Counsel Without Exposure

     بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

تَعَمَّدْنِي بِنُصْحِكَ فِي ٱنْفِرَادِي 

وَجَنِّبْنِي ٱلنَّصِيحَةَ فِي ٱلْجَمَاعَةْ

فَإِنَّ ٱلنُّصْحَ بَيْنَ ٱلنَّاسِ نَوْعٌ 

مِنَ ٱلتَّوْبِيخِ لَا أَرْضَى ٱسْتِمَاعَهْ

وَإِنْ خَالَفْتَنِي وَعَصَيْتَ قَوْلِي 

فَلَا تَجْزَعْ إِذَا لَمْ تُعْطَ طَاعَةْ

 

Meaning: 

Come to me with your counsel when I am alone,

and spare me advice in the gathering.

For counsel among people is a kind of rebuke,

whose hearing I do not accept.

And if you oppose me and disobey my request,

then do not be upset when obedience is not given.

Language:

Arabic

Transliteration:

Taʿammadnī bi-nuṣḥika fī infirādī

Wa-jannibnī n-naṣīḥata fi l-jamāʿah

Fa-inna n-nuṣḥa bayna n-nāsi nawʿun

Mina t-tawbīkhi lā arḍā stimāʿah

Wa-in khālaftanī wa-ʿaṣayta qawlī

Fa-lā tajzaʿ idhā lam tuʿṭa ṭāʿah

Origins:

These lines are widely transmitted under the name of Imām al-Shāfiʿī. They appear in modern collections of Dīwān al-Imām al-Shāfiʿī; Adab World lists the poem under his dīwān and gives the same six lines, while Shamela quotes the lines in a section on giving counsel privately and cites Dīwān al-Shāfiʿī, p. 56. Because many poems in the collected dīwān are transmitted through later literary tradition, the cautious wording is: attributed to Imām al-Shāfiʿī.

Brief Explanation:

The poem is about one of the most neglected forms of mercy: the manner of correction.

Advice is not only a matter of truth. It is also a matter of timing, tone, place, and intention. A person may speak the right words in the wrong setting and turn medicine into a wound. That is the force of the first couplet:

Come to me with your counsel when I am alone,

and spare me advice in the gathering.

The speaker is not rejecting correction. He is asking for it to arrive with adab. There is a difference between helping a person return to what is right and making him stand exposed before others. One seeks healing. The other often satisfies the ego of the one speaking.

That is why the second couplet is so precise:

For counsel among people is a kind of rebuke,

whose hearing I do not accept.

The word نُصْح is noble. In the well-known ḥadīth, the Prophet ﷺ says, الدِّينُ النَّصِيحَةُ — “Religion is sincere counsel.” So counsel is not a small matter. It belongs to the very structure of faith. But when counsel is placed in front of an audience, something changes. The listener no longer hears only truth; he hears humiliation, exposure, and loss of face.

To my ear, the poem is not defending pride. It is exposing the pride that often hides inside public correction.

Sometimes we say, “I am only advising,” while the self is enjoying the power of being right. Sometimes we say, “This is for their benefit,” while we have not taken the trouble to protect their dignity. Sometimes the advice is sound, but the method has already closed the heart.

The last couplet is firm:

And if you oppose me and disobey my request,

then do not be upset when obedience is not given.

This is not stubbornness. It is human nature. If you correct me in a way that feels like public defeat, do not be surprised when I resist you. You may win the moment and lose the person. You may prove the point and harden the heart.

A necessary caution:

This adab does not mean that every public wrong must be handled privately. If harm is public, if others are being misled, if someone is unsafe, or if silence would protect wrongdoing, then truth may need a public answer. But even then, the intention should be repair, not performance. Shamela’s discussion makes this same distinction: where the matter does not require public announcement, private counsel is more likely to bring acceptance.

A note for the self:

Before I advise someone, I have to ask:

Am I trying to guide, or am I trying to be seen as the one who knows?

Have I chosen the place that will make acceptance easier?

Would I speak the same words, with the same force, if no one else were watching?

And if I were the one being corrected, would this method help me soften or make me defend myself?

This poem belongs in homes, classrooms, staff rooms, masjids, and friendships. Much harm is done in the name of honesty because people confuse bluntness with sincerity. But sincerity has mercy in it. It does not enjoy unnecessary exposure.

Devotional Use:

These lines are useful before correcting a child, a student, a friend, a spouse, or a colleague. They slow the tongue down. They remind us that advice is an amānah. A trust.

The goal is not to empty the chest of what we want to say.

The goal is to help the other person receive what is true.

Private counsel preserves dignity. Public shaming often awakens defense.

And sometimes the difference between the two is not the content of the words, but the mercy with which they were carried.

