Dar al-Rahmah: The House of Mercy
Prologue: The Triumph
She sat, silent, her fingers tracing threads of wool across the worn carpet beneath her. A forefinger laced in, out, over and around a single thread until it caught it. She glanced downward: a labyrinth of colour. Hosts of vibrant strands woven together in a magnificent celebration of multiplicity would have, at all other times, called to her. Not in this instant. The contours of her face manifested nothing in this instant. Nor in the next, or the next, or the next. How many had passed? Still, nothing came forth; no grimace, no perception, no word, no sigh, no movement, no shadow. It was not an entirely new occurrence. An increasing sense of oblivion had been growing upon her for a long period of time, met by an aggrieved resistance to the loss of sensation - her long-loved interface with the world. Now, resistance itself was lost. Nothingness, at last, ruled supreme.
The light had begun to change. Soft rose-tinted hues which had been swirling upon an ink-dipped horizon presently began to bloom. Though it had thus far been diffusing tenderly over the dawn sky, light now grew more and more in intensity. As it flooded into the niche through gaps in the wooden shutters, Maryam came to note the triumph of nothingness. At first, she noted it incuriously. Then, with a remote curiosity, followed by a gentle pull. At long last, she met it with acquiescence, and sank softly into it. The sublime silence was an ode to negation. It was a release like no other - that glorious liberation of submission; like falling back against the gentle embrace of still water. In consequence, the majestic force of receptivity broke through, and voice came to life. She began to recite:
“Nassyamm mansiyyah
Nassyamm mansiyyah
Nassyamm mansiyyah”
A thing forgotten.
The long-echoing murmur within her poured forth now somewhere between a recital, a chant, a cry, and in its final instance: a plea. Make me, my Lord, a thing forgotten. Upon this, as if to mirror the cyclical rhythms of the transient world, sensation once again overtook nothingness and she felt a burning: the intense heat of droplets falling in urgency down her face. The powerful pull of heat-soaked tears were the perfect match for gravitational force. In symphony, they drew her down, keeling her over until her face was hidden in that labyrinth of colour. Forehead and cheeks alternated in an urgent embrace of the ground, as if in deep thirst for the flood that had opened upon it. One palm pushed down in a silent wish for the ground to move, and another pressed firm against the pounding left side of her chest, falling and rising with each throb. It stayed this way over the course of many instants, before giving in to a softer soothing touch, with which voice once again came alive:
"Al Hayyu-l Baqi
Al Hayyu-l Baqi
Al Hayyu-l Baqi"
Lord Ever Living, Lord Ever Lasting.
It was in that moment that Halima came in. She had retreated to bed several hours ago, with some knowledge that Maryam would not readily move from the place in which she had left her. She had tried to fend off concern for the anguish she had witnessed in Maryam, and her thoughts had turned instead to her own heart, and its preoccupation with those she had left behind. In particular, with Nafeesa, her daughter, whose pattern of troubled engagement with her perception of the world seemed to never end. Maryam’s anguish, Halima thought, was radically different to Nafeesa’s trail of self-wrought pains - its sources, its contexts, its sounds, its textures - and yet she wondered if it was not ultimately all the same.
Entering upon Maryam now, she saw her keeled over as if in prostration, yet not quite. Halima said nothing. She sat close to her, entirely still, until she sensed a slight receptive opening. She then placed her palm upon her back and from time to time moved it with a gentle stroke. Her touch was replete with compassion unbridled. It mirrored the luminosity of the dawn outside, which, in spite of its growing intensity, still touched up on the horizon with tender caress; with the brush of love.
It was not until the sun had risen completely that Maryam’s breath steadied, and she rose, sitting upright. Halima’s hand had not yet left her back. She smiled softly at her: ‘what do you need?’ she whispered. Maryam glanced back at her. The attempt to make utterance exerted every ounce of energy with such concentrated effort, that the effect was a rush of resistance once again, like the gritting down of teeth hard upon her tongue. It drained her.
‘Swim. I need to swim’, she said.
’Here?’
‘No, not here.'
There was a pause. As Halima peered earnestly at her, scanning her face for an opening, Maryam began a scramble to speak. Vowels jostled amongst each other scurrying for a breath - a wind upon which to ride to fulfillment:
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'My grandmother told me - swimming lessons - she’d said. Swim, go deep, she’d said. She would swim in the pond. Dive deep, sharp-edged knife in one hand, chunky yellow-no-green palwal in the other. Holding her breath she’d push back the current with her feet and plunge forth. Hands working the knife and eye looking. By the time she’d come out the other end it was peeled.'
‘What was peeled?’
‘The palwal.’
‘What’s that?’
Halima waited, patient, forbearing, forgiving. She emptied herself of thought, her tenderness overriding the incomprehensibility which Maryam presented. It appeared for several instants that Maryam had once again succumbed to the pull which had left her prostrate a little while ago. Yet, not quite. She rose quickly, swift and sudden:
‘At the Dar. I need to swim at the Dar.’
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Chapter One: Sanctuary
The door had no sooner shut behind her that Maryam found herself covered by a sheath of warmth. Familiar scents competed in pulling her: fresh mint, cinnamon and cardamom wafted at once towards her then away - teasing her - and merging with the soft hum accompanying them from the back of the house. Sanctifying scents, a succour of sound and the warm oil-infused touch of worn, sturdy, hands: this was Dar al-Rahmah.
