Her Vocation

22. Hasbi Allah

"Who?" The Guard asked and I felt my hope shattering.

'Ya Allah. What will I do now? It's almost Isha—where would I go at this time of night?'

"Haadiya Ameen? I have her card here—" I began to fumble with my backpack to take out the card which Haadi had given to me 4 years ago. I knew there was a huge possibility that I might not find her by showing up at her door after so many years. But the fear of getting traced later, hindered me from contacting her beforehand.

And as I watched the guard eye the card in his hand, I began to feel my confidence and hope crumbling. Just like in the past, I felt myself beginning to doubt The One, whom I had prayed to in desperation last night.

'If I don't find Haadi then where else would I go? I ran away with nothing but hope in Allah's mercy—what if He shuns me? Where would I go? How will I survive—all alone—in this foreign land—without any support or help—'

"Oh—but she doesn't live here. Who gave you this information?" As he uttered those words the tears that I was so desperately trying to conceal, began to escape the confines of my eyes. My hold on the Quran in my grasp tightened while I turned away to hide my whimpering. Rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand, I returned to meet his gaze and take the card from his hand.

'No. I won't despair of Allah's mercy anymore. If this is what He chose for me, then I am going to accept it as His decree. He knows what's in my heart and how helpless I am. If this door is closed then surely Allah will open another for me. And if that closes then some other. I'll keep knocking this time until He forgives me and opens His doors of mercy for me.'

"Thankyou. Sorry to disturb you—" I gave a small smile, which was hidden behind my niqab and turned away.

Maybe, I should look for a place to stay for tonight. A hotel, maybe? Ya Allah, please make a way out for me like You parted the Red Sea for Prophet Musa AS. 'Verily, You alone I worship and You alone I ask for help. (Quran 1:5)'

"Hold on a minute, bachay (child)." His solemn voice resounded behind me and I stopped in my tracks. Turning to face him, I saw that he had closed the few steps which separated us.

"I meant she doesn't live here. This is a Madrasah—" I felt the clogged breath knock out of me and unintentionally a sob cracked out of my lips, which he didn't seem to notice.

"—She teaches here at the Madrasah but her husband Salman Sahib owns it—They don't live far from here. That's their kothi (house), over there—" He pointed to a cottage atop hills which was prominent even from distance.

"I can take you there—" He suggested helpfully but all strength seemed to have left my legs and I fell to the ground with my knees buckling under me and my backpack dropping ahead of me.

"—are you okay?" The guard's worry laced inquiry clashed with my ears. Yet, I couldn't say anything. My whole body shuddered with the gravity of his words. I stumbled to catch my footing but just before getting up I touched my forehead to my backpack on the ground, in prostration. It might've lasted for a second or maybe less but if I wasn't in company of a stranger, I would've never been able to get up from that sujood.

I felt scared—the power and jalal (glory) of Allah was humbling me to dust. His mercy was melting my heart. How could I've ever dared to disobey Him? What chance do I stand against the Almighty? The Greatest?