The Milkman and Jinjdi

In a quiet village nestled between green hills and dusty roads lived a humble milkman named Kareem. He was a man of few possessions, but his heart was rich with sincerity and trust in Allah. Every day, before the first light of dawn touched the horizon, Kareem would rise, perform his Fajr prayer, and tend to his single cow — the only source of his livelihood.

With a metal container in hand, Kareem would walk from house to house, selling the milk he had carefully collected. Though the milk was little, he always made sure it was pure and unwatered. Some villagers would tell him, “Just add a little water, Kareem. Everyone does it. No one will notice.” But Kareem would smile and reply, “Even if the people don’t see, Allah does. I sell what is halal and honest. My rizq is in His Hands.”

Though he earned just enough to survive, Kareem was content. He often gave away a small portion of milk to the poor or children who couldn’t afford it. His old clothes and broken sandals didn’t bother him; he walked with dignity, knowing that his heart was clean.

One afternoon, while returning from the nearby town after selling his milk, Kareem took a different route through a wooded path to save time. Halfway down the trail, he saw an old man sitting beneath a neem tree. The man wore a strange cloak, his beard was long and white, and his eyes sparkled with something almost otherworldly.

The man called out, “Peace be upon you, Kareem.”

Kareem paused, surprised. “Wa alaikum assalam, Shaykh. Do I know you?”

The man smiled gently. “No, but I know you. I am Jinjdi.”

Kareem furrowed his brow. He had heard the name from old stories — Jinjdi, a mysterious figure who was said to appear to people of pure hearts in times of need or test.

“Come, sit,” Jinjdi said, patting the ground beside him. Kareem sat respectfully.

“I’ve watched you, Kareem,” Jinjdi said. “You are honest, humble, and your heart is sincere. But tell me, what is it you truly desire in this world?”

Kareem looked down, thinking. “I do not seek wealth or luxury, Shaykh. I only ask Allah to keep me honest, provide me my daily rizq, and allow me to die with faith.”

Jinjdi nodded. “Good. But let me ask you: if Allah tested you with abundance, would your heart still remain as clean?”

Kareem hesitated. “I pray it would, Shaykh. But I fear wealth may make me forget.”

Jinjdi then reached into his bag and pulled out a small glass bottle filled with a golden liquid.

“This,” he said, “is barakah. A drop of this in your milk container, and you will never run out of milk, no matter how much you sell or give. You will become wealthy — but only if your heart stays pure.”

Kareem’s eyes widened. He looked at the bottle, then back at Jinjdi. “But Shaykh, why me?”

“Because you ask nothing of the world — and that is exactly the kind of heart Allah honors.”

With trembling hands, Kareem took the bottle. “What should I do with this?”

“Use it wisely. Give, share, but do not boast. And if ever your heart changes — if pride enters it — the barakah will vanish.”

The next morning, after his Fajr prayer, Kareem added a single drop of the golden liquid into his milk container. To his amazement, the milk never ran out, no matter how much he poured. By evening, he had sold ten times more than usual and still had a full container.

Word spread in the village. People came from distant towns to buy from Kareem. Yet he never raised his prices and continued to give milk to the poor without asking for anything.

Days became weeks, and Kareem’s home slowly changed. He bought better clothes, repaired his roof, and even bought a second cow. But what never changed was his routine — he still rose before dawn, prayed sincerely, and whispered gratitude to Allah with every breath.

One day, a rich merchant approached him and said, “Kareem, your milk is famous. Let us open a dairy business together. We can build a factory, sell across the cities. You will be wealthy beyond imagination!”

Kareem smiled politely. “Brother, I sell to serve, not to build an empire. My rizq is enough for me.”

The merchant scoffed and left.

But Kareem’s heart stayed light. The barakah remained. He continued serving the people, sharing stories of honesty, humility, and trust in Allah with children and travelers.

Years passed. Kareem grew old, but his eyes still shone with peace. One evening, as he sat beneath the same neem tree, he saw Jinjdi again — just as calm, just as wise.

“You have done well, Kareem,” Jinjdi said. “You guarded your heart, shared your blessings, and remained true.”

Kareem smiled. “It was never me, Shaykh. It was always Allah’s mercy.”

And with that, Jinjdi placed his hand on Kareem’s shoulder. A cool breeze blew through the trees, and Kareem felt a deep calm within.