Living Among the Dead: Tales from Egypt

 

    Since my college days, I had nurtured a bucket list of destinations I longed to visit. My fascination with travel began when I first read about Dr. Taqi Usmani’s journey to Spain. His account, originally in Urdu and later translated by Ismail Saadi Machar, captivated my imagination. The stories of Spain—once known as Al-Andalus—its rich Islamic history, the grandeur of the Granada Mosque, and the remnants of a glorious past, all intrigued me deeply.  

    The second book that fueled my wanderlust was the travelogue of Shaykh Dr. Abdul Hakeem Al Azhari of Malabar, Kerala, detailing his visit to Turkey. Having listened to his narratives multiple times during his visits to Mangalore, I became particularly drawn to the tales of Ibn Battuta, especially his accounts of Mangalore and Honnavar.  

    Over the years, my curiosity led me to more travel books. During a conference visit to Kerala, I came across *Uzbekistan Travel* by Advocate Shamveel Nurani, which painted a vivid picture of Uzbekistan’s landscapes and history. Later, during one of my online searches, I stumbled upon Meeting with Mountains* by Peter Sanders—an enchanting collection of stories about saints. However, since it was unavailable in India, I had to arrange for a colleague from the U.S. to bring it for me.  All these books, experiences, and aspirations culminated in an intense urge to travel and explore.  

    My international travels so far had been limited to Dubai and Saudi Arabia. My visit to Dubai was a short, work-related trip, allowing me only a few mall visits. In contrast, my journey to Saudi Arabia was spiritually fulfilling—performing Umrah, gazing at the Kaaba, and visiting the Prophet’s Mosque remain unforgettable moments.  For years, I had planned to visit Malaysia, Spain, Morocco, and Egypt. But each time, either the fear of solo travel or other commitments held me back. Then, in October 2024, I saw an advertisement for an Egypt tour organised by Futuh Tours from Markaz Knowledge City. Unfortunately, due to short notice, I missed the opportunity. However, in December 2024, I came across another tour—this time led by Shaykh Dr. Abdul Hakeem Al Azhari, scheduled for January 2025. Without hesitation, I signed up, believing it would be an enriching experience and a great way to start the year. Despite the busy season at work, I ensured my leave was approved. Alhamdulillah, everything fell into place.  

The Journey Begins

    The tour was set for January 26 to February 1, 2025. As the days approached, a mix of excitement and anxiety filled me. Although I had traveled extensively within India, this was different—I was venturing alone in a group of strangers.  

    A day before departure, I quickly made a checklist and decided to travel light. My flight was scheduled for 2:55 AM from Kochi International Airport. Given the requirement to check in by 11 PM, I had to take an afternoon train from Mangalore.  The morning train at 8 AM would reach Kochi by 5 PM, while the next available train at 2:30 PM was scheduled to arrive at 10:15 PM at Angamaly—the nearest station to Kochi Airport, just 6 km away. However, past records showed frequent delays of around an hour. After some contemplation and reciting *salawat*, I chose the 2:30 PM train.  After taking my parents’ blessings, I left for the station. Before boarding the train I performed the prayer in the nearby Masjid combining both Dhuhr and Asr prayers. A mixture of excitement and nervousness lingered as I settled into my seat.  As the train rocked gently, I dozed off, reminding myself that a long flight awaited me. Later, a bookseller passed through the aisle, and I bought one of his bestsellers, immersing myself in its pages.  As expected, the train was running late—by 45 minutes. I had already informed the tour guide about the situation before booking my ticket, and based on my calculations, I estimated reaching the station by 11:30 PM, which was still within the safe margin.  At 10:55 PM, the train finally pulled into Angamaly station. Wasting no time, I quickly disembarked and took an auto to Terminal 3 of Kochi International Airport.  

A Warm Welcome

As I arrived at the airport, I was welcomed by Advocate Shamveel Nurani of Futuh tour and our tour guide. He greeted me with a warm hug and handed me a food packet containing dinner and breakfast, along with the travel documents—tickets, hotel reservations, and other essentials.  

Standing at the airport, with my boarding pass in hand and the anticipation of stepping into Egypt in just a few hours, I felt a rush of excitement. This journey was about to begin, and I couldn’t wait to explore the land of the Pharaohs, the Nile, and centuries of Islamic heritage.  This was more than just a trip—it was the fulfilment of a long-cherished dream.

