The cries of men, women and children reached to the open skies above the minbar on which the Sayed sat that evening. The minbar was ornate and made from what looked like oak, varnished and polished to perfection. It was made up of large circles, each with the name of a member of the Holy Household; the name of Allah (swt) crowned above them all and above his black turban.
It was the eve of the day in which the Shia's commemorated the martyrdom of the daughter of Prophet Muhammed, (pbuh&hp) Fatimatul Zahra (as). Thousands had gathered in the courtyard of Imam Ali (as) despite the dropping temperatures and earlier rainfall. They wanted to condole the Imam in the passing of his wife and as the Sayed suggested, she was always part of him and since they could not visit her in Madina, they came to visit her by Amir al Mo'mineen.
He continued to lament and recite before beginning his short lecture. She had taken a seat close to the minbar with a group of Iranian visitors and had not noticed them get up as soon as the lecture started. Shortly after the lecture finished and the Sayed ended the final lamentation, she looked around her to see that only men had remained seated close to the minbar. Then there was her, sticking out like a sore thumb in her black head abaya. Quickly, she rose at the remembrance of the awaited Imam Mahdi (as) and made her way through the crowd and back to the place that was designated for women.
She reached the place that was favoured by many female visitors to the shrine, the Mirzab al Thahab - a golden eave that protruded from the roof of the mosque. She stood a little further away from it and could hear a man reciting a supplication and so went to stand by the group he was with in order to read along with him. His voice rose and mellowed at varying places, accentuating certain verses and bringing the group to tears at others.
At that point, she saw that her grandmother had come out from the mosque and ran to her side, bringing her to the group she was standing with. As they listened, her grandmother turned to her and smiled; she could tell that her grandmother was about to partake one of her stories.
"Bibi?"
"You see those alcoves above?" she asked, as she pointed to the first alcove to the left of the Mirzab.
"Yes?"
"My father's wife and her family are all buried inside there. Every year, on the tenth of Muharrum, we would visit the graves and then head up the stairs to the balcony."
"And what would you do on the balconies?"
"We would watch all the visitors and see the way they would commemorate the tenth day."
"Can we still go up?"
"It's impossible. After my stepmother died, they locked it and no one knows what happened to the key."
She sighed wistfully and stared into the distance, lost in thought and memories of old.
"Who knows where I'll be buried now. I think I'll be happy to be left in Wadi al Salam. Make sure it happens."
"InshaAllah, Bibi."
She turned to kiss her grandmothers forehead and looked away to hide her tears. She saw people standing by the gates of the courtyard; they bowed their head in respect and asked for permission before entering. Their hearts would flutter, acknowledging the welcome of the Imam and would walk through the gates eagerly.
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