Now, kneeling in the courtyard, she felt foolish. Thousands of pilgrims surged around her, some weeping, some singing, some simply sitting in silent sama . A blind old man next to her was swaying, tears streaming down his face. He wasn’t asking for his sight back. He was thanking the Khwaja for giving him inner light.
She stayed until the last azaan faded. As she walked out of the dargah’s massive silver doors, a boy—no older than twelve—tugged at her sleeve. He was dirty, barefoot, holding a frayed piece of paper. Ya Khwaja Ye Hindalwali By Rahat Fateh Ali Khan
Zara felt something crack inside her. Not her bones. Her certainty. The hard shell of "I can fix this alone" split open. Now, kneeling in the courtyard, she felt foolish