    The journey had only just begun, yet it had already brought unexpected encounters. As I was about to proceed with the check-in process, I was introduced to Yusuf Haji from Chikkamagaluru, Karnataka. A wave of familiarity washed over me—I had first seen him nearly 18 years ago at a *Sahithyolsav* literary festival in Chikkamagaluru, where I had participated. Meeting someone who spoke Beary in a foreign setting felt reassuring, a small comfort in the midst of travel formalities. I checked in alongside another fellow traveler, Yusuf Musliyar from Palakkad. His words carried an odd mix of humor and wistfulness—he was "sad" that he had *only* ten children but took immense pride in his 34 grandchildren. 

    After completing the formalities, I found myself in the waiting area of **Gate 5B**, the designated departure point for our flight Jazeera Airways to Kuwait. Many from our travel group were already gathered there, As I was travelling since afternoon I had intended to Jamh ( combine ) Magrib with Isha prayer, I quickly enquired about a suitable place to pray and offered my *salah*.  

    With prayers completed, my thoughts drifted toward the vastness of the airport complex. I pondered over an interesting fact—it was entirely powered by solar energy. This realisation led me to reflect on the sheer magnificence of Allah’s creation. He provides natural light during the day, free for all, and at night, the very same light fuels artificial illumination. *Allahu Akbar*—what a sign of divine wisdom!  

    As the wait continued, the tour captain, Shaykh Dr. Abdul Hakeem Al Azhari was yet to arrive. I looked around, expecting him to join us  meanwhile, It was already **1 AM**, and hunger had started to creep in. I found a quiet corner, took my seat, and began unpacking my meal. The packet contained beef masala in one section, while the other had chicken with Parota—a signature meal of Kerala. Choosing the beef, I began my late-night meal, absorbing the atmosphere around me. The night was long, but the journey was just beginning

    The anticipation was almost unbearable as the clock ticked down to my departure. With just an hour left before boarding, my patience wore thin, and I finally gave in to curiosity—I inquired about Shaykh Dr. Abdul Hakeem Al Azhari. To my delight, I learned that he, too, had a flight from Calicut Airport, since he had occupied in the  *Urs-e-Ajmer* at **Jamia Madinathunnoor**, the esteemed institution under his guidance. 

    As I processed this information, my phone buzzed with a message. *Voila!* It was from none other than the Shaykh himself, informing in group that he was already at the airport. A wave of relief washed over me. His presence was the primary reason I had eagerly booked my place on this tour, and knowing he was there reassured me that I had made the right choice.  

    Amidst the excitement, I got introduced to a couple of fellow travellers, each carrying their own stories and aspirations for the journey ahead. Our introductions were brief but warm, a prelude to the shared experiences that awaited us. As we made our way to board the flight, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of purpose—this was not just another trip; it was the beginning of a journey that promised to be spiritually enriching and unforgettable.

*Layover in Kuwait: A Short Stop Before Cairo*  

    We touched down in Kuwait at 6:30 AM, arriving at the Jazeera Terminal—a compact hub catering to budget travellers. As the home base of Jazeera Airways, the terminal facilitates connections to destinations across the world, yet its size is modest, with only four to five gates and limited amenities.  

    Our first challenge was performing ablution with the sparse facilities available. Despite the constraints, we managed and offered our Subah prayer in a quiet corner before preparing for the next leg of our journey. With our flight to Cairo scheduled for 11 AM, we made use of the waiting hours by having breakfast from our packed meal—flaky parota paired with flavourful chicken curry.  

    The terminal was bustling with Umrah pilgrims, primarily from Turkey and Central Asia, their white garments and quiet conversations adding a spiritual undertone to the morning atmosphere. After settling into a corner, I searched for the airport’s free WiFi and quickly connected with home. The kids, curious about our journey, were eager to see the airport, so I gave them a quick virtual tour over the call, sharing glimpses of the terminal and the aircraft waiting beyond the glass windows.  With time to spare, I leaned back and let the airport's quiet hum wash over me, anticipating the next chapter of our journey—Cairo.

    We eagerly boarded the flight, and as the last few seats remained vacant, I seized a window seat to capture mesmerising images while soaring above the clouds. Just a day before my departure, my inquisitive son, a first-grader, and I engaged in a fascinating discussion about Earth and space. His mind overflowed with curiosity, questioning the mysteries of the moon, sun, stars, and our planet. One particular question lingered—how does Earth look from above? I promised him I would capture breathtaking views from the sky and share them with him. Resolute in my commitment, I positioned myself near the window, recording awe-inspiring videos and images as the aircraft ascended into the heavens.

