The Dimyāṭī Maqāmah: Justice and Boundaries in Companionship

1. One question, two sharply different answers

The first traveller has claimed generosity and patience toward neighbours, companions, and even opponents. His closing statement disavows revenge even under severe provocation.

«فَقَالَ لَهُ صَاحِبُهُ: وَيْكَ»
His companion replied, “Why, you!”—an exclamation of surprise and warning.

Wayka arrests the listener's attention. The first speech insisted on kindness despite mistreatment; the second will question whether it is wise to disregard the other person's conduct altogether. The narrative now becomes a debate between two approaches to relationships.

2. Yā bunayya: a familiar opening

«يَا بُنَيَّ»
My dear son!

The form of address need not prove a literal father–son relationship. Arabic bunayya can be an affectionate or admonitory vocative. By addressing the other man directly, the speaker makes his response personal and pointed.

His position then diverges from the first speech: relationships matter, but trust cannot always be granted indiscriminately. The passage combines a familiar tone with a firm argument.

3. Value and selective care

«وَيُنَافَسُ فِي الثَّمِينِ»
People compete for what is precious.

Al-thamīn means something valuable or precious. The companion begins with a general observation: we discern and protect what carries value. He applies that discernment to friendship, distinguishing a loyal companion from someone who seeks only advantage.

His point need not imply befriending only wealthy or influential people. In the argument, value points toward nonmaterial qualities such as loyalty, integrity, and genuine concern.

4. The responsive person and the defiant one

«لَا آتِي غَيْرَ الْمُوَاتِي»
I do not seek out someone who is unwilling to meet me halfway.

Al-muwātī is associated with agreement and readiness to cooperate. Later al-ʿātī describes a defiant or overbearing person. A responsive companion and an aggressor are not treated as morally identical in this speaker's approach.

The contrast distinguishes appropriate kindness from indiscriminate surrender. He argues for attention to character rather than automatic compliance.

5. Fair treatment and sincerity belong together

«وَلَا أُصَافِي مَنْ يَأْبَى إِنْصَافِي»
I do not offer wholehearted friendship to someone who refuses me fair treatment.

Uṣāfī concerns sincere, unreserved companionship; inṣāf denotes justice and fair dealing. Their similar sound joins distinct ideas—affection and practical fairness.

For this speaker, friendship is not secured merely by warm words. Repeated denial of another's rights undermines complete trust. The line states a principle of reciprocal fairness.

6. Disregarding the bonds of brotherhood

«وَلَا أُوَاخِي مَنْ يُلْغِي الْأَوَاخِي»
I do not establish brotherly ties with one who dismisses the bonds that hold people together.

Uwākhī evokes brotherhood and close affiliation. Awākhī refers to ties or fastening bonds, here an image of relationship. One side seeks connection; the other treats the bonds as expendable.

Their similar sounds sharpen the contrast. It is more than end rhyme: linked word forms make the idea of binding and unbinding tangible.

7. When affection is really for money

«وَلَا أُمَالِي مَنْ يُحِبُّ مَالِي»
I do not support someone whose affection is for my wealth.

Umālī means siding with or supporting someone; mālī is “my money.” Their close sound produces an elegant cadence, but the criticism targets a relationship driven solely by gain.

He is not proving that anyone who benefits financially must be unfaithful. His argument concerns affection in which wealth, rather than the person, is the real object. This gives a contrary angle to the first traveller's expansive generosity.

8. The severed cord of companionship

«وَلَا أُبَالِي مَنْ صَرَمَ حِبَالِي»
I do not concern myself with one who cuts the cords of our bond.

Ṣarama means to sever; ḥibālī literally means “my ropes.” In context these cords image the ties of companionship. The relationship becomes something sustained by the grip of both parties.

The ropes are metaphorical, not physical. The first speaker claimed to repair broken relations; the second refuses to pursue someone determined to sever them.

The same series refuses endless appeasement of someone who ignores the speaker’s worth («وَلَا أُدَارِي مَنْ جَهِلَ مِقْدَارِي»).

9. Zimām and dhimām: a wordplay about trust

«وَلَا أُعْطِي زِمَامِي مَنْ يُخْفِرُ ذِمَامِي»
I will not hand over my reins to someone who violates my trust and protection.

Zimām is a rein for controlling an animal; it pictures personal agency and decisions. Dhimām means pledge, protection, or obligation. Yukhfiru describes violating that protection or trust.

