Meri Mannat Tu {You Are My Destiny}

3: musky mornings

Hosh mein? Rahun kyu aaj main...tu meri baahon mein simti hai, mujh mein samayi hai yeh

- from "Pee Loon" from the movie Once Upon a Time in Mumbai

[Translation: Why should I be in my senses today? You're melting in my arms, becoming a part of me]

✨

The next morning, I woke up feeling much better than I had the previous night. Though Qadeer has sleepwalked into my room halfway through the night-an old childhood habit of his, proceeding to snatch my pillow from underneath my head and drool all over my arm-I'd still slept fairly peaceably and for that I was glad, because today was going to be a long day. I had plans-

Plans that involved snacking on pani puri, shopping-I needed new clothes badly-and spending time with the family I had missed for so long.

And Sahir.

Of course, Sahir.

The call to prayer drifted in through the window that I had left cracked open. Yawning, I shook the covers off and padded over to the window. Below me, the streets of Hyderabad were cast in a lilac light, the sky peeling, just barely, to reveal the citrus beneath. Dawn was my favorite time; the air was fresh and soft and clean, the city hummed with breaths of dreamers not yet ready to face the light of day. So they dove under their covers, refusing to open their hearts to the secret of the parting night. Because there were those whose hearts were attached to something intangible, something more than what was visible here on earth. Dawn was the vice of the devoted.

I washed up quickly before quietly exiting the room and making my way down the hall. Sure enough, there he was, sitting on the divan of the drawing room with a Qur'an balanced on his lap and his feet tucked underneath. Head bowed, he read softly from the holy book, the Arabic words like a soothing lullaby on his lips, his finger hovering just over pages softened with age and time, pages that smelt of him-my grandfather.

I sunk down into a sofa and Nanu lifted his eyes and smiled at me, but the flow of the words never stopped from his mouth. I tipped my head back and simply listened to the soothing rise and fall of the Arabic language, drinking in the early morning air that spilled from the open door and the slotted windows.

Nanu's drawing room was the definition of tranquility. Antique wooden sofas lined two of the walls, the divan where he ate, worked, and slept taking up the wall across from the curtain that separated this first room from the rest of the house. A bookshelf rested against one corner, its rickety shelves sagging under the weight of books on Islamic thought, Urdu poetry, philosophy, and my grandfather's leather-bound diaries. The walls were a serene sea-blue. The main door of the house, made of a dark heavy oak with delicate wood carvings, sat slightly ajar, cool morning breeze flowing through the small crack and into the room, where it rose together with the tendrils of smoke from the incense lit in the corner, casting the room into a hazy lavender trance.

Closing the book, my grandfather kneels on the floor with his forehead against the concrete before he sits up and cups his palms in prayer. His skin is wrinkled and soft, but each move of his speaks to the quiet strength that lies in his bones. Once a hitman for a notorious gangster that ruled the streets of Hyderabad in the 60s and 70s, my grandfather had given up a lifetime of violence, infamy, and lucre for the Quran and sunnah. Now, he was a revered political-religious figure in Hyderabad, and the leader of his baradari, sort of like a social class. Men, women, and children from all over the city came to seek Nanu's blessing and get his advice. He was not to be messed with, my grandfather. Yet when he prayed to his Lord, there was no one as submissive as him.