With tiny chubby hands folded just below his chest, he stood in line with the rest of the Namazis. The Talawat of the Imam swam in the windy night of Ramdhan. The green lights on the Masjid’s minar against the backdrop of a purplish sky was the object of fascination for him. From time to time he lifted his prayer cap covered head towards the sky and took a quick glance at the softly lit up minar with loud speakers emitting the soothing talawat reaching the ears of the Momins.
He stood there in the front most saf (row) among men, some tall, some fat, some sleepy, some with tummies bulging out post heavy iftaari ritual and as a result stood there in a state of dreaminess. Alas everyone stood in front of his Creator. When everyone bowed down to prostrate to the Almighty, he got a little pushed sometimes from the tall man on the left and sometimes from the fat man on the right.
Someone in the masjid coughed constantly. His attention was diverted by the probably old man whose coughing got louder and louder. It agitated some when they should have been more concerned for the ill health of someone than being annoyed. The Imam’s Talawat soared the starry skies and the Momins prayed. He could hear his grandma’s voice in his unusually big ears. Quickly shaking his head like a child about to throw a tantrum he stood in respect with the rest of the congregation and listened to the message of God. He understood nothing like many around him but listened for it brought peace and harmony.
The wind blew from every corner, it criss crossed the Namazis standing shoulder to shoulder in peace and unity. Another gush of wind blew and the tent at a distance caught his attention. The tent stood like an old lady without a walking stick, wobbly and weak. With every flight of the night breeze, the tent danced back and forth and he wondered what lied behind the tent walls. On the other side of the floral green tent partition women, young and old, submitted themselves to their Lord.
On this side of the tent, where his world existed, once again while being squished between men who occasionally burped or felt itchy, his tiny, long eye lashed eyes closed. After only seconds he woke up to find himself the only one in Sajda. Embarrassed and shocked he adjusted his cap with one hand and pulled up his drooping trousers with the other, jumped onto his feet and joined the rest. For quite some length he didnt raise his head despite the minar’s fascination. He felt ashamed of himself. He had fallen asleep while the Imam led the prayers. He had been absent while God looked down at his creatures immersed in prayers. How outrageous He must have felt to discover him dosing off in Masjid.
A delicate film of the purest tears filled his eyes. One drop glided down his bumpy cheek while the rest got sheltered by the long healthy lashes. When the imam and the rest turned their heads for Salam, he followed obediently and attentively. Cupped hands were raised in the air, some old wrinkly, some big, strong and veins protruding, some white, some brown, some rich and some poor, some joined together and some raised apart. Among the many sorts of hands he cupped his own tiny pair and brought them in front of his chest raising them in the air.