The masjid was so convenient to go to. I mean why would a devout muslim want to pray at home when the masjid was in the mohalla itself ?
The holy month of ramzan was upon them. The days were racing by in a haze of hunger and sleep deprivation, one had to pray the one a.m.prayer, then get up for 'sehri', which was the meal consumed before sunrise.
She was a young bride, buxom and pretty, if simple. Not having attended school ( did it even exist in the early nineties in rural India when she was a child and a girl at that) she only had a basic religious knowledge which enabled her to say her prayers and read the holy Koran. Prayers moreover, were all that one had, when the husband lived in far away Mumbai, while she and the children stayed back in the village.
Most of her neighbours slept in a tired stupor, or prayed in the comfort of their homes. specially the one a.m. prayers. Who would want to rise at one and go to the masjid, at the unearthly hour ? Specially when the masjid overlooked the graveyard. Only very few intrepid souls of whom she was one.
She awoke with a start. That night, one of her children had been unwell. So she had fallen asleep later than usual. Rising up quickly, she grabbed her prayer mat, undid the heavy doors and hurried off to the masjid. "Oh no!" she thought to herself. "Im so late, people have already finished. The doors are closed." Standing there, she hesitated, "Should i leave?" It was then that she became aware of the hustle and bustle inside. "Ah," she told herself triumphantly," they are still there." She climbed up the few steps, eased the doors open and entered.
She stood at the entrance, her eyes widening at the sight that met her eyes. Standing rooted at the spot, the feeling of gooseflesh on her arms, she stared at the hall in front of her. Dead of winter it was, but the chill spreading thru her limbs, brought tiny beads of sweat on her brow. For standing in the hall, the Empty Hall, she could feel people brushing past her, jostling her, the invisible crowds pushing her ahead, as if the masjid was full. Her ears could hear the sound of running water, the slow hum of prayers resonating within the area for Vuzu, the cleansing ritual before each prayer, the clank of the wooden clogs as if people were coming in. Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck, her numbed mind registering twelve chimes.
Her children alwys wondered why there otherwise pious mother, would never ever go to the masjid for her prayers. They always wondered why she insisted it was too crowded. Specially when it was always near empty.
The holy month of ramzan was upon them. The days were racing by in a haze of hunger and sleep deprivation, one had to pray the one a.m.prayer, then get up for 'sehri', which was the meal consumed before sunrise.
She was a young bride, buxom and pretty, if simple. Not having attended school ( did it even exist in the early nineties in rural India when she was a child and a girl at that) she only had a basic religious knowledge which enabled her to say her prayers and read the holy Koran. Prayers moreover, were all that one had, when the husband lived in far away Mumbai, while she and the children stayed back in the village.
Most of her neighbours slept in a tired stupor, or prayed in the comfort of their homes. specially the one a.m. prayers. Who would want to rise at one and go to the masjid, at the unearthly hour ? Specially when the masjid overlooked the graveyard. Only very few intrepid souls of whom she was one.
She awoke with a start. That night, one of her children had been unwell. So she had fallen asleep later than usual. Rising up quickly, she grabbed her prayer mat, undid the heavy doors and hurried off to the masjid. "Oh no!" she thought to herself. "Im so late, people have already finished. The doors are closed." Standing there, she hesitated, "Should i leave?" It was then that she became aware of the hustle and bustle inside. "Ah," she told herself triumphantly," they are still there." She climbed up the few steps, eased the doors open and entered.
She stood at the entrance, her eyes widening at the sight that met her eyes. Standing rooted at the spot, the feeling of gooseflesh on her arms, she stared at the hall in front of her. Dead of winter it was, but the chill spreading thru her limbs, brought tiny beads of sweat on her brow. For standing in the hall, the Empty Hall, she could feel people brushing past her, jostling her, the invisible crowds pushing her ahead, as if the masjid was full. Her ears could hear the sound of running water, the slow hum of prayers resonating within the area for Vuzu, the cleansing ritual before each prayer, the clank of the wooden clogs as if people were coming in. Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck, her numbed mind registering twelve chimes.
Her children alwys wondered why there otherwise pious mother, would never ever go to the masjid for her prayers. They always wondered why she insisted it was too crowded. Specially when it was always near empty.
amazing suspense..very fluid..
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