Ali bin Mohammed Al-Rubaie

How Do You Know Your Lord..

July 24, 2026 - 00:00 | Last Updated: July 24, 2026 - 00:00

Follow Okaz channel on WhatsApp

The sound of pounding interrupted Wartan's sleep, so he got up muttering: Every time this creature sees me about to doze off and catch a breath for an hour, she starts clattering, banging, rummaging, and searching for something to make my life miserable, daughter of Naisan. Her pounding feels right inside my head. He pulled the door open, and there she was, cradling the stone mortar between her feet, pestle in hand, pounding henna. She hoisted it with its henna and carried it away from the corner of the wing overlooking the mosque courtyard, where the faqih and the children under the shade were memorizing Juz' Amma. The faqih shouted, May God break your hand, you who threw it! You almost turned me and the kids into a mashed meal.

Wartan kept silent, and his wife went down after her mortar. He cast his look toward the courtyard of (Jallab Al-Kabasha), and there he was in the shade of the wild fig tree, with his young man facing him. He picked himself up and headed over, and no sooner had he seated himself than the Jallab's wife said, He who comes without a call sits without a spread. He glanced at her husband, thinking of a retort, but settled for pouring a cup from the filter, and a plate of Ranya dates was brought near him. He said, We'd like a pot of shira tea. The Jallab shook his head, and the wife got up grumbling, repeating, Another thing, Abu Sandaha is making demands now, like a blacksmith's pride.

He turned around and asked, Peace, what brought you this way, woe to us? He replied, By God, I wished for the tea to brew in the back, and I dozed off, and no sooner had I closed my eyes than the daughter of Naisan started pounding. May her father's quarters be pounded over the hills of Al-Sunna. The Jallab commented to console him, No one gives of the daughters of Fatima except God, and I beg you not to be harsh on her, for her standing by you is something your own mother and father's son wouldn't match. Even if it's just spinning, pruning, weeding, harvesting, threshing, and coming to the aid of those who appreciate kindness, and a sensible person is his own enemy. So he said, My friend, I want a wife like an ordinary lioness, not like this one who squirms like a snake and wriggles like a viper. If I could divorce you, I would divorce you even if it costs the grave.

The Jallab shifted the cushion to his left as the pot of tea was brought down. He lifted the lid, dipped it two or three times, placed the Faisal-style coin ring around the neck of the teapot, and said, Let it steep. Then he faced his companion and said, Do not deny her virtue; by God, she is a real human being, not lacking in anything, strong-willed. If it weren't for God and then her, you might have sold your family's inheritance span by span, leaving not even a quarter behind. He smiled and added, I wish you could see her heft and stature while you are like a tick at the bottom of a camel. Just look at this one I have with me, she scares a passing jinn. By God, if I don't close my eyes, my energy will die. He nudged him in his left thigh, adding, You think I don't know about you, you stallion of cats? If you hadn't found the daughter of Naisan to keep your head cool, you would have been driven to Al-Damun. He started reciting poetry: (O my lively, pure-hearted dear, who honors our place for us, striking like a charging cloud, trampling limbs in the dark, watering the irrigated lands). Wartan picked up a dry stick, broke it, and threw it towards him, saying: (A stick broken in your eye, a bullet sparked in your chest, and may evil never return).

The faqih's attempts to persuade Wartan to attend his lessons in the mosque ended in failure. He said, I will teach you the matters of your religion and have you memorize the three fundamentals. Wartan refused, saying, If you are testing me with a measure of wheat, I wish I had what I have (like the swarming locust eating the green and the dry). My throat is full of chaff as if in their bellies is Yemen, and my country is like a mouse's ears. Don't tire the jaws or patch the tears; the condition is the condition and life is just chaff. To break the faqih's pride and discourage him from demanding his presence at the lessons, he added, And I know you and I know your ways and paths, you thief of pots, plunghered of chambers, false witness! What kind of jurisprudence is yours that didn't even make you look good before your father and mother who died cursing you? The faqih turned away from him and slipped out through the opening of the alley as if he heard nothing, saying to himself, May God not let any of them learn; I am like one who stokes the ashes.

Wartan woke up on Thursday dawn, and his wife asked him, Where are you heading? He answered, I am going down. She said sarcastically, Going down to price the wheat or to spend the sovereigns? He replied in a broken voice, We stretch the leg and God is the Provider. He went down dragging his steps, with nothing in his mouth or sleeve, thinking that God might send him a kind soul to relieve his distress. He was met by some rigid preachers who used to choose random samples of shoppers to test the soundness of their creed and make sure the fuqaha were teaching their congregations in every village. They asked him, What is your name? He replied, (Wartan). They didn't like the name, nor the appearance that cut yeast from the house, nor the shabby look. So they hit him with the question: How do you know your Lord? He answered from the reality of his situation: I know my Lord through poverty. So they set upon him with beating until he urinated on himself, while he had no idea why they were beating him.

He checked his limbs, wrapped his turbans, adjusted his sandals, and set off with his eyes fixed on the sky, a sob and a mocking, reproachful echo inside him: Stretch your leg and your Lord is the Provider; your provision has come to you with no turning back. He felt sorry for himself and burst into tears. Fortunately, he found a water spring, washed his face, and swore not to go home—his wife would gloat over him, and his chest could no longer hold anything for any creature. Rethinking his calculations, he said, I wish I had slept and listened to her words, but folly's horns do not bend until they are struck with stakes between the eyes.

While he was up by the cisterns, his brother (Shartan) approached him with his scabby camel, asking him to give it water, saying, Brother, I have guests, and your lunch is from theirs; water the camel. There is firewood in the rack, tie it on its back and it will suffice you. Wartan apologized and said, I beg you, leave me alone; I don't know about camels, what do I know about camels? Shartan pressured him until he agreed, saying, The camel's ways won't trouble you: guide it to the water and it will drink, make it kneel and load the firewood. The provocative camel couldn't believe Wartan had turned his back, so it lunged at the sweet basil, letting out a roar. Wartan turned to it, grabbed its tether, beat it, and smashed its jawbones. If it hadn't been for his aunt (Khadra) intervening and letting down her hair in front of the camel, it would have trampled and finished him without a blink. They escorted him back amid singing, and they spent the evening entertaining him as if he were deranged. They wanted to slaughter the camel, but it glared at them—meaning do not slaughter it. They called for the faqih Ali bin Saleh, who set his jawbones, fitted him with a funnel, and ran a tube down his throat, force-feeding him with porridge, milk, and ghee. The man was subdued, and from the excessive force-feeding, he recovered and swelled up until he became like a blown-up waterskin, while the faqih loomed over him from above and stuck out his tongue: How do you know your Lord now?