THE PAST FEW days, I’ve been away from the city—deep in rural Bangladesh.
Life is different out here. The first thing you notice is the beauty—endless shades of green stretching as far as the eye can see. The pace slows. The air is cleaner. Time feels still, almost suspended.
I brought my family here to help my children connect with their roots—to see where they come from, and to hear the stories that shaped us. To experience life before the internet, before comfort became convenience, and to understand how our elders lived with far less, yet often had more peace in their hearts.
We visited my grandfather’s old home. No one from our family has lived there in over twenty years, since my grandparents passed away. My uncles, aunts, and cousins have all moved on. It’s unlikely anyone will return to live here.
Still, the place carries a weight of history.
My father built this house early in his career, before he married, buying the land and creating a home for his parents and younger siblings. As the eldest son, he carried a heavy responsibility, a common expectation in those days. It was simply understood: you sacrificed for the family.
I pulled my children aside and shared memories—stories from when I was their age, visiting this very home. Some stories made them laugh. Others made them quiet. There’s something deeply powerful about telling your history in the very place it unfolded. And I saw in their eyes that they understood.
The house is in poor shape now. Though a few caretaker families have rented here to prevent total ruin, time has taken its toll.
The garden is overgrown. Trees tower over what used to be open space, light replaced by darkness. The grass is gone. The pineapple plants have disappeared. The pukur (lake) has overflowed, and the ghats are crumbling. The bathing area, once a place of so many children’s laughter, lies in ruins. The well has been filled in. Nature has reclaimed what once was a dream.
It’s painful to see my father’s early efforts fade into decay. But in that sadness lies a profound lesson.
After this house, he began a new chapter—after marriage, alongside my mother. They poured everything into building their dream home. I remember their effort, their sacrifices. There were no mortgages back then. You saved. You struggled. You built—brick by brick.
As a child, I often felt something was missing, not love, but presence. My parents were always working, always striving. The dream was around the corner.
Eventually, they achieved it. We lived in a beautiful detached house in Dhaka. Gardens, a triple garage, and separate quarters for staff. My bedroom was the largest I’ve ever had. Marble floors, bespoke furnishings. We were one of just six houses in a private cul-de-sac.
But I only lived there for four years and eight months!
Then life shifted. I left for London to study. My brother followed five years later. My parents, now alone, eventually joined us. The dream home in Dhaka became too big, too quiet. It was rented, then sold to developers. In its place now stand apartment blocks, like so many others that have overtaken Dhaka.
And therein is the lesson.
Nothing in this world lasts.
We make grand plans. We dream of homes, success, and permanence. But life has its own way. Our needs change. The world shifts around us. We adapt, or we’re left behind. The only constant is change. And tying our happiness to things that don’t last only leads to disappointment.
Allah reminds us in the Qur’an:
ٱعْلَمُوٓا۟ أَنَّمَا ٱلْحَيَوٰةُ ٱلدُّنْيَا لَعِبٌۭ وَلَهْوٌۭ وَزِينَةٌۭ وَتَفَاخُرٌۢ بَيْنَكُمْ وَتَكَاثُرٌۭ فِى ٱلْأَمْوَٰلِ وَٱلْأَوْلَـٰدِ ۖ كَمَثَلِ غَيْثٍ أَعْجَبَ ٱلْكُفَّارَ نَبَاتُهُۥ ثُمَّ يَهِيجُ فَتَرَىٰهُ مُصْفَرًّۭا ثُمَّ يَكُونُ حُطَـٰمًۭا
Know that the life of this world is but play and amusement, adornment and boasting among you, and rivalry in wealth and children. Like the example of rain whose growth pleases the disbelievers; then it dries up and you see it turning yellow; then it becomes [scattered] debris. (al-Hadid 20)
The Prophet ﷺ also said: “Be in this world as though you were a stranger or a traveller.” (Bukhari)
This Dunya is not home. It never was.
I’ve tried to take a different approach to life. I live within my means. I avoid debt. I don’t obsess over building a “forever home.” Because I know it’s not forever. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. My focus is on being content with what Allah has given me now.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy the comfort Allah has blessed me with—Alhamdulillah, I do. But I remind myself constantly: it’s temporary. It can change. And one day, it will all be left behind.
The Prophet ﷺ once said: “The heart of an old person remains young in two things: love of the world and long hopes (for life).” (Bukhari)
It’s in our nature to chase comfort and plan far ahead. But we must temper that with awareness of the Hereafter. Because true success isn’t measured in property or possessions, it’s measured in taqwa, and in what we send forward for the life to come.
So I live in the house I have today. Not a forever home. Just a stop on the journey that serves a purpose.
And I am happier for it.
Living For Islam 