The stranger before me was an old friend, who rarely met. And even though I loved him, he wouldn’t have known. We take things we dont care about for granted. In fact, right then sitting across him I felt as if I had never really met him. May be I never had. May be he was just a name from the long list of people I have come across on the internet who materialized.
So I said, yes, I will pray for you.
We paid for the coffee and left. In different directions. His to leave the place, mine towards the maze of Srinagar lanes to home.
The air was heavy with the burden I carried. I must add his name to the prayer. But then, my prayers had carried no name. It had been more of a wish, a secretly expressed desire to which God was a witness. And of course, his Prophet (PBUH). And yet, it would have been unfair if I hadn’t mentioned him specifically. Donated a whisper in his name too.
What is the price of prayer?
On the day of Jumat-ul-Vidah, a few years ago the Imam was fervently praying after the congregational prayers. There were loud gasps as people broke down, saying Amen. Afterwards they chimed in loudly for a highly effected Kashmiri na’at. Even in the women’s section teary eyed women raised their shawls and the hems of veils in prayer. The prayers then too had no names. They were universal for every body. For joy and happiness. For peace and justice. For life.
However, at night I tried to remember the name of the stranger. The little warrior far away from home, fighting his own brand of despair. And wished his freedom. I tied the wish to the wings of prayer for the stranger. That he may find rest from all that was hard on him.
I prayed that someone would do so much for me too.