Imām al-Bukhārī was not only a scholar but also engaged in trade—like many upright men of knowledge in his time. One day, a consignment of goods reached him. News of its arrival spread quickly, and a group of merchants came rushing to him. After assessing the merchandise, they offered a profit of five thousand dirhams. 

But Imām al-Bukhārī was not in a hurry. “These goods have only just arrived today,” he said gently. “Why don’t we wait till tomorrow? Let me think on it overnight.”

The next morning, just as daylight broke, a second group of merchants approached. They inspected the goods and offered a higher profit—ten thousand dirhams.

But al-Bukhārī’s response startled them. “Last night, I had resolved in my heart to sell it to the first group for a profit of five thousand,” he said. “Now that I’ve intended it, I do not wish to undo that intention. Please forgive me. We may consider another transaction some other time.”

In trade, as in scholarship, Imām al-Bukhārī exercised an almost surgical precision. He once remarked, “I have never accepted or handed over any item in business without full scrutiny.”

Muḥammad ibn Abī Ḥātim, surprised by this strictness, asked him, “But has Allah not made trade lawful? Why such extreme caution?”

Bukhārī replied, “Yes, but what if I unwittingly accept goods that belong to someone else? What if there’s an unknown defect or a confusion in the transaction? I choose to handle all my dealings personally and with utmost care to ensure no one is wronged—knowingly or unknowingly.”

This concern for others—this deep and abiding gentleness—permeated every corner of his life. He would say, “I do not eat garlic. Nor do I consume onions or similar pungent herbs.” When Muḥammad ibn Abī Ḥātim asked him why, al-Bukhārī said simply, “I fear that the smell may inconvenience others.”

Muḥammad ibn ʿAbbās al-Firabrī recalled an incident in the mosque. “I once plucked a tiny stray hair from the Imam’s beard—just one. But he immediately said, ‘Don’t discard it inside the mosque. Take it out and place it outside.’”

Even in his speech, especially when discussing narrators of hadith, al-Bukhārī exercised extreme care. If a narrator was weak or unacceptable, he would seldom use harsh words like munkar al-ḥadīth (rejected) or kadhdhāb (liar). Instead, he preferred more delicate phrases:

“The scholars remained silent regarding him.” (sakatū ʿanhu)

“His case requires further consideration.” (fīhi naẓar)

“It appears the scholars left him.” (tarakūhu)

He once remarked, “I wish never to meet Allah with a record that includes the slander of another. That is not the state I desire to face my Lord in.”

There was even an incident when al-Bukhārī met the scholar Abū Maʿshar. Without greeting or preamble, he said: “Abū Maʿshar, I need to make peace with you.” “Why?” the elder asked, taken aback. “There was a day you were present in an assembly while I was narrating a hadith,” said al-Bukhārī. “You seemed unfamiliar with it. You moved your head and hands in a way that caught my eye, and I smiled—only lightly, but I smiled.” Abū Maʿshar, who was blind, responded, “Is that all? Then peace is already between us. I accept.”

This was the heart of al-Bukhārī—never dismissing even the smallest harm he might have caused someone. Always alert to the subtleties of human dignity.

His soul was built not just for scholarship, but for sensitivity—for imagining the pain of others before they ever felt it. And that, in the end, was his greatness: not only what he knew, but how he carried the weight of that knowledge—with humility, with precision, and with a heart unwilling to wrong even a stranger.