Smiling Haji

The sun bore down on the bare backs of the pilgrims. Bright, yellow. Hot. it was humid. Sweat filtered through the air, doing an elaborate tango with the fresh water that was being sprinkled out by huge fans. A man covered head to toe was sitting on a machine that was cleaning the white marble floor. It was silent. Swift. Efficient. People were thronging around a huge square rock covered in a black cloth. It was lined with golden words in the ancient script. A power seemed to hum from the cloth, an energy source, a proof for those who saw the truth in the little things. Maybe it was all the massive pieces of machinery both below the ground, and all around, the former to maintain the place, the latter to fill the coffers of one of the wealthiest families in the world. Construction, new buildings, a slice of every pie went into their pockets. Or vaults, since shalwaar kameez generally do not have pockets.

It was hot. Miserable. People had their heads down, bowed, but inside of most, their hearts were twisted, bound by duty. The sound came from huge fans that sprayed mists of water as supplication onto the religious, whose palms were open, spread, and accepting.

It smelled of sweat, no matter what they did, they could not get rid of it. Hundreds of thousands of people thronging through every day, in close proximity, directly underneath the glaring sun. They would sweat. The smell would not fade. It could only be managed.

The air tasted of water, a very delicate line between watery air, and fresh wet air. A deluge, and just the right amount. And it had just the right amount. The ground felt cool, cold, hard, marble. Every footstep was a return to comfort and home. 

The place, undeniably did present some sort of religious experience.

In the eyes of the beholder, right

A man walked among the throngs, ordinary looking. Beard, clean shaven otherwise. Wearing the traditional robe everyone else was. Same beard, same skin as most of them, more or less the same height. He should not have stood out. Yet, he did. For on his face shone a smile, wide, and beautiful. Happiness uncontained, joy and love spreading from his face like only plagues had spread before. You felt something stirring in your chest as you looked at him. At least i did. The reason for his euphoria was not hard to figure out. It was a she. She was on his shoulders. Atop her father’s shoulders, looking around at the throngs. She was at the top of her world. He was holding his. Her face too, was uncontained joy. She was at the one place, perched high above the world where she felt safe. Where she could truly be herself. She was five, but already, she was starting to be burdened by the expectations of society, tied down by the ropes of roles they had assigned her to. Yet here, here, she was free. She was his daughter, his princess, his world. No matter where they went, if he was there to hold her hand, she was at home.