    As we cruised through the skies, the crew announced that a complimentary meal would be served. I discovered that flights bound for Cairo must provide meals free of charge. The menu offered two choices—crispy falafel mixed with mayonnaise, wrapped in delicate sajj bread, or succulent white chicken marinated in a rich blend of yogurt and spices, also encased in soft sajj bread, accompanied by chilled aerated beverages. I eagerly opted for the latter, savouring its exquisite flavours while admiring the vast, golden desert stretching beneath us. The stark beauty of the barren, undulating mountains and the endless horizon devoid of greenery was captivating.

    The flight was brief, and soon, the captain’s voice resonated through the cabin, announcing our descent. The plane glided over Cairo’s sprawling residential colonies, including the newly developed Nasr City, a testament to President Sisi’s vision. Within moments, we touched down at Cairo International Airport at precisely noon, local time. Since we had a visa on arrival, a representative from our tour team swiftly examined our arrival slips, affixed visas to our passports, and expedited our immigration process.

    With immigration cleared, I proceeded to the baggage claim area. As I had no checked luggage, I took the opportunity to observe the grandeur of Cairo International Airport. The facility was impressively vast, bustling with travellers from around the world, efficiently managed to accommodate the high influx of passengers and flights. Soon, our tour guide signaled us to proceed towards the exit, where a warm welcome awaited us.

     All 44 travellers, arriving from India and the GCC, had now gathered. A luxurious air-conditioned bus awaited to transport us to our hotel. Among our group, I noticed the esteemed Shaykh Dr. Abdul Hakeem Azhari, who had landed just 20 minutes prior. He greeted us with a gentle yet warm handshake. Additionally, two students from Kerala, currently pursuing their studies at Al Azhar University, were present to assist and ensure a seamless transition for our group. Stepping outside, we were greeted by a crisp yet pleasant breeze—the midday temperature hovered between 15 to 20 degrees Celsius. Visiting Egypt in January was undoubtedly a wise choice, as this season attracts the highest influx of tourists due to its idyllic climate.
    After capturing a memorable group photo with all members proudly displaying the sign of Futuh Tours, we eagerly boarded the bus for our journey to Giza, a neighbouring state of Cairo. The ride, lasting roughly an hour, was filled with anticipation. As we set off, our esteemed captain, Shaykh Dr. Abdul Hakeem Azhari, took to the microphone, captivating us with tales of Misr (Egypt)—its ancient legacy, the origins of its name, and its transformation through modern developments.

The sights along the way were mesmerising. Passing the grand Citadel of Salahuddin, the heart of historic Islamic Cairo, we marvelled at the remnants of a bygone era. As we entered Giza province, towering billboards of mighty pharaohs adorned the weathered facades of old apartments, a striking reminder that we were now in the land of the iconic Pyramids. The newly constructed Grand Egyptian Museum loomed in the distance, its modern structure juxtaposed against the timeless grandeur of the Great Pyramid, standing as a sentinel of history.

Arriving at our hotel around 2 PM, we wasted no time in making our way to the restaurant adjacent to the lobby, where an inviting buffet awaited. The spread was a feast for the senses—a colourful array of fresh fruits like succulent musk melon, vibrant oranges, and juicy cherries. An assortment of crisp vegetables, including sliced potatoes, tomatoes, and stuffed boiled delights, added to the richness. The buffet featured an enticing selection of salads, an array of creamy hummus varieties, and smooth, flavourful mayonnaise.The variety of hummus and creams reminded me of the numerous chutneys found in South Indian cuisine, each offering a unique burst of flavor. To complete the experience, soaked and salted olives provided a tangy, savory contrast, making for a truly satisfying meal as we settled into the heart of Egypt’s enchanting landscapes. As I savored the olives, I was reminded of the revered mention of Zaitun in the Quran, symbolizing both nourishment and blessing. It became one of my favorite indulgences during my stay, and I found myself reaching for it again and again, drawn to its rich taste and cultural significance.

