In the meantime I waited, and two officials waited with me on the other side of the long counter. I got up, pointed at one of the signs, then at myself and shrugged my shoulders. This provoked some sleepy mirth. The superior with the sunken cheeks rushed back and forth. Amir returned, his mission accomplished. The shift had changed and those familiar with our case were replaced by others who still needed to be persuaded of its importance.
About an hour after sundown – after Amir had explained to me at least five times why he had to be at work the next day – the superior with the thin face handed us two pieces of paper on which our names, passport numbers and the date of our departure were written. That was all we needed; these were the papers that would allow us to leave Medina. Upon producing them our passports would be returned to us at the airport. The man told us to set off from Medina at least 24 hours before our flight, apologised again and took his leave in an elaborate manner. We barely had enough time to collect Amir’s luggage from the hotel and exchange a hasty goodbye.
The next day I felt lonely, washed out and depleted. After noon prayers, I read from the Qur’an for a while then fell asleep in the almost empty and remarkably chilly Grand Mosque (ice-cold water circulated underground). I was awakened to find my body bathed in light. The golden dome glided almost silently to the side, creating a quadratic atrium, and I was lying in the middle of it. The afternoon sunbeams beat down on me from a cloudless sky.
Over supper – sitting with my shawarma on the steps that lead from the Grand Mosque to the bazaar – I was addressed by two men whose accent was unmistakably British.
’Mate, do you know the latest football results?’
‘What results?’ I answered with great presence of mind.
‘Oh, We though you were one of us. You know, our team had an important game yesterday.’
I explained that I came from India and didn’t have a clue about football but if they wanted to discuss cricket, I was more than willing. The pair looked puzzled. They were from Bradford and very passionate about a team I had never heard of. They asked where I was really from. I repeated that I was Indian and they were so fascinated by this fact that a few minutes later – also carrying their fast food – they returned to join me and bombarded me with questions. I reported on life in Mumbai, but they shook their heads.
‘You can’t be Indian.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘You are too pale.’
‘And you are obsessed with skin colour,’ I said to the older one. He laughed. He conceded to this but wanted to know more about my family’s origin, nonetheless. He was reassured when I told him about my Central Asian forefathers, which was not entirely untrue.
They, like me, were ready to leave Medina, and were carrying plastic bags with the last of their shopping. Their experience of the Hajj was similar to mine: the Kaaba had been overwhelming, Mount Arafat intense, and the everyday reality sobering. They found the behaviour of many Muslims outrageous, the mobile phones, the pushing and the rudeness.
‘Lack of civility,’ one of them said.
‘Definitely,’ the other affirmed.
‘Takes a lot to get used to it.’
‘Not sure you can ever get used to it.’
We spoke about life in Britain; their outlook differed from Arif’s. I could imagine them in a stadium, as loud as any other fan, minus the cursing and boozing. Although there was plenty they didn’t like – the nudity on display, racism, alcoholism – they expressed their appreciation of the civil society there and the sense of community that still prevailed.
‘It might sound paradoxical,’ the older one said, ‘but some of the Islamic ideals are more of a reality in Britain.’
At Medina’s colossal bus station, fearing hours of incomprehensible delay, I turned to a young official for help and he took me under his wing. While he was leading me to the right office he casually mentioned, not in an unfriendly way, that this wasn’t actually his job but that he wanted to help me. He just had one small request in return, if I didn’t mind.
‘Certainly,’ I said.
‘Pray for me. Please pray for me.’
‘Are you married?’ I asked on a sudden impulse.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I would so much like to be.’
‘I’ll pray that you find a good wife.’
He gave me a warm little smile and turned on his heel.
Homeward bound
At the airport in Jeddah I was hit by many a sinking feeling: a Saudi Arabian official shouted at us for daring to look through the pile of passports he had emptied onto a table. He wanted it to be done in order, one passport after the other. He opened a passport, peered at all our faces then handed it to its owner. All through this time-consuming ritual I had frightening visions that my passport might not have made it from the office in Medina to the bus station, or that it had been handed to the wrong bus driver. I saw it lying in some drawer, lost amongst the passports of 99 Uzbeks. The official stared at me then chucked a document enclosed in the green Cosmic Travel protective holder at me. I tore it open: The photo was one where I had more hair on my head and less beard on my chin, but it was definitely me. Relieved I hoisted my luggage to the next counter – the Zamzam water was to be shrink-wrapped.
