As a geneticist, my work often revolves around unraveling the complexities of DNA, how the smallest variations in our genetic code can shape who we are. But every year, when Ramadan arrives, my thoughts shift from the intricacies of science to the simple yet profound joys that shape our lives. One such pleasure, deeply embedded in my memory, is a small book with a pink cover: my Quran.

Growing up, it wasn’t easy to find a Quran in colors other than the standard black, green, or blue. When I was in my early teens, I was fortunate enough to receive a pink-covered Quran, a rare find at the time. It wasn’t just its color that made it special; it became a constant companion throughout Ramadan, accompanying me through my quiet recitations at dawn and my reflections before iftar.

Then, one day, I lost it.

I don’t remember how it happened, but I remember the feeling of loss vividly. It was as if a part of my routine, my identity, had disappeared. I searched everywhere, but it was gone. Ramadan that year felt different. Though I still read the Quran, something was missing. The loss of that pink book, as insignificant as it might seem to others, weighed on my heart.

Years passed. Life moved forward. I pursued my studies in genetics, delving into the science of inheritance and variation, where I learned that life is full of patterns, some random, some deeply meaningful. And then, in what felt like a moment of serendipity, I have received another pink Quran, a gift for me from my sister in law.

It was exactly the same as the one I had lost. The color, the size, even the texture of the pages, everything was identical. I couldn’t believe my luck.

To this day, I still have that Quran. Every Ramadan, as I hold it in my hands, I am reminded that happiness often comes in the smallest forms: a kind word, a familiar scent, the warmth of a memory. Science tells us that our brains are wired to find joy in unexpected moments, in tiny rewards that trigger a release of dopamine, the same way a lost object found can bring back a wave of comfort and nostalgia.

In the grand scheme of life, my pink Quran is just a book. But in the realm of personal joy, it is a symbol of how small things can carry immense meaning. In a world that often pushes us to seek bigger achievements and greater ambitions, sometimes it is the quiet, personal victories, the return of something once lost, the familiarity of an old routine, that bring us the deepest happiness.

This Ramadan, as I turn the delicate pages of my pink Quran once more, I am reminded that life, much like genetics, is a series of patterns, some we can predict, and some that surprise us in the most beautiful ways.