open in my hands.
"We begin with Surah Al-Fatiha," I announced, and they echoed my words with reverence.
I recited, and they followed, their voices rising and falling in unison. Yet, as I spoke the sacred verses, something gnawed at me. I knew the words by heart, yet today, they felt distant, like I was repeating them out of habit rather than conviction.
One of the boys, Yusuf, raised his hand. "Brother Nasir, what does it mean when Allah says He is 'Master of the Day of Judgment'?"
I hesitated. "It means He has control over all things, and on the Last Day, He alone will judge us."
"But if He controls everything," Yusuf pressed, "why does He allow people to do wrong?"
A murmur passed through the group. It was a question I had heard before, yet today, I struggled to answer.
"Allah gives us free will," I finally said, though my voice lacked the confidence I wished it held. "It is a test—to see who remains faithful."
Yusuf nodded slowly, but his eyes were still filled with curiosity. I envied his certainty, his ability to ask without fear.
The session continued, but my mind was elsewhere. Doubt had crept into my heart, an unwelcome guest refusing to leave.
That evening, Baba called me to sit with him under the neem tree. The sky was streaked with hues of orange and purple, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted maize.
"You were quiet today," he observed. "Your mind seemed elsewhere."
I lowered my gaze. "I have been thinking, Baba. About faith. About how we understand it."
He frowned slightly. "Faith is not something to be analyzed, Nasir. It is to be accepted. Doubt is the seed of disbelief. Do not entertain it."
"But what if—"
"There is no 'what if,'" Baba interrupted. "You are a Muslim. You have been given the truth. Do not let the whispers of the world distract you."
His words were final, leaving no room for argument. I nodded, though my thoughts continued to churn long after he had risen and gone inside.
Restless, I decided to seek counsel elsewhere. Imam Suleiman had always been a patient teacher, a man known for his wisdom. If anyone could ease my growing doubts, it was him.
I found him outside the mosque, sitting on a woven mat, a book open on his lap. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth.
"Nasir," he greeted, closing his book. "What troubles you?"
I hesitated before sitting beside him. "I have questions, Imam. Questions I fear to ask."
He nodded, folding his hands. "Faith is not the absence of questions, my son. It is the trust we place in Allah even when we do not have all the answers."
I exhaled. "Then why do I feel… lost?"
The Imam studied me for a long moment before speaking. "Because, Nasir, you are seeking something deeper. Faith is not just about recitation. It is about conviction. Perhaps Allah is preparing your heart for something greater."
His words sent a shiver down my spine. Something greater?
---
That night, I could not sleep.
I stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the village—dogs barking, wind rustling through the trees, the occasional laughter of men gathered late into the night.
For years, my faith had been my anchor, steady and unshakable. Now, it felt like shifting sand beneath my feet.
Had I done something to offend Allah? Was this a test? Or was there something more waiting beyond what I had been taught?
I turned onto my side, staring out the window. The minaret stood tall in the moonlight, an unwavering reminder of everything I had ever known.
But in my heart, I felt it.
Something was changing.
And there was no turning back.