Back in her room, she quickly changed and then went to the kitchen for lunch. Unknown to her, an old man had been quietly observing her all along. He looked deeply impressed by her devotion. He sat down next to her. They looked at each other, exchanged pleasantries and ate their meal in silence. Most of the pilgrims had finished by then and had left the langar hall. The food was simple. It comprised rice, dal (lentils) and mixed vegetables, but it was so tasty that Bibi took two helpings and instead of a spoon used her fingers to enjoy it.

The old man observed that she was crying and tears were falling in her plate. In order to hide them, she had covered her head as much as she could with her dupatta. The old man waited for her to finish, and when she did, he stood up and picked up her empty plate from the floor. Bibi looked up in disbelief, but he calmed her down, ‘Allow me the privilege, Bibi,’ he said softly. There was a reassuring familiarity in his voice. She let him have his way but her eyes followed him all the time.

The old man carried the utensils to the sink, washed them and placed them neatly on the rack. He then went into the kitchen and came back with two cups of tea. Bibi accepted the beverage and settled on the chair. After a brief introduction, she narrated her story and sought his guidance. The old man looked at Bibi in disbelief. Placing his mug on the floor, he said, ‘Faith can indeed move mountains. But what you’re seeking, Bibi, seems impossible. However, your journey thus far, riding on your deep devotion and belief, tells me that I am yet to learn many things. I shall pray that you are united with your sons soon. May God bless you!’

Bibi didn’t respond with words but bowed with folded hands. Then adjusting her dupatta and placing it neatly over her head, she stood up and was about to leave when she saw the aged Sikh picking up her cup from the floor. She tried to stop him from cleaning it, but knew by then that it was a futile attempt. She thanked him and bid him goodbye before heading towards the exit to begin her search. Stepping out of the premises, she looked yet again at the huge crowd. She began by talking to the shopkeepers. She had an old photograph of her first husband. She showed it around and told whoever would lend an ear that her husband, Sakhiullah, had shifted to Hassan Abdal from Muzaffarabad in 1950 with their two sons.