Meanwhile, the two sturdy bullocks trotted the whole night and, after a brief rest in an empty, discarded barn, reached Muzaffarabad the next day, which by then had been occupied by the Pakistani armed forces. Far away from Syed’s riotous home, Sadali was much more peaceful, calm and serene. He shifted Bibi to his sister Zaida’s home and, after a day’s rest, headed back to his village. On his way home, he stopped to give back the bullock cart to its rightful owner and walked the rest of the distance. However, a rude shock awaited him. The door to his house was ajar. On closer inspection, he realized that the lock had been smashed and all his belongings were lying scattered on the floor and some were even half burnt. The word ‘Kafir’ was scrawled on a placard in black ink and hung on the wall. Syed smiled to himself, raised his hands, looked up towards the sky and said, ‘Mein Kafir achha aise panj namaazian to, tera shukar hai mere Rabba, lakh-lakh shukar hai mere Khuda [I am better a Kafir than those who say namaz five times a day. I am grateful to you, O Lord, thankful to you, O Allah].’

He turned towards the door to find a giant shadow blocking the entrance with a naked sword in hand. The bright sunlight streaming in made it difficult for Syed to recognize the intruder. He looked carefully. It was Iqbal. They stood in silence for a few seconds, admiring each other, before Iqbal stepped forward and broke the ice. ‘I have seen hundreds of maulanas shouting Allah from atop mosques. But today, I feel fortunate to be standing in front of a true Sufi. Please pardon me, Syed Sahib. I doubted you and didn’t recognize the godliness you radiate,’ he said as the sword fell from his hand with a loud clang. Syed didn’t say a word. Instead, he took a step forward and embraced Iqbal.

He was crying. ‘Thank you, Iqbal, for saving my daughter,’ he managed to whisper.

Over the next few days, Syed behaved like he had lost his mind due to the sudden death of his two young sons and the rude behaviour of the villagers. He began wandering aimlessly and acted like a madman. He misbehaved with shopkeepers, scattered their wares, broke glass tumblers at tea kiosks and hurled abuses at passers-by. Out of guilt, sympathy and pity, the villagers tolerated his behaviour but soon became wary of his presence. On the fifth day, Syed set his own house on fire and began dancing in the veranda outside. The villagers rushed to his rescue. This performance convinced the mullahs that he wasn’t sheltering any non-Muslims in his house. On the sixth day, Syed woke up early, stepped out of what was left of his semi-burnt home, bid goodbye to Iqbal and began his long walk towards his ancestral home.