When the doctor handed me the results of the blood test, I was hit with a wave of shock. My worst fear had become a grim reality: I was diagnosed with late-stage cancer. As I returned home, I was burdened with the weight of a daunting task—how to break this devastating news to my wife and children. When I reached home, I hid the reports in a safe, unsure of how to proceed. My wife kept asking me questions, but I shared very little, concealing the unsettling truth. Everything seemed normal to her, as I was good at putting on a façade.
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Later that evening, after dinner, I slipped out quietly. My heart was heavy with a myriad of emotions. Whose heart would not race at the prospect of leaving behind the bright lights, laughter, and cherished moments with my beloved wife and dear children? How would I find solace in a long, narrow, dimly lit grave?
I walked on, lost in thought, until I reached the cemetery. The tombstones stood in silent testimony to the lives that had passed. As I wandered amidst them, I couldn’t help but wonder if their silence was merely on the surface. Did they truly rest in peace?
I passed by both small and grand graves, some bearing men’s names, while others, women’s. The epitaphs bore verses from holy books and mournful phrases: “Fear neither grief nor sorrow” and “Verily, we belong to Allah and verily, to Him we shall return.” My gaze lingered on these inscriptions.
Then I came across an unmarked grave, illuminated by the soft glow of a lantern. This, I knew, was the dwelling of a saintly recluse. “Baba Ji, I don’t know how many graves you’ve dug, and I don’t know the fate that befell your fellow residents,” I said to the glowing lantern.
“Son, true obedience to the Almighty is the key to salvation. The others here don’t really matter,” Baba Ji replied.
And he handed me a lantern. It was my journey of introspection. I drove away, leaving Baba Ji and the moonlit cemetery behind. I had a home, a car, a mobile phone, and everything material. What I lacked was inner peace.
Perhaps this was the experience that had veiled my life with serenity. As the renowned poet Rumi once said, “What you seek is seeking you.”
I, too, was now seeking something, seeking Allah’s forgiveness and spiritual comfort. The world was suddenly meaningless, and I had an inner journey to embark upon.
As I finally headed back to the bright lights of the city, I knew that I had chosen the path of obedience and submission, the one true source of solace. The insidious habits and desires that had plagued me were no longer my companions. This quiet journey had cleansed my soul, and I aimed to continue this path until I reached the solitary grave, where Allah would be my companion.