A Door, Not a Grave

When I reached the graveyard, I found a few other people standing there. I counted them—they were 17 in all, young and old, including people from the family of the deceased. I recalled an incident from a month ago, when a relative of Sheikh Fazl Ali had died and his body had been brought to this same graveyard. That day, there had been so many people that it was difficult to count them all. It was as if the entire Muslim population of the locality had gathered there. A few minutes after I got there, the imam, the prayerleader, of the locality stood up to lead the funeral prayer. I stood in line with the others, making the intention of praying. The imam read the prayer so fast that I could not read even a dua (supplication to God) fully. I heard the phrase Allahu Akbar (‘God is Great!’) being rapidly uttered, and shortly after, the imam finished the prayer. People put on their shoes and got up to go, in such a way as if they had just finished a mere formality in the name of attending a funeral prayer. The grave was close by. I went towards it. When I got there, I found that it was still being dug. A few people stood around in groups. Some were relating stories of oppression. Someone complained about the severity of the weather. Someone else offered his knowledge about the prices of things. In other words, people were talking about this and that. I stood by the grave, silently. My mind was churning with verses from the Quran and sayings of the Prophet that talk about the Day of Judgment, Heaven, Hell and so on. It seemed as if this grave was an open door that I was standing in front of, and that, through it, I was