A Spiritual Journey Through Cairo: A Visit to Al Azhar Mosque

Our group captain had informed us that we had only 90 minutes before we had to leave the hotel for a city tour, so we needed to quickly eat, freshen up, and get ready. Time seemed to fly, but less than half an hour later, we found ourselves at the famous Al Azhar Mosque, located in the heart of Cairo. Built in 972 AD, this mosque is not only one of the oldest in the world, but it also became a center of knowledge, hosting one of the earliest universities ever established. The first being the Qarawiyyin University in Fez, Morocco, founded in 857 by Fatima al-Fihri, who used her father's ancestral property to fund it.

Al Azhar Mosque was built during the Fatimid Caliphate and has stood as a beacon of learning for over a millennium. As we entered in the evening, the temperature had started to drop, and we could feel the cold creeping in. We left our shoes in the designated area and stepped into the large square-shaped courtyard, which exuded a sense of grandeur. It is said that the mosque can accommodate up to twenty thousand people at a time, and the hundreds of columns of various sizes, built during the mosque’s expansion by different rulers, add to its magnificent presence.

What struck me the most was the vibrancy of Al Azhar. This mosque is never empty, always bustling with people. As I entered the main area, I was amazed to find numerous classes happening in different corners. The benches arranged in neat rectangular formations could fit 10 to 15 students each, with a scholar seated at the center. The students—children, adults, men, and women—engaged in lessons ranging from memorizing the Quran to learning the basics of Islam. There were about ten such sessions happening simultaneously. I couldn't help but admire how the mosque was being used as a continuous hub of knowledge, always alive with activity.

One class that caught my attention was about Arabic grammar. The session was being held on the far side of the mosque, where students sat on the floor while the scholar addressed them from his chair. It turned out to be a special night: the 27th of Rajab, the night of the Mi'raj, and the preparations for the evening’s sessions were already underway.

What was even more fascinating was the diversity of the people attending. Al Azhar attracts students from all over the world, and it's safe to say it hosts a higher number of nationalities than perhaps any other institution. The mosque even has a large hostel dedicated to foreign students. We had the chance to meet a few students from Kerala, India, who were studying here, which added a personal touch to the experience.

We continued our exploration and took a less-used exit door, leading us into a narrow street lined with bookshops. This area offered a more secluded part of the mosque’s complex, where we visited the resting places of two great Islamic scholars—Imam Qastallani and Imam Badruddin Al Aini. Both are renowned for their commentaries on the famous Sahih Al Bukhari, and their scholarly works continue to be celebrated. Imam Al Aini’s commentary, Umdat al-Qari Sharh Sahih al-Bukhari, and Imam Qastallani’s Irshad as-Sari Sharh Sahih al-Bukhari, remain important references in Islamic studies.

We were able to visit their tombs, though they were located inside an old mosque adjacent to Al Azhar. Unfortunately, the mosque was closed for visitors due to its deteriorating state, with the door locked and old materials placed to prevent anyone from pushing it open. We couldn’t go inside, but we still offered a ziyarah (a visit of respect), standing outside to pay our respects to these towering figures of Islamic scholarship.

This visit to Al Azhar was a profound and enlightening experience. It wasn't just the historical significance of the mosque that moved me, but the living tradition of learning, the bustling community of students, and the rich intellectual legacy that continues to thrive here.

The Bread of Life in Cairo's Alleyways

As we walked through the narrow streets lined with quaint bookshops near Al Azhar, something else caught my eye—a tiny shop with the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting into the evening air. The baker was using a machine to prepare flat rounds of bread, neatly stacked and displayed outside for sale. I stopped for a closer look and asked about it. That’s when I learned about Aish Baladi—Egypt’s beloved national bread.

In Egypt, bread isn’t just food; it’s life itself. The word Aish in Arabic literally means “life,” reflecting the deep cultural importance Egyptians place on it. While most Arab countries use the word Khobz for bread, Egypt stands apart with Aish Baladi, meaning “bread of life.” It’s a staple in every Egyptian household, eaten at every meal—from humble breakfasts to hearty dinners. It's not just sustenance; it's comfort, dignity, and often, a symbol of social unity.

Throughout our seven-day journey in Egypt, Aish made its way onto almost every plate we were served. Whether rich or poor, city dweller or farmer, bread is ever-present. I was told that even if someone is penniless and hungry, they can feel full and content with just a loaf of Aish and a cup of tea. 

Incredibly, this tradition stretches back thousands of years. The same kind of bread was once eaten by the pharaohs, including Ramesses III. That connection—between ancient royalty and the common people of today—is both humbling and beautiful. Bread continues to bind the generations of Egypt, not just through history books but through taste and daily life. Egypt also supports this cultural cornerstone by making Aish accessible to all, with ration shops selling it at subsidised rates. 

