One morning, Idris did not wake. Rukan buried him beneath the mulberry tree. Then he opened the Mishkat to a random page—as Idris had taught him, not for divination, but for companionship. His eyes fell on the Book of Virtues: “Shall I not inform you of the most beloved of deeds to Allah? To have faith in Allah, then to be upright.”
“In the time of the great plague of Baghdad,” Idris began, “there was a man who every night carried a lantern to a bridge. He lit it for strangers. No one knew his name. He never preached. He never gave sermons. When asked why, he said only: ‘The Prophet said, “Whoever removes a worldly grief from a believer, Allah will remove from him one of the griefs of the Day of Resurrection.” That is enough.’” mishkat al-masabih
For Idris believed the hadith were not merely texts. They were voices . The Prophet’s words, he would whisper, were not ink on paper. They were lamps passed from hand to hand, from breast to breast, across the dark sea of time. “The best of you,” the Mishkat reminded him in the Book of Knowledge, “are those who learn the Qur’an and teach it.” But Idris had extended this: the best are those who learn the way of the Prophet and embody it where no one sees. One morning, Idris did not wake
Idris said nothing. He poured tea. Then he asked, “When you recite ‘The believer is a mirror to his brother,’ do you know what that means in the dark?” His eyes fell on the Book of Virtues:
He learned to restore manuscripts. He learned to brew tea for the poor. He learned to bite his tongue when insulted, remembering the hadith: “The strong is not the one who overcomes people, but the one who overcomes himself when angry.” He learned that the Mishkat was not a book to be mastered, but a lantern to be carried.
“No,” Idris said. “It means that when you look at another, you do not see them. You see yourself. If you see a fault, it is your own reflection. And if you see light, you are light.”