The single-consonant contrast, zimām/dhimām, creates partial jinās. The rhetorical point is concise: do not surrender control to someone unworthy of confidence.

10. Affection is not owed to hostility

«وَلَا أَبْذُلُ وِدَادِي لِأَضْدَادِي»
I do not lavish intimate affection on those set against me.

Widād means love or affectionate attachment, while aḍdād means opposites or adversaries. The similar rhythm accompanies a clear semantic opposition.

Nearby phrases extend his insistence on distance from hostility. The first speaker offered connection even to aggressors. Here the companion's response raises a distinction between acting decently and granting intimacy or trust.

11. Planting goodwill in hostile ground

«وَلَا أَغْرِسُ الْأَيَادِيَ فِي أَرْضِ الْأَعَادِي»
I do not plant acts of kindness in the soil of enemies.

Ayādī literally means hands but can also mean favours or benefactions. Aghrisu means “I plant,” and arḍ is earth or ground. The line evokes gardening but concerns giving and its effects.

The speaker constructs a sustained metaphor: benefactions are seeds, relationships are soil. In his view, active hostility offers poor ground for cultivating favour. That is his rhetorical stance, not proof that reconciliation never succeeds.

12. Muwāsāt and masāʾāt: the test of solidarity

«وَلَا أَسْمَحُ بِمُوَاسَاتِي لِمَنْ يَفْرَحُ بِمَسَاءَاتِي»
I do not freely give my sympathy to one who rejoices at my suffering.

Muwāsāt is solidarity, help, or comfort in hardship; masāʾāt refers to troubles and injuries. Their phonetic proximity underscores contrary ideas: one person helps while another takes pleasure in pain.

The line turns on opposed emotional responses. The speaker considers someone who celebrates your distress unsafe as a trusted intimate.

13. Ḥibāʾ and aḥibbāʾ: selective generosity

«وَلَا أَخُصُّ بِحِبَائِي إِلَّا أَحِبَّائِي»
I reserve my special gifts for those I love.

Ḥibāʾ means a gift or donation, while aḥibbāʾ is a plural for dear ones or beloved companions. They sound similar but carry different lexical meanings.

The speaker distinguishes meeting someone's basic needs from bestowing special rewards or confidence. Compared with the first man's sweeping generosity, his is a selective approach. Both positions are voiced by characters in this literary dialogue.

14. The language of illness and remedy

«وَلَا أَسْتَطِبُّ لِدَائِي غَيْرَ أَوْدَائِي»
For my illness I seek help only from those truly dear to me.

Dāʾ means disease; astaṭibbu concerns seeking treatment. Awdāʾī indicates devoted or loving companions. The literal imagery invokes medical care, while the context of friendship highlights the importance of trust.

The point is not to make a practical rule about medical providers; within the story it means relying on sincere people when vulnerable.

15. Giving to someone who wishes you harm

«وَلَا أُصَفِّي نَيْلِي لِمَنْ يَتَمَنَّى مَنِيَّتِي»
I do not reserve my purest benefaction for someone who wishes me dead.

Nayl refers to something received or given as a benefit; maniyyah means death. The near sounds make the line memorable, while the concepts—doing good and wishing harm—conflict sharply.

The contrast adds intention to the speaker's criteria for trust. Against the previous man's unrestricted goodwill, he professes to consider both another person's motives and conduct.

16. Praise and the emptied bowl

«وَلَا أُفْرِغُ ثَنَائِي عَلَى مَنْ يُفْرِغُ إِنَائِي»
I do not pour out praise on someone who empties my vessel.

Thanāʾ means praise; ināʾ is a vessel. Their close rhyme gives a tangible image: praise seems like a liquid being poured, while the emptied vessel represents loss or exploitation.

The same verb, ufrighu / yufrighu, appears with different objects. This grammatical parallel intensifies the irony: the speaker refuses to fill another with compliments when that person empties his supplies.

17. Can opposite behaviours be demanded at once?

«وَمَنْ حَكَمَ بِأَنْ أَبْذُلَ وَأَخْزُنَ، وَأَلِينَ وَأَخْشَنَ»
Who has ruled that I must both give and hoard, both soften and grow harsh, in the same matter?

Abdhula / akhzuna — give or spend / store away.
Alīna / akhshana — be gentle / be rough.

The pairs share a grammatical pattern while expressing opposing actions. This is not a request for the name of a judge; it is a rhetorical denial of an unreasonable demand. The arrangement also exemplifies ṭibāq, the juxtaposition of opposites.

