Chiseled Doubt

3 min readAug 6


Abdushakur stood in the bustling lobby of the city’s renowned art school, surrounded by sanitized canvases and sculptures that seemed to want to breathe life. Abdushakur’s presence was far from harmonious, his crossed arms and expression of contempt radiating confrontational nonchalance. He surveyed the student works around him, wondering how the creative process had taken a questionable turn.

Enter Govind, an idolater who considered himself a sculptor, an artist. Dressed in flowing, overpriced ‘bohemian’ attire, covered in dust, plaster, and the kind of body odor only a mother could love, he wore wooden bead bracelets up to his elbows. Striding confidently into the lobby, his eyes locking onto Abdushakur’s combative stance. Ignoring the glances of his fellow art students, he approached Abdushakur with an almost theatrical flourish.

“Ah, the infamous Abdushakur,” Govind laughed, his voice dripping with arrogance. “They say you’re quite the artist. So, what exactly do you do again?” Abdushakur’s eyebrow raised ever so slightly as he regarded the idolater, trying to hold his breath. “What? Do I know you, son?”

“I’m Govind, a master sculptor,” he boasted, with a self-satisfied cow-pie-eating grin playing on his dirty lips that were obscured by an overgrown, unkempt mustache. “You see, I create these marvelous statues that people adore and revere.”

Abdushakur’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of distaste shadowing their depths. “Statues, you say? Hm, interesting. I’m assuming you believe your lifeless figurines have some kind of power?”

“Of course,” Govind replied confidently. “They embody the divine and bring blessings to those who worship them.”

Abdushakur’s lips curled into a contemptuous smirk. “Hm, I see. You actually buy into the idea that your sculptures are some holy hotline to the heavens, huh?”

Govind nodded vigorously. “Precisely!”

Abdushakur took a step back, inhaling a fresh breath of air before turning towards Govind, his voice now dripping with sarcasm. “Well then, son, allow me to enlighten you about my own creations.”

Govind’s curiosity piqued, he tried leaning in closer, eager to hear more.

Stepping back slightly, Abdushakur continued, “I weave an infinite pattern that captures the very essence of existence,” he explained with a touch of irony. “With the flowing ink from my pen, I bring the intangible to life — portraying the beauty of patience, dedication, and the marvel of infiniteness.”

Govind frowned, not fully comprehending Abdushakur’s perspective. “But where does your art bring blessings or connect to the divine?”

Abdushakur’s glare bore into Govind. “The same divine force you claim to sculpt, the One truly shaping all of existence, is the very force that guides my hand. I’m a vessel of His creativity, and my art, whether you comprehend it or not, stands as a mirror praising His magnificence.”

Govind’s once unshakable confidence crumbled, and a defeated expression adorned his face. “So, you’re saying your art is a means of worship as well?”

Abdushakur’s glare did not falter, with a slow exhale barely masking his lingering contempt, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “Of course, son. While your statues struggle to imprison your creator, my art reveres the One before Whom your idols tremble in fear.”

Govind stood silently for a moment, fixed idly, absorbing Abdushakur’s words. Govind’s anger simmered beneath the surface as the debate veered into unforeseen territory, unveiling a deeper connection between artistry, faith, and the essence of the Creator — a revelation that stoked the fires of his frustration.

The art school’s bell rang, a poignant punctuation to their impromptu debate. Abdushakur concluded the discussion with an emphatic declaration, “Remember, son, genuine artistry doesn’t live in dead sculptures, but in the submission to the unattainable essence of The Most High.”

With those words, he underscored the resounding truth: Just as a decaying sculpture bears no resemblance to a true masterpiece, idolatry too falls short of the divine essence it claims to embody.




“Whosoever writes a book, then he has put his mind on a tray and offered it to people.” - Al-Khateeb