Part 5: The Storm and the Test — When Faith Is Challenged

For days, Shafipur had been wrapped in strange weather. The sky stayed heavy, gray with the promise of rain that never quite fell. The air felt restless, as if the city itself was waiting for something to happen.

Rahim Uddin noticed it first — not in the sky, but in the silence of his little shop. Customers came less often; work slowed. A few bills lay unopened on the counter, but he said nothing. He only whispered “Inna ma’al usri yusra — Verily, with hardship comes ease.”

That Friday morning, after Fajr, Rahim sat quietly with his tea. Ayan sensed something was wrong. “Baba, you look worried,” he said softly.

Rahim forced a smile. “Worried? No, my son. Only thinking. Sometimes life is like electricity — it flickers before it shines again.”

Ayan didn’t quite understand, but his heart grew heavy. He watched his father leave for work that morning with the same calm dignity as always, carrying his old tool bag and a faith stronger than most men’s wealth.

But by noon, the clouds finally broke. Rain poured down in sheets, flooding the narrow lanes of Shafipur. Thunder rolled across the rooftops, and a bolt of lightning struck near the marketplace.

When Rahim reached his shop, water had already seeped inside. The wooden shelves were soaked, tools half-submerged, and the fuse box sparked dangerously. “SubhanAllah,” he murmured, trying to lift the equipment to safety.

Sajid, his young apprentice, rushed in drenched to the bone. “Ustad! The power line fell near the back! We should leave — it’s not safe!”

But Rahim stayed calm. “First, unplug everything,” he said. “We don’t abandon trust — even in storms.”

As they worked, a loud crack shook the shop. A nearby transformer burst into flame, and darkness swallowed the street. Sajid screamed, pulling Rahim out just in time as fire licked across the outer wall.

By evening, the rain stopped — but so had Rahim’s livelihood. His small shop, his years of honest effort, were reduced to a blackened shell.

When he finally returned home, drenched, exhausted, Ayan ran to him. “Baba! Are you hurt?”

Rahim smiled weakly, his hands trembling. “No, my boy. Alhamdulillah, I am fine. Only my shop is gone.”

Tears welled in Ayan’s eyes. “Gone? But Baba, that’s our living… what will we do now?”

Rahim sat down, removing his soaked cap. “We will do what we always do, my son — trust Allah. When He closes one door, it is only to lead us to another.”

Ayan wiped his eyes and nodded slowly. “Then we’ll rebuild it together, Baba.”

Rahim looked at him with quiet pride. “Yes. Together. Because rizq — sustenance — doesn’t come from walls or wires. It comes from the One who gave us strength.”

That night, as thunder rolled again in the distance, father and son prayed side by side. Their home was small, their future uncertain, but their hearts were steady — anchored not in what they owned, but in what they believed.

And somewhere beyond the storm, unseen yet certain, mercy was already on its way.