Yā Rabb, You painted the seven-hundred-grain multiplier and immediately, in the very next verse, named the two pesticides that would kill the crop. Mann. Adhā. The reminder. The hurt. Forgive me, ya Allāh, for every mann I have committed. The conversation where I mentioned the loan I gave to a brother years ago. The family discussion where I noted, for the third time, the help I extended at the wedding. The text where I asked indirectly for acknowledgment of a kindness I had performed. Each was a small mann, in Your naming, and each cancelled what would have been seven-hundred-grain crops in my akhirah field. Forgive me. Strip the habit from me. Train my tongue to forget what my hand gave. Train my chest to never need acknowledgment from a recipient. Train my niyyah to be so locked on Your pleasure that the human receiver is invisible in my memory. The Prophet ﷺ described the secret giver whose left hand does not know what the right hand has given. Make me one of them. And ya Allāh, if I have wounded someone by a mann they did not deserve, send the wound back through me with healing, not theirs. They received a help; they should not have had to pay it back in shame. Let me apologize where appropriate. Let me give again, this time silently. And let the grains of my future giving be untouched by either pesticide. Multiplied. Seven hundred. And beyond. Āmīn ya Karīm.