18. Melting and freezing; glowing and fading

«وَأَذُوبَ وَأَجْمُدَ، وَأَذْكُوَ وَأَخْمُدَ»
And must I melt and freeze, blaze and grow cold?

Dhawb / jumūd juxtapose melting and solidifying, while dhukūw / khumūd evoke a fire rising and dying out. Natural images make the social argument vivid.

The point is that a speaker cannot reasonably be required to become opposites merely to suit the other party's wishes. The balanced syntax makes the objection especially memorable.

19. Weighing words with the precision of a coin

«بَلْ نَتَوَازَنُ فِي الْمَقَالِ وَزْنَ الْمِثْقَالِ»
Rather, let our speech be weighed with the precision of a measure.

Natawāzanu conveys mutual balance; maqāl means speech; mithqāl is a weight or measure. The abstract idea of conversational fairness is made visible by the image of weighing.

He rejects a relation in which one party speaks without restraint while the other always accepts disrespect. His proposed answer is mutual respect in language.

20. Matching deeds step for step

«وَنَتَحَاذَى فِي الْفِعَالِ حَذْوَ النِّعَالِ»
Let our actions correspond as closely as a pair of shoes.

Fiʿāl denotes actions; ḥadhw describes correspondence or following the same pattern. The pair of shoes gives a homely simile of parity.

The preceding line weighed speech; this one aligns conduct. Together they state that fairness should appear not only in words, but also in what the two parties do for one another.

AspectArabic phraseMeaningSpeechنَتَوَازَنُ فِي الْمَقَالِBalance in what we sayActionنَتَحَاذَى فِي الْفِعَالِParity in what we do

21. Loss through unfairness and mutual resentment

«حَتَّى نَأْمَنَ التَّغَابُنَ وَنَكِيَ التَّضَاغُنَ»
So that we may escape mutual unfair loss and concealed rancour.

Taghābun implies unfair advantage or mutual loss; taḍāghun concerns rancour and hidden hostility between people. Both are form-VI verbal nouns, whose reciprocal pattern suits the speaker's focus on mutual conduct.

His reasoning goes beyond retaliation. Fairness in words and deeds, he argues, can prevent trust from deteriorating into resentment.

22. Why should support be met with contempt?

«وَأُقِلُّكَ وَتَسْتَقِلُّنِي»
Must I carry your burden while you treat me as insignificant?

Uqilluka concerns lifting or supporting someone. Tastaqillunī here carries the sense of treating another as small or of little worth. The near-identical verbal shapes create a pointed rhetorical contrast.

The rhetorical question opposes service on one side to contempt on the other. Where the first speaker emphasized the extent of his generosity, the second asks what response that generosity receives.

23. Ajtariḥu and tajraḥunī: gain versus injury

«وَأَجْتَرِحُ لَكَ وَتَجْرَحُنِي»
Should I work to earn for you while you wound me?

Ajtariḥu can mean to earn or acquire through effort; tajraḥunī means “you injure me.” Although both draw on the root j-r-ḥ, their meanings diverge.

This root-based wordplay is not merely ornamental: it contrasts effort expended for another person with harm inflicted in return. The speaker sees such one-sided dealing as unjust.

24. Sun through clouds: justice and oppression

«وَأَنَّى تُشْرِقُ شَمْسٌ مَعَ غَيْمٍ؟»
How can the sun shine clearly while cloud covers it?

The sun can stand for the visibility of justice, and cloud for whatever obscures it. The speaker is not supplying weather information; he gives a vivid image for the difficulty of expecting perfect fairness under oppressive conditions.

A neighbouring question asks how justice could be produced from mistreatment. Both are rhetorical questions making the same argument: pressure and humiliation cannot easily generate an equal relationship.

25. Affection cannot thrive with humiliation

«وَمَتَى أَصْحَبُ وُدَّ عَسْفٍ؟»
How can I sustain affectionate companionship under coercion and injustice?

ʿAsf denotes unjust force or harsh oppression. The next question asks how a free, dignified person could accept a humiliating condition. The speaker's overall thesis is now complete: alongside sacrifice and generosity, companionship requires fairness and respect.

The prose then gives way to a literary citation, introduced by «وَلِلَّهِ أَبُو حَبِيبٍ يَقُولُ». Level 020 will examine the poem and the story's next development.