As he got up to leave, he came face to face with Bibi. She smiled, folded her hands and said, ‘You’re rich when you’re in the prayer of others. I am so fortunate, Sir. Thank you so much. I am grateful.’ Then, without waiting for his response, she walked away to attend to other chores. The old man was stunned. He stood motionless for a few minutes.

How did she know I was praying for her? I am sure she was not in earshot. Thank you, Nanak, for sending a pure soul, he murmured to himself.

Bibi went back to the market outside the gurdwara to begin her search. Hers was now a known face. The shopkeepers were amused to see her again. They smirked when they heard whom she was looking for—a Pakistani Sikh boy. They ignored her yet again. A few passers-by stopped to listen to her story. But it was mere entertainment for them, and none of them had any useful information to offer. Bibi constantly scanned the listeners’ faces for a positive reaction but failed to find any. Unfazed, she walked right up to the end of the bazaar till she reached the tea stall. It was closed and there was no one around. She asked a few people about Aleem Khan, but they knew nothing about his whereabouts. She turned around and started walking back to the bazaar. By the time she arrived, the hustle and bustle had picked up tempo. Being a Friday, there were more people in the market.

The shops were doing brisk business. Bibi’s query was therefore becoming an impediment for many shopkeepers. Unperturbed, Bibi pressed on, step by step, from one shop to the next, ignoring the irritated looks she received in return. But unlike yesterday, she wasn’t tired. Her eyes were filled with new hope, as if she was subconsciously aware of how the day would finally unfold. Suddenly, the loudspeaker on top of one of the minars of a mosque nearby began blaring out aloud, ‘Allahu Akbar . . .’ It was the call of the muezzin. The bazaar reacted with alacrity. Many shoppers and shopkeepers began preparing for namaz. Scores of shutters started to come down in quick succession and people began heading for the masjid.

As the street became less crowded, Bibi spotted a young boy who was sitting on a motorbike. He was surrounded by a dozen men wearing white skullcaps. He was different from the rest. He stood out in his black turban. She rushed towards him. Reaching closer, she saw that the young man was wearing a round-necked T-shirt over which hung a pendant. It read ‘Muzaffarabad’. She bowed gently and without waiting for him to respond, hurriedly said, ‘Son, my name is Bibi Amrit Kaur. Are you from Muzaffarabad? Is your name Jassi Lailpuria?’