My confidence plummeted when I was informed by an Air India official to make my way to the charter flights at the end of the hall. Even at a distance the partly obscured large crowd at the two check-in desks was clearly visible. Up close, people showed their true colours. Three groups tripped each other up: a throng of Afghans (men only), a tour-group of Turks (mostly men) and a jumbo jet’s worth of Indians (equally made up of men and women). The Afghans were waiting by the desk on the left side, separated from the others by a metal barrier. Both the Turks and the Indians had the second counter in their sight. The Turks were flying to Cologne, that much was clear. The rest I gradually deciphered from curses and threats. They were waiting for an incredibly delayed plane that should have departed the previous day. Now the Indians, whose plane was ready, were jostling to hand in their luggage, but the Turks weren’t letting them through. The Indians – never short of flexible solutions – had started to throw their luggage over the barrier until there was a towering pile of green bags by by the time I got to it. It seemed the ruin of the Orient and Occident had coincided.
What I saw next filled me with relief: Hamidbhai was sitting on the scales by the counter, elbows propped on his thighs. He was sitting there as peacefully as a Mandarin on a misplaced throne, while everyone around him was aggressive and chaotic: Airport workers, Air India ground staff, leaders of the Turkish and Indian travel groups – all yelling at one another.
I pushed my way through a wall of complaints from the Turks and greeted Hamidbhai enthusiastically who displayed no pleasure at seeing me again whatsoever. He just asked what on earth was I doing there in confusion. I held up my ticket.
‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘that was just a formality so the authorities would let you out of Medina. I told you to call me before you left. You are not booked on this flight.’
I almost collapsed.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘Wait, and pray. Let’s see. If it doesn’t work out, you can come back to Mecca with us.’
I looked around: the furious faces of the Turks, the quiet insolence of the Indians who were slowly infiltrating the narrow area, the mountains of luggage – it didn’t seem fair to suffer all this in vain.
Check-in had opened for the Afghans. They stood in a disciplined, quiet queue. Having checked in their luggage, their way back was blocked by a multitude of Zamzam containers, they clambered over the barrier and cut a path through the riled Turks. Remarkably, the Turks, who had protested every move the Indians made, accepted the hustling of the Afghans without a peep. Meanwhile the quarrel at the check-in counter escalated and two men started a fist-fight. Others mediated and the two combatants beat a temporary retreat. A voice in German said, ‘this is mad, totally mad.’
I turned around and saw a man with a goatee, a convert I presumed, fighting for a lost cause in the strategic struggles between the Turks, the Afghans and the Indians.
When the question of who was to check-in next was finally resolved – our flight won the battle – the Indians had to move their baggage again. The young men formed a chain and moved their belongings from right to left, avoiding the Turks as is they were the plague, while trying to give those Afghans a wide berth who were unfortunate enough to get into their way. To no avail: the Indians banged into the barrier, the Afghans tripped over the bags and the Turks looked on, unmoved and unhelpful, totally unwilling to allow their fury to wane. I tried to move some Zamzam canisters forward, but the young men said the rest of the luggage had to be dealt with first. The bags were neither weighed nor assigned a ticket, simply slapped with a sticker and carried to the back.
In the end it all worked out smoothly, the Afghans had gone, the Indian avalanche of luggage had dwindled to the occasional rockfall and the first Turkish bags were on the second set of scales at the desk. I had been nervously observing Hamidbhai the whole time in the vain hope of gauging my chances; he had left the crowd at the counter and was sitting on the floor with his assistant distributing boarding cards. I held back until he looked at me and smiled.
‘Stay in touch,’ he said, ‘come and see me sometime in Mumbai.’
Then he handed over my boarding card with one of his ostensibly nonchalant gestures. I could have hugged him. It was only when I was on the plane that I realised how well Hamidbhai had looked after me. How typical of him. First it had seemed like I would be left behind yet here I was, flying first class.
It would have been expecting too much of the stewardess to understand: Despite her several announcements that for security reasons praying in the gangways was not allowed, one Hajji after another stood up for the short maghrib prayer facing the plane’s tail, since our backs were turned to Mecca. Each time she tried to remind these strange passengers of the regulations she was told it would ONLY take ‘Ek Minit’, a brief minute. It was permissible to pray sitting down in such situations, but we fresh-faced Hajjis weren’t in the mood for comfortable compromises.
To my surprise the crew members weren’t Muslim – our stewardess had a Parsee name. She asked when it would be best to serve the meal and asked with REAL interest about the Hajj. But the way she looked at us bespoke our disconcertingly exotic air. An older man sitting in front of me was asked to speak a prayer into the onboard microphone and one final time we were roused as one to an overwhelming pitch last experienced at Mount Arafat. Then the food was served, the darkness swallowed us and the Hajjis dozed off.
Since the man sitting next to me showed no inclination for conversation, I leafed through my notebook and read photocopies of texts by earlier Hajj authors. I felt a brotherhood (and sisterhood: one of the most interesting accounts was by the Begum of Bhopal) both with the Muslims who had testified as with the Christians who had reported on it.
