It was just another ordinary day nothing special at first glance. But what set it apart was that, on this day, I decided to fulfil a long-neglected longing in my heart. I turned toward the nearest mosque to offer the Asr prayer.

We humans how strange we are, aren’t we? The very Allah who created us, who knows every beat of our hearts, every vein in our body it is Him we treat so selfishly. We turn to Him only when we need something, when our hearts are heavy or when the world turns its back on us.
Anyway, Bhopal’s weather it’s almost always hot. And that day too, the sun was relentless, reigning high in the sky, pouring down its fury. With its burning blaze, it seemed to consume the entire city, draping every street and corner in sweltering silence.
Yet even in that heat, even in that moment, something within me was beginning to melt not from the sun, but from the weight of what I had carried for too long.
I hadn’t been in this city for long. The reason I came here was because a dear friend of mine had fallen ill I had come to see him, to be by his side.
As the call to Asr prayer echoed through the air, I followed its trail. It led me down a narrow street, winding through a cramped colony. The path was tight, hemmed in by old buildings and timeworn walls. The colony was alive with a modest crowd people walking past small shops, weaving their way between roadside vendors and nearby workshops.
The mosque was small but then again, the house of God is never measured by its size. Around it, the scattered gravel and the fresh scent of cement made it clear that the construction was still unfinished, that this sacred space was still becoming. Upon hearing the call to prayer, people from around the neighbourhood began turning toward the mosque. Just then, a large white Ambassador car came to a halt. From it stepped a man somewhere between the strength of youth and the grace of old age accompanied by two guards. He entered the mosque quietly, while his guards remained by the gate, standing watch, waiting patiently for their master to return.
After the muezzin’s call to prayer, the time for Asr congregation had begun. I found a spot in a Saff (row of namaz), and on my right stood the same person dignified in both presence and attire.
After the prayer ended, I heard that gentleman softly yet with a trembling urgency supplicating to Allah. He was asking for mercy, for forgiveness. There was something in his voice a weight, a weariness that felt ancient.
Listening to him, it didn’t seem like this man had ever truly known peace. His words were soaked in pain and longing, as if he was carrying years of silent sorrow. I was stunned. A man who looked so powerful from the outside respected, guarded, composed was, on the inside, so deeply in need, so vulnerable.
It was a humbling moment. A reminder that the soul has its own truths, often hidden behind the Armor we wear for the world.

Hearing that man’s quiet sobs the soft sounds of his grief and broken-hearted whispers I felt something shift within me. My own pain, my own struggles and wounds that had always felt so heavy suddenly seemed smaller, almost bearable.
Is this the truth of this world? That no matter how strong, how composed someone appears, they too carry their own silent storms?
In that moment, it felt as if all the masks of power, pride, and position had slipped and what remained was just another soul, aching and pleading, just like mine.
Yes, maybe this is the truth of this world. That we are all, in one way or another, quietly reaching out hoping for mercy, for relief, for a little light in the places no one else can see.
Yes, in the eyes of Allah, we are all equal. His essence is pure and truly magnificent.
The man in the masjid finished his dua. He wiped his eyes. Stood up with difficulty. And left.
I left the masjid with a kind of ache I didn’t want to soothe. A sacred sadness. A soft mourning for what never was, and a quiet hope for what still might be. Because nothing you did to survive was a mistake. And if you are feeling again, even in grief, even in confusion, it means you are healing. It means the story didn’t end where the pain began.
I don’t know why, but as I was leaving the mosque, my heart was silently wishing that all this gentleman’s troubles be taken away though I have no connection to him, I don’t know him at all, nothing yet a strange restlessness stirred within me.
There was a strange unease otherwise, I couldn't understand any reason for feeling such deep sympathy for that powerful person.

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