Part 2: The Father’s Shop — A Place of Trust and Test

By midmorning, the sun had climbed higher, brushing the tin rooftops of Shafipur with gold. The lanes near the mosque were alive with sounds — the ring of bicycle bells, the chatter of shopkeepers, and the sweet rhythm of daily life.

At the corner of that narrow lane stood a small shop — its faded signboard reading “Rahim Electrical Works.” The shop was modest, no more than a wooden counter, a single bench, and shelves stacked with dusty tools and spare wires. Yet it glowed with something rare — trust.

Rahim Uddin had built that trust over twenty years, wire by wire, repair by repair, truth by truth.

“Assalamu Alaikum, Rahim bhai,” called out Mr. Karim, a nearby grocer, pushing open the door. “My ceiling fan’s been dead since last night. My wife says I should buy a new one.”

Rahim smiled kindly, taking the fan motor from him. “Wa Alaikum Assalam, Karim bhai. Let me see first. Why buy new when old things can breathe again?”

He placed the motor gently on his worktable, his fingers moving with quiet skill. Sparks flashed as his soldering iron touched the coil, and the faint smell of metal filled the air. But Rahim’s mind wasn’t on the noise — it was on niyyah, intention.

He whispered under his breath, “Ya Allah, let my hands work with honesty.”

Moments later, the fan came back to life, spinning in perfect rhythm. Karim’s eyes widened. “SubhanAllah! You fixed it so quickly!”

Rahim smiled again, wiping his hands on a cloth. “It was a small fault — only a wire loose. Fifty taka will do.”

Karim frowned. “That’s too little, Rahim bhai. You could have charged more.”

Rahim looked at him, his voice soft but firm. “If I take more than I deserve, even my bread will lose its sweetness. A Muslim’s earning must be clean, brother.”

Karim nodded slowly, his respect deepening. “May Allah bless your shop.”

After Karim left, a young man named Sajid entered — a new apprentice Rahim had taken under his care. Sajid was clever but restless, always chasing shortcuts.

“Ustad,” Sajid said, “why don’t we raise our prices a bit? Everyone does it. We’d earn double.”

Rahim looked up from his bench, his eyes steady. “My son, it is easy to earn money — but hard to earn peace. The world sees profit, but Allah sees the heart. If we lose His trust, all the gold in the world will turn to dust.”

Sajid fell silent. Something about those words stirred him — a quiet truth that reached deeper than the hum of tools.

Outside, the Adhan for Dhuhr echoed through the city. Rahim rose, covering his tools with a cloth. “Come, Sajid. Work can wait; prayer cannot.”

They walked together to the mosque nearby. The street shimmered in the noon light, and for a moment, Rahim’s thoughts drifted to Ayan — his little boy, learning in his classroom, perhaps thinking of him too.

In that moment, under the blue expanse of sky, Rahim felt a silent joy — not the joy of wealth, but of living truthfully in a world that often forgets what truth costs.