The Third Type of People Who Do Nothing
Our Business Is: To Do No Business
Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi
Oxford
2 June 2026
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who work and those who watch them work. Yet our latest research—painstakingly conducted from the corner paan-seller to the armchair savants of social media—has uncovered a third species. This breed neither does anything itself nor lets anyone else do anything. Its mission statement, its slogan, its national anthem, and its family crest are all contained in one sentence: “Our business is: to do no business.”
I have witnessed many wonders in my life. I have met people who spent a lifetime laying brick upon brick until whole cities rose out of the dust, and others who nursed a single idea until it became an institution, a book, a movement, or even a page of history. But none have astonished me more than those who built no house, planted no garden, and lit no lamp, yet managed to discover a crack in every wall, a thorn in every rose bed, and a plume of smoke in every flame.
They resemble the man who sits on the rim of a well all his life warning every sailor about the dangers of the sea.
They are the permanent commentators of human society. They have never played on the field, yet they hold certified opinions on every athlete’s technique. They have never traveled, yet they are intimately acquainted with every road’s ups and downs. They have never climbed a mountain, yet they assure each mountaineer that reaching the summit is impossible.
Sit in their company and you will feel as though you have wandered into a garden where autumn has taken up permanent residence on every branch. Mention any success, and they will promptly unroll the hidden catalogue of its failures. Speak of a good deed, and they will start sniffing out the vested interests behind it. Praise a lovely scene, and they will instantly discern some artistic, moral, economic, or climatic defect within it.
Once a young man came, brimming with enthusiasm, to an elder and said, “Shaykh, I have decided to set up a small library for the poor children in my neighborhood.”
The elder nodded gravely, as though he had just uncovered the secret behind the fall of the Ottoman Empire.
“My son,” he pronounced, “people no longer read books.”
“Still,” the youth replied, “I would like to try.”
“What is the use of trying?” the elder retorted.
“Perhaps a few children will benefit,” said the youth.
“Children,” the elder observed, “spend all their time on mobile phones.”
“Then I will install a few computers as well,” the lad suggested.
“And who will pay the electricity bill?” came the rejoinder.
“I will,” said the youth.
“For how long will you pay?” the elder shot back.
By the time the young man rose to leave, he was beginning to doubt the very wisdom of his own birth—let alone the idea of founding a library.
Had these people lived in the time of Prophet Nūḥ, peace be upon him, they would not have boarded the Ark; instead they would have convened a conference and passed a resolution declaring that the existence of water had not yet been scientifically verified.
Had the Wright brothers consulted them, the answer would have been: “Birds fly because they have wings; you do not. Your plan, therefore, lacks scientific foundation.”
And had Columbus been born in their neighborhood, his parents would have been persuaded—long before he reached America—that the boy had turned vagabond and spent his days by the seashore indulging in useless dreams.
To them, every dream is a misunderstanding, and every act of courage merely a passing fever.
Yet their most astonishing characteristic is that beauty simply does not register with them. This is not a defect of eyesight, but of insight.
If a blind man stands before the Taj Mahal, he is excused; but the one who beholds the Taj and sees only stone is truly deprived.
A gentleman once visited Spain and toured the Alhambra—the same Alhambra whose walls preserve the dreams of Arab civilization, whose courtyards let water recite poetry, whose arches make time itself stand still. On his return people asked eagerly, “How was it?” He replied, “Nothing special. In my opinion, it needs a fresh coat of paint.”
At that moment I became certain that, were this gentleman ushered into Paradise, he would ignore the beauty of the houris, the melody of its rivers, and the springtime of Firdaus, choose a spot beneath some tree, and pronounce: “Everything is fine, of course, but if this tree were moved two feet to the right, the view would be far better balanced.”
Another man went to see the Taj Mahal. It was a moonlit night; the marble flowed like milk, the Jamuna lay still cradling that beauty in her lap, and the air held a delicacy known only to poets and comprehended only by lovers.
On his return he declared, “To me, this building is grossly overrated.”
Critique of Negative Perspectives on Beauty
To them, the chief defect of the Taj Mahal is simply that it has been praised too much.
Some people’s temperaments are so sour it is as though bitter neem were ground into vinegar and sealed for years in a jar of suspicion. In their hearts the urge to praise is as rare as a smiling clerk in a government office. Let a rose bloom, and instead of its fragrance they are disturbed by the multitude of thorns. Let a waterfall cascade, and rather than marvel at nature’s splendour they fret about the water bill. When a rainbow appears, they ignore the charm of its colours and begin forecasting foul weather. Should the nightingale sing, they complain of the noise; and if they were conducted through Paradise itself, they would probably ask which company holds the landscaping contract.
Once such a gentleman was asked, “What, in your opinion, is the most beautiful thing in the world?”
He pondered for a long while and finally said, “So far, I have seen nothing of the sort.”
I pitied him more than I have ever pitied a beggar, for poverty is not only of the purse; it is also of the eye. Some people hunger for bread, others for beauty.
In truth, these are the most deprived of all. They fancy themselves astute because they can detect a flaw in everything. But fault-finding is no feat. The real feat is to recognise virtue, to feel beauty, and, despite imperfections, to appreciate effort.
Any person can notice a crack in a wall; a builder is the one who beholds the whole edifice.
Anyone can count the thorns; the gardener is the one who sees the flower.
Anyone can smell the smoke; the wise are those who also see the lamp’s light.
Our friends, however, are neither builders, nor gardeners, nor torch-bearers. They sit on the riverbank like spectators who never dare enter the water yet foretell the drowning of every swimmer.
Yet the world’s splendour lies in ignoring their counsel.
Flowers bloom despite their suspicions.
Rivers flow despite their objections.
Birds fly despite their predictions.
Caravans reach their destinations despite their gloomy speeches.
Even today they linger on some street corner proving that travel is impossible, while travellers have already returned with stories of their journeys. They still argue that a lamp is useless, though the dawn has broken. And they are still busy counting thorns, while spring has descended upon the garden.
Dr Muhammad Akram Nadwi – Oxford