Its exterior gave little away. The unacquainted passer-by would see first a blanket of ivy: a deep green trail winding its way up red-brick walls. When unattended to, the trail often fell over a jet-black door, bordered by engraved pillars of a sharp white. The walls were squeezed in against two others on either side; squeezed such that they might crumble if the entire terraced row was to breathe in. Peeping through the blanket of ivy above the doorway were arched windows with wooden trims, their stained glasses glinting in the light. The pathway leading up to the door was paved by classic Victorian era tiles - a mosaic of black and white - and lined with bushes of lavender. The facade, though appealing on its own, suggested nothing of the Other - the world of the distant Orient that lay beyond its walls. Unassuming and unrevealing, it was like a fortress of secrets.
Dar al-Rahmah had always been a sensorial delight for Maryam. As a young girl, she had spent days and nights over every school break exploring the nooks of the house, and no matter how many years passed, every day she discovered something new; a previously missed detail. The scents too, though familiar, would carry a slightly adjusted shade in each day as if demanding that they be inhaled afresh and felt anew. The well-known hums of female voices which characterised the Dar too refused to be dismissed as heard and understood; day-in and day-out their undertones altered just an inch, and notes drifted in the slightest of degrees. Every day demanded that whatever was known be set aside, heard again, seen as if for the first time. To the child, it offered an endless ocean of discovery and carefree pleasure, evoking and heightening the complete sensitivity of the senses.
Now, having stood a while on the interior side of the door, Maryam ran the fingers of one hand along the edges of the wall besides her. It was rough, uneven, un-uniform; bumps and chinks woven together in a tapestry of imperfections. Her fingers followed these along a little until she too moved forward, the fingers of her other hand clasped tight around an old key . She could sense now what she hadn’t known as a child: each crevice was witness to a story - to the stories which were still preserved within these walls. Stories of love, longing, loss, pain, healing, and sanctuary: a deep-entrenched unshakeable desire for Home. Stories which had sometimes drifted past her ears in childhood play, when none of it quite made sense, and all was simple pure joy. She knew now what the comfort of childhood had not then revealed: here was a sanctuary for the broken.
One of her many joys as a girl was pulling off wet and muddy shoes and slipping into the cushioned cosiness of the babouche, stacks of which - coloured in deep dark yellow - were kept always in a basket under a wooden bench by the door. Flailing in her movements, now, she missed the bench. She knelt, then crouched, but to no avail. On the ground it would have to be. Sinking into the floor here was healing, and there she rested.
With the thud of her fall, gentle footsteps approached: a soft patter only slightly audible. Accompanying them was a round beaming face, twinkling eyes and, under a loose drape, a shimmer of grey hair.
'Ah, Maryamjan, is it time yet?'
'Can I stay here?'
Both Maryam and Dadijan spoke at once, in the same moment. At this, Dadijan laughed, her eyes gleaming. Just a glance down at Maryam sufficed in affirming what she had already sensed.
'I see, it really is time', she whispered softly, a blend of relief and joy oozing from her.
'I've... fallen,' Maryam said, looking up at Dadijan. She had almost forgotten what it was like to lock eyes with another, having felt unable to do so for sometime. She could not recall exactly how long. Had it been a year? Two? Three? It was difficult to pinpoint because the experience of this time had been a dwelling of disembodiment; living with a growing awareness that whatever she had known of herself had faded away. Looking into these eyes - misty grey maps of reflective depth - now came about from unconscious, unavoidable pull, the power of which overtook any remaining conscious resistance. She smiled.
'I can see that,' Dadijan laughed once again, her eyes sparkling with a liveliness which, in the world of appearances, seemed inconsistent with the weariness expected of a woman of eighty. In the world of realities, it was exactly consistent. Dadijan sat upon the bench and held her hand out, reaching down to Maryam. Her hand was warm, moistened with traces of clove-infused olive oil, embroidered with soft lines. The strength of her hands left Maryam stunned, as they pulled her up into an embrace. Breath, thought and sensation was suspended here; as if the tightness of her embrace sought to squeeze out from Maryam whatever else had remained of herself.
'All built to fall, Maryamjan. Everything ends, Bubu. It’s all made to break. It’s being broken and remade. In every instant. All of it'. Dadijan spoke in brief pauses, patting her back softly each time, each punctuation acting by degree as an opening for Maryam to breathe again.
'Come now, let's let your Sitti have this good news. She will make your tea and warm up the oil.'
Sitti. Maryam had not yet forgotten her last conversation with Sitti. The combination of Dadijan's warm embrace and Sitti's piercing words made Dar al-Rahmah an abode of a unique kind of love: a reflection of other-worldly, firm, unabashed mercy which knew no bounds, which kept the house flooded with visitors and which Maryam knew remained her only recourse to recovery. In their last conversation, Sitti had been tender yet tough. No excuses accepted:
'Istagriqi ya ruhi. My dearest soul, you need to swim', she had said.
'I don’t know how to. You didn't teach me yet,' Maryam had whispered.
'Tawakkul, my dear, is diving into your incapacity. Sink into it. Drown in it. Dive deep, my love, and learn to breathe.'
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