We are both climbing the mountain; he is on foot and I on the bus…….
He is pursued by assassins, I on a tour to seek the footsteps of the Beloved.
I can feel his breathing as he ascends the mountain road, stopping for a moment to assess the distance to the nearest town. I do the same. The rooftops of the town glisten in the morning sun, pristine in their whitewashed garb and in the midst of them a cylindrical green dome sits like an alien, just like him in an alien town far away from home.
He is fleeing his assassins and has nothing to help him except Allah and the duas of his grandfather in whom runs the blood of the family line of the Rasool pbuh. I on the other hand nothing to fear except the sheer drop from the edge of the road down into…
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