That evening, as the call to prayer echoed through the old city and the scent of bread lingered in the air, I felt connected—not just to Cairo, but to a story that’s been unfolding for millennia, one loaf at a time.

A Night at Imam Hussain Mosque – Where Souls Whisper Prayers

As the final prayers echoed through the towering minarets of Al-Azhar Mosque, we began our quiet walk toward our next destination — the Mosque of Sayyidna al-Husayn, or more commonly, Imam Hussain Mosque. The air was crisp, the streets alive with movement, and yet something in the atmosphere told me this would not be just another stop on our Cairo itinerary. It was the night of Rajab 27, the blessed Mihraj night, and the city felt wrapped in a divine hush despite the crowds.

The mosque stood with quiet dignity amid the liveliness of the Khan el-Khalili district, its green-lit dome glowing like a lantern guiding the hearts of pilgrims. As we drew closer, the crowd thickened — people from all walks of life, young and old, men and women, locals and foreigners, all converging here with one shared longing: to stand near the blessed resting place of Imam Hussain, the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), and a towering figure of sacrifice and truth in Islamic history.

Getting inside was a gentle push through faith-filled chaos. The mausoleum chamber was already overflowing. I waited for a brief opening and quietly stepped inside. The air was heavy with the scent of rose and oud, mixed with the quiet hum of Qur’an recitations, poetry in praise of the Ahl al-Bayt, and private whispered prayers. The grave, enclosed in silver latticework reaching nearly ten feet high, stood in the center like a precious jewel. Inside, a square wooden box marked the blessed resting place, and even from a distance, you could feel its magnetic stillness.

I finally found a small spot to sit along the edge of the crowd. Around me, some were silently weeping, others had hands lifted in du'a, and a few were lost in soft recitation

Just as I stepped out of the mausoleum chamber, the mosque began to stir with a new wave of energy. Within moments, the air was filled with the resonant, soaring voice of Qur’an recitation, broadcast over the loudspeakers. The crowd, which was already thick inside the mosque, grew denser and more vibrant.

It was the Mihraj event, commemorating the Prophet Muhammad’s miraculous night journey and ascension. From the front of the masjid, a scholar had taken his place—reciting verses of the Qur’an in a rhythmic, emotional tone. Between the recitations, there were qasidas (praise poems) sung with passion, each line invoking awe for the Prophet’s journey through the heavens. The crowd swayed gently, some singing along, others recording the moment on their phones, all completely immersed.

The scene was unlike anything I’d experienced. Where Al-Azhar Mosque carried a scholarly stillness, Imam Hussain Mosque pulsed with devotion and raw emotion. But with that vibrance came caution.

There was heavy security presence—men stationed strategically, scanning the crowd with alert eyes. It's a sad reality that this sacred place, meters away from Al-Azhar, carries the risk of violence. Mausoleums, like that of Imam Hussain, are often targets of extremist ideologies who frown upon such commemorative practices. 

I stayed on, absorbing the atmosphere. To my surprise, the event wasn’t just spiritually significant — it was also attended by notable religious figures. I spotted Dr. Ali Gomaa, the former Grand Mufti of Egypt, and Dr. Osama Al-Azhari, a renowned scholar and advisor to the President. Their presence added weight and solemnity to the night.

Bazaar of Echoes – Wandering through Khan El Khalili

    They say you haven’t truly been to Cairo until you’ve walked the winding alleys of Khan El Khalili — and by the time we stepped in, I understood why.

    Nestled beside the spiritual powerhouse of *Imam Hussain Mosque, the market is a living mosaic of Cairo’s layered history — a vibrant blend of commerce, culture, and chaos. Our time was short, as our tour captain had instructed everyone to be on the bus by **7:30 PM sharp*, especially considering many in our group were elderly and tired from the day’s long spiritual and physical journey.

But temptation pulled at us like a magnet. Alongside *Riyaz Babu, a cheerful tour companion from **Kottayam, I slipped into the **narrow, animated lanes* of *Khan El Khalili*, our eyes wide and senses on high alert.

    This isn’t just a market — it’s a theatre of Egyptian life, where every turn holds a new act. The *cobblestone streets* twist and bend like ancient veins, pulsing with the energy of *local traders, street performers, tourists, and shopkeepers* all woven into one frenetic rhythm. Built in the *14th century* during the Mamluk era, the bazaar was originally established as a *caravanserai* for traders coming through the Silk Road. Over centuries, it has evolved into a commercial hub that still maintains its old-world charm.