Beyond the Waterwheel

     بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

گَر بِه «ٱللَّهُ ٱلصَّمَدُ» دِل بَسْتِه‌ای

اَز حَدِّ اَسْبَاب بِیرُون جَسْتِه‌ای

بَنْدَۀ حَقّ بَنْدَۀ اَسْبَاب نِیسْت

زِنْدَگَانِی گَرْدِشِ دُولَاب نِیسْت

مُسْلِم اَسْتِی، بِی‌نِیَاز اَز غَیْر شَو

اَهْلِ عَالَم رَا سَرَاپَا خَیْر شَو

 

Meaning: 

If your heart is bound to Allah al-Ṣamad,

you have passed beyond the limits of mere causes.

The servant of Truth is not the servant of causes;

life is not the turning of a waterwheel.

If you are a Muslim, become free of need from all besides Him;

become, for the people of the world, goodness through and through.

Language:

Persian/Farsi, with a Qur’anic Arabic phrase.

Transliteration:

Gar ba “Allāhu ṣ-Ṣamadu” dil bastah-ī

Az ḥadd-i asbāb bīrūn jastah-ī

Bandah-yi Ḥaqq bandah-yi asbāb nīst

Zindagānī gardish-i dūlāb nīst

Muslim astī, bī-niyāz az ghayr shaw

Ahl-i ʿālam rā sarāpā khayr shaw

 

Origin:

These lines are from Muḥammad Iqbal’s Rumūz-i Bēkhudī, in the section titled “Allah al-Ṣamad.” Ganjoor gives this section as part 29 of Rumūz-i Bēkhudī and preserves these opening lines; the International Iqbal Society page also gives the same passage in its text of Iqbal’s Persian works.

The title is drawn from Sūrat al-Ikhlāṣ: ٱللَّهُ ٱلصَّمَدُ. Quran.com renders it as “Allah—the Sustainer needed by all,” while Saheeh International gives, “Allah, the Eternal Refuge.” The core meaning is that all are in need of Him, while He is in need of none.

Brief Explanation:

Iqbal begins not with the hand, but with the heart: دِل بَسْتِه‌ای — “you have bound your heart.” That is the real question. Not merely what do I use, or where do I work, or what plans do I make, but where is the heart tied?

The phrase ٱللَّهُ ٱلصَّمَدُ is not just a name placed beautifully into a poem. It is the center of the whole argument. Al-Ṣamad is the One to whom every need rises. The One who is sought, depended upon, returned to. So if the heart is truly attached to Him, Iqbal says, it has gone beyond the limit of causes.

This does not mean that causes are denied. The Muslim does not despise bread, work, planning, medicine, learning, money, tools, or people. These are all from the wisdom of Allah. But there is a difference between using causes and being used by them. There is a difference between taking the means and bowing inwardly before the means.

That is why the second couplet is so strong:

The servant of Truth is not the servant of causes.

Life is not the turning of a waterwheel.

The image of the waterwheel is painful because it is movement without ascent. It turns and turns, but remains bound to the same circle. Many lives become like that: income, anxiety, comparison, exhaustion, reputation, fear, relief, and then the same turn again. Iqbal refuses to call that life. A human being was not made only to be rotated by circumstance.

To my ear, the heart of these lines is the third couplet:

If you are a Muslim, become free of need from all besides Him;

become, for the people of the world, goodness through and through.

This is the part that prevents misunderstanding. Iqbal’s bī-niyāzī is not coldness. It is not arrogance. It is not withdrawing from people and calling that spirituality. The one who becomes free from dependence on creation must become more useful to creation, not less.

That is the beauty of the line: اَهْلِ عَالَم رَا سَرَ ا پَا خَیْر شَو — become wholly good for the people of the world.

The one who needs praise from people cannot serve them cleanly. The one who fears people cannot speak truth to them cleanly. The one who depends inwardly on people will resent them when they disappoint him. But the one whose need is carried to Allah can turn back toward people with open hands.

A note for the self:

Where have I confused the means with the Provider?

Where has fear of circumstance become a hidden form of worship?

Do I take causes in my hand while keeping Allah in my heart, or have the causes entered the heart and pushed trust out?

And when I say I want freedom, do I mean freedom to serve Allah and benefit people, or only freedom from discomfort?

Iqbal’s freedom is demanding. It does not make a person passive. In the surrounding lines he immediately moves toward dignity, action, and self-respect: do not complain before the Benefactor, do not sell yourself cheaply, live free and die free. The freedom he wants is not laziness. It is the freedom of a soul no longer begging from every hand, no longer trembling before every door.

Devotional Use:

These lines are useful when the heart feels trapped by circumstances. They can be read before work, before a difficult conversation, before asking someone for help, or in any moment when means begin to look larger than Allah.

They teach a balanced path: take the means, but do not become their servant. Work, but do not worship work. Ask, but do not lower the soul before creation. Serve people, but do not make people the source of your worth.

