They boarded a double-decker bus which had empty seats on the top floor. Asrar sat next to Mohammad Ali on the front seats. Both belonged to the same village but were meeting for the first time. Ali told Asrar that he worked with a diamond businessman and if Asrar wanted, he could put in a word for him. Asrar said that he would discuss it with Qasim before making a decision. The bus reached Haj House. The engraved verses from the Quran on the building made Asrar happy. He asked Mohammad Ali, ‘Such a tall mosque?’

‘It is the Haj House.’ Mohammad Ali smiled.

‘What do you mean by Haj House? Don’t people go to Saudi Arabia for the pilgrimage?’ Qasim inquired.

‘You idiot, the entire world knows that the pilgrims go to Saudi; this place makes all the arrangements for them,’ Mohammad Ali explained.

Asrar silently kept looking at the grandeur of the building. He had never seen something as beautiful as this. Mohammad Ali had shown him the buildings of Churchgate station, Anjuman-e-Islam and the Times of India and gave him the little information that he had acquired. Asrar was impressed with Mohammad Ali’s knowledge.

The Mumbai that he saw after crossing the Churchgate signal was very different from the Mumbai he had seen on Mohammad Ali Road and at the Umar Ali Usman sweet shop. But he did not ask any questions; his eyes widened as he gaped at the Mumbai that can take your heart away.

They deboarded the bus at a little distance from the Taj hotel. The newcomers looked at the Taj hotel from the Gateway of India with much intensity, as if to carve and save it in their memories forever. Before the magnificent building they felt small and inconsequential. The intimidating sight of the hotel only seemed to enhance its grandeur in their hearts. The place where they were standing would be the same spot from where the world media would report the terrorist attack on the hotel five years hence. At that point these friends would remember this memorable journey to the Gateway of India and the Taj hotel.

Seven years later, during the last days of July, on a Sunday afternoon in the room of the jamat, Mohammad Ali dreamt of Asrar. They talked for long about life. In the dream, Asrar lived in some other country. He started talking about the barbaric terrorist attack in detail, to which Asrar replied, ‘I am no longer there where the terrorists live. What will I do with all the information?’ This saddened Mohammad Ali. He opened his eyes and felt the tears. He intensely missed Asrar. He got up and hired a taxi to Haji Ali dargah. He sat in a corner in the courtyard of the dargah, engrossed in Asrar’s memories. He cried for long.