Tawakkul

Chapter 2

Sultan leaned on the table, one arm around his classmate, watching him pour his talent onto the white page. He was an artist. Whether he believed it or not, Sultan surely did.

He was amazed, to say the least. He watched each detail of movement, the piece burnt into his pupils, it had touched his soul, engulfed him, swam in his mind, and drowned his heart. He felt a fire travel through his body, a fire of passion and urgency. Warm and destructive. Ready to burn if not kindled.

"How do you do it?"

The words left his mouth like smoke, grabbing the air and stealing it.

"How do I do what?"

The boy turned over his shoulder to Sultan, looking him in the eye.

"That"

His voice was urgent as he gestured towards the page.

"How do you draw in a way that makes me want to engrave the image into my mind? How do you do it?".

The boy looked at him with gratitude mixed with sympathy. His face creased slightly.

"I don't know,"

An apology was scribbled across his face. Sultan frowned and removed his arm from around the boy's shoulder.

"Well, that's no help." he frowned, scowled and went back to his seat, his mind did not wander still stuck on the art and the artist.

His newfound obsession seemed to drive him crazy, his class notes became the teachers' faces scribbled over the page, their features improving with every lecture. His free time was lost in paint and ink. His hands were full of lead, and his heart was full of paint, yet he had no relief. He had to do better. He had to be better. The light of his lamp started to stay on for longer, pages scattered across his desk. He felt as though he wasn't improving. There was no harbour whilst the sea was rough. There was no lighthouse. He was filled with urgency, a passion he seemed unable to fulfil. He prayed for this talent. He prayed with his entire being. He kneeled until he couldn't walk and recited until his mouth became dry. Ya Allah, let me be better . Make me better. Help me. Please. He envied the boy. He seemed to be good at everything. He was respectable, kind, and excelled academically, and now he was better than sultan at another thing. It annoyed him, he felt inferior, what did that boy not have? He must be one of the ones that Allah loves more than me; he must be more righteous, he thought.

A few weeks went by, and Sultan continued to draw and paint. His mind was like a thread that had started to unravel, a piece of clothing that continued to tear. He had observed the boy and had learned that his name was Moutabir. The two quickly became close, Sultan admired moutabir, and the feeling was mutual. One evening after school, Sultan's friend Abas met with him.

"Yaar Sultan, you know Moutabir?"

Sultan nodded in the affirmative.

"He asked me for my motorbike and said he needed it to visit his mother in lahore, you'd spoken to me before and I saw that you think he's reliable so I let him take it."

Abas made a face of frustration, and Sultan spotted that something was not quite right.

"I thought he told me his mother was in karachi?"

Sultan's voice had run quite as he looked at his friend and Abas pursued his lips.

"He hasn't brought my motorbike back,"

He's ran off with it, he didn't want to think badly of Moutabir but the assumption was logical. Sultan ran his hand over his face. 'Honesty is the most important thing in life' his brothers' words from so long ago echoed in his head. 'If you deceive us, you are paving yourself the path of the wrongdoers'. Sultan leaned back in his chair, slightly shocked. Moutabir. The name moutabir meant 'the tester', the one who tests. Moutabir was a test for Sultan. He was a lesson for him to realise that comparison was the thief of joy and to not be hung up on only the things he saw. There is no guarantee that your perception of someone is the reality. Sometimes, what you see in others is not their capability but their potential.