The (obvious) downside to a soaring high is the sinking low that must necessarily follow, at least for me. As I struggle with issues of varying importance of the day, drifts of otherworldy chants flow in through the windows. They herald the approach of the fanatics, cheering for the almighty and good while enjoying the ride on the back of a loudspeaker fitted bus. Privileged neighborhood, you say? Not today.

As I prepare to shut down for the day, snatches of mechanical fanaticism wafts in from random windowpanes around me, reminding me of all those mornings I would awaken at fajr before school and lay in bed and hear the ghostly echoes of neighborhood mosques competing to sound the azaan. On those occasions, I would lie still in the darkness and wait for the end of the recitation and the mingled, soft murmurings of the post-azaan prayers, all merging together like snatches of the same symphony that started at different times. Words are so inadequate to describe memories. If only I could describe that feeling of peace in a way that would make you understand it, feel it with me. Truth is even I don't feel that way anymore. I wonder if it was the childhood innocence that let me feel that in those completely illegible words there was a power that could soothe the troubled child's soul and allow for the possibility that prayers leaving those small, cupped hands would actually end up somewhere that they had meaning. Maybe it was just the tone of the voices, the soothing male murmurs for a child looking for a father figure, even it came in the shape of a dozen disembodied voices in the darkness. I would give a great deal to be able to feel that way again, to trust the good that happens and not have to instinctively look over my shoulder for the impending bad.

I want once again to be that which I have left behind: a child at fajr.