The heart has to be tied somewhere.

If it is tied to causes, life becomes a wheel.

If it is tied to al-Ṣamad, even the causes become servants.

The Freedom That Becomes Bondage

    بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

 هَرَبُوا مِنَ الرِّقِّ الَّذِي خُلِقُوا لَهُ 

 فَبُلُوا بِرِقِّ النَّفْسِ وَالشَّيْطَانِ

 

 لَا تَرْضَ مَا اخْتَارُوهُ هُمْ لِنُفُوسِهِمْ 

  فَقَدِ ارْتَضَوْا بِالذُّلِّ وَالْحِرْمَانِ

 

Meaning: 

They fled the servitude for which they were created,

so they were afflicted with servitude to the self and Satan.

Do not be pleased with what they chose for themselves,

for they have accepted humiliation and deprivation.

Language:

Arabic

Transliteration:

Harabū mina r-riqqi alladhī khuliqū lahu

Fa-bulū bi-riqqi n-nafsi wa-sh-shayṭāni

Lā tarḍa mā ikhtārūhu hum li-nufūsihim

Fa-qadi-rtaḍaw bi-dh-dhulli wa-l-ḥirmāni

Origins:

These lines are from Ibn al-Qayyim’s famous Nūniyyah, also known as  al-Kāfiyah al-Shāfiyah . The Shamela entry identifies the work as  Matn al-Qaṣīdah al-Nūniyyah  by Muḥammad ibn Abī Bakr ibn Ayyūb, Shams al-Dīn Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyyah, who died in 751 AH. The same printed text places these couplets in the section on what Allah has prepared in Paradise for His close servants who hold fast to the Book and Sunnah. 

In the surrounding lines, Ibn al-Qayyim contrasts those who spend themselves in the pursuit of the world with those who live for Allah. Just before these couplets, he speaks of bodies in toil, hearts burning with desire and regret, and souls buried inside living bodies. Then comes the sharp diagnosis: they ran from the servitude they were made for, only to fall into a worse servitude. 

Brief Explanation:

The force of these lines lies in their reversal of the usual idea of freedom. A person may imagine that he becomes free by refusing servitude to Allah. Ibn al-Qayyim says the opposite. The human being does not cease to be a servant. He only changes masters.

That is why the first word matters: هَرَبُوا — “they fled.” They did not merely forget. They ran. But the tragedy is that their flight did not lead them into open space. It led them into another kind of captivity: the captivity of the lower self and Satan.

The word الرِّقّ is severe. It means bondage or servitude. But here Ibn al-Qayyim is using it with a moral and spiritual contrast. Servitude to Allah is not humiliation in the ugly sense. It is the only servitude that restores the human being to his true dignity. The Qur’ān gives this foundation clearly: “I did not create jinn and humans except to worship Me.” 

So the “servitude for which they were created” is not degradation. It is purpose. It is the soul standing where it belongs: before its Creator, not before its appetites.

To my ear, the most painful part of the poem is that the second servitude pretends to be freedom. The self says, “Do what you want.” Satan says, “No one should restrain you.” But very soon the person discovers that desire is not a gentle ruler. Anger commands. Jealousy commands. Reputation commands. Appetite commands. Fear commands. The person who refused one Merciful Master becomes divided among many harsh masters.

That is why the second couplet is not merely a warning. It is a refusal to glamorize a false choice:

Do not approve what they chose for themselves.

There is compassion in that refusal. Ibn al-Qayyim is not saying: look down on them. He is saying: do not call this freedom. Do not praise a bondage simply because it has decorated itself with the language of choice. Some choices are not noble merely because they are chosen. Some choices strip the human being of inward honor.

The words الذُّلّ and الْحِرْمَان complete the meaning. Dhull is humiliation, lowliness, the loss of spiritual dignity. Ḥirmān is deprivation, being cut off, being denied what the soul truly needs. This is a very exact pairing. The one who serves the self is humiliated, because the self is never satisfied. He is deprived, because appetite can consume the body while starving the heart.

A note for the self:

This is not a verse to throw at others first. It is safer to begin with oneself.

Where am I calling something freedom simply because I want it?

Where has the self trained me to obey before I even notice?

Where do I resist the command of Allah, only to obey a mood, an insecurity, a craving, or a fear?

The poem teaches that every heart has a direction of servitude. The only question is whether that servitude ennobles it or breaks it.

Devotional Use:

These lines are useful for moments of self-accounting. They can be read when one feels the pull of a desire and wants to name it honestly. They are also useful after a fall, not to crush the heart, but to return it to clarity.

The path back begins by admitting the truth: I was not made to be ruled by my nafs. I was not made to be led by Satan. I was made to belong to Allah.

And that belonging is not the loss of freedom. It is the beginning of freedom.