The Taxi Driver Who Taught Me Tawakkul

The Taxi Driver Who Taught Me Tawakkul

I was late. Again.
And in the middle of Karachi’s madness, being late meant being yelled at, warned, and maybe even fired. My office had already issued me two warnings. One more, and I was out.

As I rushed out of my building, I prayed silently, “Ya Allah, please make a way.”

I looked around, hoping for a Careem or even a bike ride, but nothing was available. Only one old yellow taxi stood at the corner — rusted edges, dusty windows, and a driver who looked like he was pulled out of a 90s film.

I sighed. “Ya Allah, please…”
Then reluctantly, I walked to the taxi.

“Jinnah Avenue?” I asked.
He nodded with a warm smile. “Bismillah,” he replied.

I got in, frustrated, already imagining the sarcastic looks my boss would give me.

But within minutes, something unexpected happened.
The taxi wasn’t just slow — it was peaceful. The city’s noise faded behind the driver’s soft Quran recitation playing on an old radio. It wasn’t loud. Just enough to make the heart settle.

Then the driver spoke.
“Beta, looking worried. Late for work?”

“Yes,” I mumbled, eyes glued to my phone.

“Don’t worry. Whatever is written for you will come to you, even if it’s under the ocean,” he said calmly.

I glanced at him. He was maybe in his late 60s, white beard, a kufi on his head, and miswak in the dashboard. A string of tasbeeh hung near the rearview mirror.

I forced a smile. “Sometimes I feel like I’m doing everything and still not moving forward.”

He chuckled. “That’s because you’re trying to drive the car of your life alone — without letting Allah steer it.”

I paused. His metaphor hit me hard.

“You know,” he continued, “my daughter is in the hospital. Cancer. Stage 3.”

My eyes widened. “Inna lillah… I’m so sorry.”

He smiled. Yes, smiled. “It’s Allah’s test. And tests mean He hasn’t forgotten me.”

I didn’t know what to say. Here I was — stressed about an office job, and this man was calmly driving around with his world falling apart.

“I leave my house after Fajr,” he said, “and I say, ‘Ya Allah, I trust You. Whatever You write for me today, I accept it.’ Then I drive till Maghrib, earn what I can, and go to the hospital.”

I was speechless.

“Don’t you ever feel... broken?” I asked.

He nodded. “I do. But that’s when I remember what the Prophet ﷺ said: ‘Know that what has passed you was never meant to be yours, and what reaches you was never going to miss you.’”

I looked down. My excuses, my complaints — they all seemed so shallow now.

“Allah gives rizq, beta,” he said. “Not bosses, not companies. Keep working hard, but don’t tie your peace to people’s approval.”

We reached Jinnah Avenue. I took out cash to pay.

“No,” he said, waving his hand. “This one’s from me. Du‘a mein yaad rakhna.”

Tears welled up in my eyes.

“I insist,” I said.

He shook his head. “You look like my son. One day, he might need someone too.”

I stepped out of the taxi, heart full, mind clearer than ever. As I turned back, I saw him take out a prayer mat from the back seat and lay it out on the sidewalk. It was Dhuhr time.

And there he was — an old man, in the middle of his struggle, bowing down in sujood with complete peace.



🌿 Reflection:

That day changed me. It wasn’t a lecture, a book, or a khutbah — just a taxi ride with a man who truly understood tawakkul.

He taught me that trusting Allah doesn’t mean sitting idle — it means moving forward with effort, and leaving the results in Allah’s hands.

Now, every time I feel overwhelmed, I remember him:
“Beta, don’t drive alone. Let Allah steer.”