Are you God?
A venerable shaykh had taken residence in a quiet corner of the city, renting a modest apartment, having journeyed from the environs of Multan. Cloaked in simplicity, pure of heart, discerning of mind, and composed in presence, he bore on his face the traces of serenity and profound reflection. Every greeting began with a gentle, enduring phrase: “My dear.” Each word he spoke seemed a quiet summons to patience, a subtle call to contemplation.
I often encountered him during my morning walks, wandering streets far from the clatter of the city. We shared a preference for silence. He would murmur his morning prayers, and I would follow the stillness within, as though both of us were seeking a truth that could not be spoken. Mornings seemed deeper then, each whisper of the breeze carrying a question yet unanswered.
For three days, I had forsaken my walks; the fourth and fifth passed in idleness. On the sixth day, I met him once more. Unusually, he folded his rosary and placed it in his pocket, smiling warmly, and said:
“My dear, come to my home today. I shall serve you tea myself.” I followed, my heart stirred by anticipation. Entering his sitting room, I felt not in a mere chamber, but within a grand library. Walls lined with rare and ancient books, some bound in smooth leather, others weathered by time, their yellowed pages exuding wisdom. A solemnity pervaded the air, as though the echoes of centuries past lingered in each corner.
While the shaykh stepped briefly into the kitchen, I wandered among the books, reading their titles, glimpsing history, listening in silence to the faint whispers of vanished minds. On the table lay treatises on Sufism, open, beside them a notebook and a pencil, left as though the writer had just risen, leaving his heart and thoughts captured on paper. In that room, everything spoke a language of yearning, of the search for the deeper meaning of life.
The shaykh returned, carrying a tray with two cups of tea, salted biscuits, dates, and two pieces of sweetmeat. We sat, drinking and conversing. His knowledge was vast, his insight profound, yet his words simple, and often his speech seemed to draw secrets from the very soul.
After a pause, his eyes shining with quiet light, he said: “My dear, I once sought an answer to a question that weighed upon my heart. I found many in the pages of these books, yet my soul remained restless. One day, I walked to the market, the servant on leave, and noticed a small boy ahead, his shoes torn. I called to him.”
The boy came. I asked, “My son, why are your shoes torn?” He answered in words that shook my heart: “My father has died…” Then he fell silent. For a moment, it seemed as if the city itself had stopped, straining to hear.
In that instant, all else faded. The books, the room, the tea, they vanished. Only the boy remained: innocent, sorrowful, surrounded by absence. I took his hand and said, “Come, I shall buy you shoes.”
I led him into a fine shop, instructing the seller to provide the best shoes. The boy’s face lit up as he wore them, radiant as though the sun had poured its warmth into his heart. I gave him some coins, bade him farewell, and walked on.
Moments later, he ran after me, clinging to my leg, his eyes wide with innocence:
“Are you God?” I lifted him gently and replied, “No, my son. I am human, like you.” His voice, untarnished by cunning, rang with sincerity: “Then you are God’s friend. Yesterday I prayed to God. My father always said: if you ask Him, He will grant. I said: ‘O God, my shoes are torn. Grant me new ones.’”
A tide of emotion rose within me; tears flowed unbidden, as though the heart itself had written the moment in both word and water.
The shaykh paused, his eyes bright with inner light: “In that instant, I understood: to be a friend of God is not difficult. Pat the head of a child, pity a widow, fulfil the need of a poor or destitute soul… This is intimacy with God. It requires no titles, no slogans, no distant abstractions, no printed books, no eloquent sermons. True friendship with God lies in daily deeds, in the mercy of the heart, in the quiet care extended to others, in a moment of help offered without expectation.
He repeated softly, “My dear, friendship with God is simple, but who seeks it?”
We chase distant paths to reach Him, in lonely corners, dark retreats, caves, and hermitages. We pore over elaborate titles and convoluted books, forgetting that God is near. We approach Him through small, humble steps: a sincere smile, aid given to the needy, the prayer of a pure heart. These paths draw us closer than imagination can conceive, closer than fantasy dares to dream.
Every tribulation we ease, every act of assistance, every prayer, every sorrow we lift from a weary heart—there, God’s hand reaches toward us, gentle, affectionate. Be friends of God through deeds, not words; through sincerity, not pretense. O God, grant us Your intimacy and make us among the righteous.”
(Note: The original story was written in Urdu; this version expands upon it, preserving its spirit and contemplative depth.)
