IN THE NAME OF ALLAH, THE MOST GRACIOUS, THE MOST MERCIFUL.
__.
'The Criterion' is a story about flawed souls. Searching, stumbling, learning, repenting, returning.
At its core, it is raw and transformative, guided by a grace beyond words. And beneath it all, it's undeniably divine.
At its heart, it is a love story; between the soul and it's source.
It's about that quiet, unspoken pull; that keeps
drawing you back to who you were always meant to be.
This isn't just a romance tale. No.
It is an holistic pilgrimage; into the soul's deepest, most honest chambers; for both physical, spiritual, psychological, and emotional healing.
__.
Words of Intention:
This book does not come to dis-mantle your beliefs.
Nor to replace what you hold sacred. No.
It is neither a weapon, nor doctrine.
It is simply... A mirror.
Held gently for those brave enough to see themselves in it,
for those ready to unlearn what was once survival,
and re-learn what might just be the soulful truth.
A work of fiction.
A vessel of divine memory.
A home for those still remembering.
Here begins 'The Criterion'.
______.
The air hung thick and still. Before Jamal, the river stretched out wide, dark and smooth, like a sheet of black glass; absorbing the light instead of reflecting it. A soft mist rose from the water, coiling slowly, as if alive.
Then a sharp cry broke the silence.
He looked up, and from within the thick mist, a bird emerged. Magnificent, with wings of molten fire. It's colors shifted from bronze to flame red; then shadow, too radiant, too beautiful to be real. The flame fell like star shards, disappearing just before touching the water.
Jamal's chest tightened. The cry of the bird did not fade instantly. Instead, it echoed deeper, resonating through his very spirit. For a suspended moment, time seemed to pause as his eyes remained fixed on the sky, tracing the bird's path until the last glimmer of spark vanished.
Leaving only the fading echo of its call, lingering like a whispered secret.
A trembling mix of fear and awe washed through him, so powerful it stole the rhythm of his breath.
In the resonant silence that followed, a new sound arose: soft, clear, and haunting. The repeating note of a single guitar string. It was not merely heard, but felt deep within him: a low, humming vibration rising from the river itself, as though the water had found its voice.
The sound drew his gaze back toward the misty water.
A boat emerged from the haze, gliding soundlessly forward without oar or ripple, as if moved by intention alone. At its center sat a woman in a radiant white gown, her form softened by distance yet vivid in presence. A wide sunhat shadowed her features, but the guitar resting across her lap gleamed like an unspoken promise. Her fingers drifted over the strings, evoking a resonance that felt more like vibration than melody; a sensation as much as a sound, humming through the air like a remembered insight, lingering long after it faded.
The sound did not simply meet Jamal's ears; it resonated deep in his bones, as though it had always been there, sleeping within him, waiting for this moment to be awakened.
Although he could not see her clearly, he did not know her face, her name, or her story; yet he recognized her beyond words. Not from live memory, but from that silent, sacred place within the soul, that remembers what the conscious mind has long forgotten.
The boat drifted slowly, like it was being guided by the very music she played. As though the guitar were more of a compass of the heart than a musical instrument, steering her toward some unseen destination only she could sense. And Jamal could only watch in marvel, captivated, as she and her song moved as one across the glassy dark water.
Jamal's hand rose of its own accord. His lips parted to call out, but no sound escaped. His voice was bound; caught between awe and the shock of recognition. She did not turn, yet he felt her presence, her deep recognition fall upon him like a mantle.
As he stepped closer to the water, her voice reached him. Soft, certain, untouched by distance:
"Nothing stops the flow of water. Meet me at the keeper's threshold."
Before he could move further into the water, the mist curled thick around her, swallowing boat and song alike, until the river stood bare once more: smooth, untouched, as if nothing had ever passed.
Jamal stood frozen. Her words rang inside him, stirring both wonder and ache. "…At the Keeper's Threshold." The phrase coiled through him like a riddle, like a summons. He almost smiled at its strangeness.
But how was he meant to follow such an instruction? How could he even hope to find a boat there, if such a place truly existed? She was already on the water. Why hadn't she taken him with her? Or perhaps; perhaps she was already heading there.
He turned. His gaze sweeping across the opposite bank, dense with bush and darkness. Maybe Perchance, hidden in the weave of branches, lay some secret boat to sail across this vast, mist-laden, glassy-dark water.
He made his way to the other side, looking for any sign of a boat. Then he noticed it. A thin line of smoke rising from deep within the bushes.
Without overthinking, he pushed his way in, and the bushes closed in around him, thick and stubborn. Leaves brushed against his arms, thorns tugged at his clothes, and every step throughout was a fight through leaves and tight branches.
He pushed forward stubbornly, following the smoke like a clue.
Finally, he broke through into an open space and suddenly, he gasped awake, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Cold sweat plastered his shirt to his skin as the room stood dim and still. For a long moment, he just sat there, disoriented, the woman's words echoing like a vibration deep in his bones.
'Meet me at the keeper's threshold..'
He scanned the room: his familiar desk, the prayer rug rolled in the corner, the faint glow of streetlight through the curtains. Slowly, reality reasserted itself. It had been a dream. But unlike any other; this one felt heavier, more tangible, as if it had left fingerprints on his soul.
For years, it had been only her. The woman who drifted through his dreams like a vision just beyond reach, a presence felt but never fully seen. He had prayed against her, tried to bury the restless yearning she awakened in him, still to no avail. But tonight? Tonight was different, she had a voice. And she was not alone.
There was the strange, fiery bird crying out across a dream-skies, wrapped in layers of mystery. It all rushed back now, not like a half-remembered dream, but like something he had lived. Every sensation, every word. It was all there, imprinted. Real.
A deep unease tightened in his chest. This was no ordinary dream. It was indeed a summons. One he could not ignore.
'Nur Afiya.'
The name surfaced from somewhere deep within. Possibly an answer, or maybe, a remembrance.
The thought arrived fully formed, urgent and clear: he knew now; he had to return. It had been years since he last walked those familiar streets, years since he sat at the feet of his Shaykh. Now the dreams lingered like a duty he could no longer set aside; confusing, yet undeniably peaceful. When day broke, he would return to Nur Afiya to seek clarity from his Shaykh. Perhaps this was the sign he had been waiting for all along.
He turned off the lamp, surrendering the room to a soft, embracing darkness, and lay back beneath the blankets. Though his body ached for rest, his mind remained awake, listening. Somewhere in the distance, the first call of Fajr began to drift from the mosque minaret: steady, resonant, pulling the world from sleep. He closed his eyes, hoping to rest briefly before morning solat, one phrase echoing like a quiet vow in the stillness:
'...At the keeper's threshold.'