I took the train to Jama Masjid. The trains here are European-level quality—fast, clean, and on time.
I was alone, finally. The tour had been great fun, but I get tired of people. So I was alone. I got off and walked into the street that leads to the masjid. It was pure chaos. There were no sidewalks. There were no sides to the road, even. Everyone moved through the streets—old rickshaws, new Land Rovers, street urchins, the crippled, the fruit stands, and mopeds—all rolling through the same small street. Some moving, some at a standstill. Everything was yelling, barking, or honking. I was part of it. Sidestepping, stepping over, redirecting—doing whatever I had to do to get to my final destination. I was completely alone. I was focused. And through this focus, I felt myself dissolve into the madness. Like a red blood cell moving throw a bustling artery, I had my oxygen to give.
The masjid arrived. I could see it reaching into the sky with its towering pillars and beautiful, bulbous domes. I walked up the stairs. Outstretched hands lined the stairway, waiting for money to fall into their palms. They reached out like the leaves of some jungle tree, their skin leathery and worn. A sign read: No shooting of music videos. Internet culture had seeped into every crevice
.
I took my shoes off and walked into the prayer area. I prayed for the first time in a very long time. I had forgotten most of the words, though I still remembered the sequence of postures. For a second, it saddened me that I had lost those memorized lines my mama had taught me. But then I arrived at this: all prayer and meditation are just a recognition of the Absurd with an open heart. At least, that’s what it is to me.
So I prayed and prayed.
“I was part of it.”