The sun had just begun its slow descent over the modest village of Kharaqan, casting golden light across mud-brick homes and narrow, winding paths. The scent of lentils and warm bread drifted through the air from a humble kitchen where Abul Hasan Kharaqani, a saint beloved by the poor and forgotten by the powerful, was preparing a simple meal.
Children played nearby, their laughter echoing in the breeze, while old men rested beneath fig trees whispering prayers. Abul Hasan, wrapped in a coarse woolen cloak with flour-dusted hands and eyes that shimmered with divine kindness, stirred a pot over an open fire. He was preparing food not for kings, but for the hungry souls who relied on his generosity.
Suddenly, two strangers arrived—one with a long robe and a scholarly air, clutching a well-worn manuscript; the other gaunt and severe, his eyes burning with the fire of renunciation. A religious scholar and an ascetic, they had travelled far in search of truth, drawn by whispers of a mystic who knew the secrets of the Divine.
“Do you know where we might find Abul Hasan Kharaqani?” they asked a man near the kitchen.
Kharaqani, immediately sensing their quest, wiped his hands, smiled warmly, and replied without hesitation, “Yes, but first, you must eat. Let me serve you.”
Confused but moved by the man’s kindness, they accepted. He led them to a shaded patch near the fire, spread a simple cloth on the ground, and served them himself—refilling their bowls, offering warm bread, and pouring cool water with the quiet dignity of a man in service to God.
They ate heartily, touched by the unexpected hospitality. Only after their meal did Kharaqani sit with them, folding his legs beneath him. A silence settled.
“I am Abul Hasan,” he said softly. “How may I help you?”
The two men exchanged a glance—their surprise now mingled with awe. The scholar cleared his throat, eyes searching the horizon. “We have journeyed long to ask a single question. One that has haunted us for years.”
Kharaqani nodded. “Ask.”
The scholar spoke, his voice heavy. “If God is all-good and all-just, why does evil exist in the world? What is its purpose?”
Kharaqani said nothing at first. His eyes, deep as the ocean, seemed to look through them and beyond.
Finally, he turned to the scholar. “And what do you do when you encounter evil?”
The man straightened. “I seek knowledge. I read, study, reflect—so I may understand and overcome it.”
Kharaqani turned to the ascetic. “And you?”
“I deepen my asceticism,” the man answered solemnly. “I deny the world, seek divine power, fast, pray, endure—so I may confront evil with purity.”
Kharaqani nodded slowly, then stood, silhouetted against the setting sun.
“You rise early to seek knowledge,” he said to the scholar. “And you seek refuge in austerity,” he added, turning to the ascetic.
Then, placing a hand gently on his heart, he said with quiet, unshakable certainty:
“But Abul Hasan wakes each day to bring joy to the hearts of his brothers and sisters.”
A stillness fell over the world. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if the Earth itself was listening. In that moment, the problem of evil melted—not solved by logic or discipline, but transformed by love.
And somewhere in the distance, a child laughed. A pot boiled over. And the world, with all its darkness, felt a little more like light.
