The Best Place in the World
The sky was alternating from hues of glistening and sparkling black to azure blue as I awoke during the wee hours of the morning, observing the sights of the Prophet’s magnificent city unfold right before my eyes. Even during the break of dawn, there were throngs of people trekking in the streets, folks of all ages heading towards the mosque with the Green dome to pray the Morning prayer. On our route towards the green dome, there were street vendors selling traditional Roasted Chicken, Kofta Kebabs and every other Arabic street food you can think of. The aroma of the exotic spices and freshly roasted chicken was as crisp as newly picked vegetables and made the atmosphere as warm as newly baked bread, hot from the oven. The savory aroma of the Shawarmas was so intoxicating that it made my mouth water. From the It tar shops in the corner, the perfumed fragrance of cinnamon, along with botanic materials and a hint of dense date palm oil drifted through the air, leaving a pungent yet pleasant aroma in the air. Perhaps, this was the only place where I had seen such a diversity of people, I thought to myself as we closed the distance between us and the mosque. So many people of varying color, ranging from snowy white, to wheatish yellow, to sun kissed golden and so on.
The sight of the Mosque was so enchanting that I could not divert my eyes, even for one second due to sight in front of me. They say that once you enter the mosque of the Prophet you forget all your worries. Indeed, it was for I could not even feel the prickle of sweat trickling down my face due to the intense humidity of the Arabic Sun or the puffiness under my scarf. They say that in the Mosque you feel no emotion but love. Perhaps, it was the overflowing love for the Prophet in my heart that did so or the fact that I was in his city. I did not feel angered, nor impatient, even when a plump Egyptian woman almost trampled me under her feet, or when I had to stand within a crowd of millions of women, almost suffocating. No, how could I. I was in the Prophet’s mosque, where even the floor looked as if it had been newly cleaned. The white tiles always glimmering and shining. The ceiling a magnificent pure white and the most exquisite chandeliers hung from it, filling the entire mosque with a radiant white glow. The chants of millions of people, some praising the Prophet’s Creator and some praising the Prophet himself were in complete harmony, better than any orchestra’s music. The symphony of the praises mixed with intricate meanings behind them was melodious to the ears. Finally, after hours and hours of exhaustion came the moment all the people had been waiting for.
There it was, the place where the Prophet rested. The mere sight of it was enough to move the millions of people in the crowd to tears. The salty taste of my tears dissolved onto my tongue, but they were not tears of sadness. Conversely, they were tears of utter joy. Joy of finally seeing the perforated stone screen, beyond which within a raised platform of ancient trodden stone rested my Prophet. Above the latticed stone screen in concise and elegant calligraphy was inscribed the name of the man for whom galaxies were created. On to his left and right, were inscribed names of those who were most beloved to him. Restless souls from all over the world, clung onto the gaps between the stone screen begging, some praising in multiple languages. Their backs shuddering with hiccups from shedding tears of joy. Upon the ground in this part of the mosque were laid green carpets, soft to the touch, such that when my feet touched the carpet I felt as if I would drown into the ground beneath. They say the best of everyone can come out there. It is true, for with my own eyes I saw folks of all ages, youthful and old distributing bags of warm food to the devotees sitting on the ground, looking at the sight beyond them with sparkling eyes. I thanked a young girl who handed me a bag of warm roasted chicken. The savory taste of which exploded within my mouths, the spices stimulating my taste buds. I looked at the stone screen a few inches away from me, and with my greasy hands prayed that goodness like this existed everywhere.
The sight of the Mosque was so enchanting that I could not divert my eyes, even for one second due to sight in front of me. They say that once you enter the mosque of the Prophet you forget all your worries. Indeed, it was for I could not even feel the prickle of sweat trickling down my face due to the intense humidity of the Arabic Sun or the puffiness under my scarf. They say that in the Mosque you feel no emotion but love. Perhaps, it was the overflowing love for the Prophet in my heart that did so or the fact that I was in his city. I did not feel angered, nor impatient, even when a plump Egyptian woman almost trampled me under her feet, or when I had to stand within a crowd of millions of women, almost suffocating. No, how could I. I was in the Prophet’s mosque, where even the floor looked as if it had been newly cleaned. The white tiles always glimmering and shining. The ceiling a magnificent pure white and the most exquisite chandeliers hung from it, filling the entire mosque with a radiant white glow. The chants of millions of people, some praising the Prophet’s Creator and some praising the Prophet himself were in complete harmony, better than any orchestra’s music. The symphony of the praises mixed with intricate meanings behind them was melodious to the ears. Finally, after hours and hours of exhaustion came the moment all the people had been waiting for.
There it was, the place where the Prophet rested. The mere sight of it was enough to move the millions of people in the crowd to tears. The salty taste of my tears dissolved onto my tongue, but they were not tears of sadness. Conversely, they were tears of utter joy. Joy of finally seeing the perforated stone screen, beyond which within a raised platform of ancient trodden stone rested my Prophet. Above the latticed stone screen in concise and elegant calligraphy was inscribed the name of the man for whom galaxies were created. On to his left and right, were inscribed names of those who were most beloved to him. Restless souls from all over the world, clung onto the gaps between the stone screen begging, some praising in multiple languages. Their backs shuddering with hiccups from shedding tears of joy. Upon the ground in this part of the mosque were laid green carpets, soft to the touch, such that when my feet touched the carpet I felt as if I would drown into the ground beneath. They say the best of everyone can come out there. It is true, for with my own eyes I saw folks of all ages, youthful and old distributing bags of warm food to the devotees sitting on the ground, looking at the sight beyond them with sparkling eyes. I thanked a young girl who handed me a bag of warm roasted chicken. The savory taste of which exploded within my mouths, the spices stimulating my taste buds. I looked at the stone screen a few inches away from me, and with my greasy hands prayed that goodness like this existed everywhere.
Ayesha Abdullah
Class: 11-T
The City School, E-11 Campus
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