It’s lunch time and you’re famished.
Out of the office, cross the overhead bridge to the other side of the road, for some truly original nasi kandar.
Half way across the bridge, though, you encounter a woman, without limbs, seated next to a begging bowl.
She looks you in the eye, but says nothing.
You reach into your wallet, get out a red note, and place it in the bowl.
Sedekah.
You’re half way through your nasi kandar and you can’t stop thinking of that woman seated on the bridge.
Then it hits you.
She has no limbs.
How will she eat?
You buy a bungkus of nasi kandar and a packet of susu bandung, head out to that woman, sit beside her and, not a word passing between the two of you, hand-feed her.
As you hold the straw to her lips so she might sip, silently, tears trickle.
Yours and hers.
Two souls, hitherto worlds apart, have connected.
Zakat.
Sedekah is to give of what you have.
Zakat is to give of yourself.
Out of the office, cross the overhead bridge to the other side of the road, for some truly original nasi kandar.
Half way across the bridge, though, you encounter a woman, without limbs, seated next to a begging bowl.
She looks you in the eye, but says nothing.
You reach into your wallet, get out a red note, and place it in the bowl.
Sedekah.
You’re half way through your nasi kandar and you can’t stop thinking of that woman seated on the bridge.
Then it hits you.
She has no limbs.
How will she eat?
You buy a bungkus of nasi kandar and a packet of susu bandung, head out to that woman, sit beside her and, not a word passing between the two of you, hand-feed her.
As you hold the straw to her lips so she might sip, silently, tears trickle.
Yours and hers.
Two souls, hitherto worlds apart, have connected.
Zakat.
Sedekah is to give of what you have.
Zakat is to give of yourself.
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