Return
We waited for our luggage. I hadn’t told anyone when I would be returning, but the other Hajjis were eagerly expected. Those who knew someone from the airport staff had their hands kissed in the baggage hall, as though they exuded holiness. Burhan scolded me the next day for not informing him of my arrival time; it was a custom that the Hajji be collected. I didn’t want to be the cause of a sleepless night and I was also looking forward to a quiet journey home. Hundreds of green bags moved past, in between them larger boxes with labels indicating stereo systems or televisions. The only thing missing was the Zamzam water. I waited until four in the morning. When I noticed some Hajjis leaving without their water, I went over to ask.
The Zamzam containers hadn’t travelled with us, someone from the travel agency explained. He had just telephoned Hamidbhai. They would be sent along on the next flight.
Unfortunately, they never arrived despite my numerous calls to Air India. I comforted myself with the thought that my 10 litres had accompanied another Hajji to Mauritius or Malaysia.
I shouldered my light bag and stepped out. I got into a taxi and leaned back. I was suddenly aware of the fact that I hadn’t slept properly for three weeks. I was so full of impressions it would take months to digest them. Just as we were crossing the bridge by our tall block of flats, the Muezzin called out from the Red Mosque by Mumbai Central Station, gathering the faithful for the morning prayers.
‘Prayer is better than sleep,’ he called.
‘Prayer is better than sleep.’
You have spoken truly, I answered in my thoughts, and you are right, but I need to sleep now. Afterwards life will go on, and it will be a richer life.
Echoes
Because the Islamic calendar is purely lunar, the following year’s Hajj fell two weeks earlier. Much had happened in the time between: I had moved from Mumbai to Cape Town; I remained in occasional contact with the ‘ulama through email and everyday life had taken over – as is the case after any time-out – far quicker than I’d hoped. I hadn’t written once to Amir, nor visited Hamidbhai. It was as though part of me didn’t want to mix the experience of the Hajj with other experiences. The memory has faded into the background. Only occasionally, when someone calls me a Hajji, does the pilgrimage return to me in all its intensity for some vivid moments.
When Ramadan began again – it came with more challenging fasting conditions because of the long days on the Cape – I re-read my notes and was almost overwhelmed by how intensely I could still visualise it. I longed to be back on the Hajj, and I knew I could embark on that journey once more by writing about it: This was the most powerful motivation for this book.
Today I finish it, on the day of Eid al-Adha; a day in which the newspapers once again report deaths during the stoning. The Imam of the oldest mosque of South Africa has called for us to pray for the safe return of the Hajjis. A few days from now, relatives will collect their loved ones from the airport upon their homecoming. And soon preparations will begin for those embarking on next year’s Hajj – a climax in their lives and their faith.
And as an old saying goes, You have not truly lived until you have been on the Hajj.
Cape Town,
11th of Dhu al-Hijjah 1424
(1st February 2004)
Glossary
Ahadith
plural of hadith
Alhamdulillah
God be praised
‘Alim
scholar, particularly of Islam
‘Asr
afternoon prayer; part of the ritual prayer (salah)
Aya (Ayaat pl.)
a verse of a sura
Azaan
to inform, to call; the call to prayer by the muezzin
Bhai
brother (Urdu)
Bismillah
in the name of Allah, (the opener to all suras)
Burqo’
black over-garment worn by women to cover their body, and sometimes their face as well (Burqo’ is the face covering and abaya is for the body)
Djinn
an invisible being of fire, like mankind there exist the devout and the unbelievers
Dua’a
personal prayer and also general supplication
Eid al-Adha
the Feast of Sacrifice, takes place on the 10th of Dhu al-Hijjah
Eid al-Fitr
the feast of that comes directly after Ramadan, a celebration for the breaking of the fast
Fajr
prayer before sunrise; part of the ritual prayer (salah)
Fatwah
religious decree issued by a qualified person
Fidya
compensation for not adhering to certain rules
Fitna
dissention caused by disagreement over Islamic matters. The results throughout Islamic history have had grave consequences.
Hadith
sayings or discourse directly attributed to the Prophet (pbuh). They serve to guide in word, action and deed also
serving as an example of the ideal Muslim life
Hafiz
a person who has learned and can recite the Qu’ran in its entirety from memory
Halal
lawful or permitted in Islam
Haram
unlawful or blasphemous
Hijra
the Prophet’s (pbuh) flight from Mecca in September 622 to Yathrib (Medina); it marks the start of the Muslim calendar
Hijaz
the coastal region of the western Arabian Peninsula bordering on the Red Sea; includes both Mecca and Medina
Mumbai to Mecca Page 10