The prayer hall is simple but elegant. The colours, too. Sandstone and cedar. The minarets are shaped like peaks instead of domes, an ode to the Rocky Mountains in the distant horizon. Soft lights cast a pale, soothing glow over the hall, which is full but not yet at capacity. Many more will arrive after evening prayers when the night formally begins at nine o’clock, and by midnight, the hall will be jam-packed with followers eager to take advantage of the night’s most powerful prayers. The seniors sit at the back of the hall in chairs designated for them. The rest of the congregation sits on the carpet. Men on the right, women on the left. The leaders of the jamatkhana, two married couples, are on the carpet, too, but behind their phats, low tables at the front of the hall that face the congregation. Mukhi Sahib and Mukhiyani Ma, Kamadria and Kamariyani Ma. On their tables, a feast of offerings, including the platters of food Mukhiyani Ma ordered from Layla.

Close to midnight, Mukhi Sahib asks the congregation to stand for the midnight prayers. The congregation rises. Layla, too, her rosary beads in hand. A young woman with golden hair, dressed in a brilliant blue shalwar kameez, weaves through the congregation to the podium at the front of the hall. She turns to Mukhi. He nods. She presses her palms together in prayer and begins. Ya Rahman, Ya Rahim. The Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful. The congregation joins in, their voices building, like a wave, louder and louder, until they are swimming in sound.

Some leave after the midnight tasbih ends at one. Volunteers in their smart blue uniforms parcel out cashews and coffee beans to help those who remain stay awake. The night is spent with prayers interspersed with breaks, devotional songs, and waez-speeches from missionaries. By now, some have stretched out their legs, covering their feet with shawls. Others have their children at their sides, fast asleep under blankets. At four, the lights are dimmed and the congregation begins a silent meditation followed by regular morning prayers at five. Then, breakfast is served in the social hall. Some don’t stay for breakfast, eager to get home to sleep or to get to work. Layla sits with the seniors, dunking mumri into cups of steaming chai. When they finish, they begin their procession to the jamati bus.

Snow swirls around the lampposts of the jamatkhana parking lot. In the distance, across Deerfoot Trail, the red light at the top of the Calgary Tower blinks on and off, like a lighthouse in a dark sea. Their bus driver, Al-Karim, who is a member of the Volunteer Corps, stands at the steps of the bus and offers his hand to those who need it. “Work, No Words.” That’s their motto. The Corps do so much good seva-service for the community, but they never tout their virtues to the world like a salesman hawking a product. God is watching, and that is enough. Once everyone is inside, Layla asks Al-Karim to help her with her cellphone. She’d noticed a message on it but didn’t know how to retrieve it. The phone was a gift from Ashif after he bought a new one for himself. He insists that she use it whenever she wants. Call long distance. Call anyone you want. But she keeps it for emergency purposes only. She does not want to waste her son’s hard-earned money. Besides, she doesn’t know how to use all the features, even though he had explained them to her. But how many new things can you learn in one lifetime?