    We passed stalls bursting with *ornate lamps, silver jewelry, handwoven scarves, intricate woodwork, and the ever-famous **replica pyramids and pharaoh figurines*. Tourists and locals alike haggled in a friendly tug-of-war of prices, the sound of bargaining as much a part of the scene as the call to prayer nearby.

    The *souvenirs* seemed endless, but for us, the clear winner was the *magnetic mini pyramid* — what better symbol to carry back from Egypt? It was almost a cliché, but a cherished one. Riyaz and I chuckled at how predictable we were, yet still, we were thrilled.

    I had one more item on my wishlist — a *duff (traditional frame drum), ideally one made of **authentic hide, not the plastic tourist kind. I scoured multiple lanes with no luck until one shopkeeper, kind and eager, took some details and asked us to wait. Minutes later, he returned with a few samples — the real deal. After some **classic Egyptian-style negotiations*, where the calculator was our common language, I finally made my purchase. The instrument felt solid in my hands — more than a souvenir, it was a story waiting to be told.

    Time passed faster than we realized. After nearly *45 minutes of wandering, we paused and looked around — no one from our group in sight. A sudden jolt of panic set in. I sprinted back toward **Imam Hussain Mosque*, hoping to find someone. Thankfully, a few elderly team members were still sitting on the mosque steps, chatting quietly. Relieved but tempted, I darted back into the market for a final lap of browsing.

    Eventually, we made it back to the bus — only to find *everyone else was already there, waiting for us.* A few smiled, others shook their heads with amusement. We had become those travelers who stretch the timeline just a little too far. But in our hearts, the time wasn’t lost — it had been traded for the colors, scents, sounds, and stories of Khan El Khalili.

    This market isn’t just a place to shop. It’s a place to feel, to wander, and to get deliciously lost — even if only for an hour.*

Day 2 – Tanta: At the Feet of a Qutub

    Our first destination on this second day of travel was *Tanta, a city just 90 kilometers north of Cairo. But this wasn’t just any stop—it was one of spiritual significance. Tanta is home to the resting place of **Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi (Radi Allahu Anhu)*, one of the greatest saints in Islamic history and among the most revered Qutubs of Egypt.

    Born in *Fez, Morocco, Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi had a remarkable journey—both spiritual and physical. He traveled to **Makkah* for Hajj with his family and later chose to settle in *Tanta, where he became a beacon of light for people from all walks of life. He came to be known as *Al-Badawi, due to his habit of covering his face like the desert dwellers (Badawis). Over time, Tanta grew into a center of spirituality, healing, and Sufi brotherhood because of his blessed presence.

    We reached *Tanta* by around *10 AM, our travel eased by **government-provided police escort*. As with most shrines of such stature, security was tight, but we were mostly waved through without questions.

    The *mosque complex was massive*, with a grand courtyard open to the sky, welcoming us into its sacred space. As we stepped in, we instinctively left our shoes outside, as is customary in most mosques. However, a policeman nearby gestured sternly and spoke in an angry tone—in Arabic, which we didn’t fully grasp. We understood enough, though: we were expected to carry our shoes with us.

    We walked through the prayer hall, shoes in hand, and found a small *wudhu area* tucked away behind the mosque—quite different from the grand ablution courtyards we are accustomed to in Indian mosques. After ablution, we placed our shoes in the *designated wooden racks* built into the mosque’s tall pillars.

    Inside, the atmosphere was reverent and rich with spiritual energy. After offering *Salah, we made our way toward the **shrine chamber of Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi, located on the **left side of the mosque’s main entrance*.

    The chamber was stunning—*topped with a dome* and enclosed by *tall steel and wooden latticework, easily 25 feet in height. The **grave* of the saint lay in the center, and people gathered quietly around, some in contemplation, some in prayer, others simply absorbing the tranquility of the place.

    What touched me deeply was the presence of a *copy of the blessed sandal* (Na’l Shareef) of *Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, displayed respectfully in a corner of the chamber. Next to the **large mihrab* was a *locked cupboard, said to contain sacred **relics of the Prophet ﷺ*, adding to the spiritual weight of this experience.

    We spent a generous amount of time inside—soulful minutes of reflection, prayer, and connection. It wasn’t just a visit—it was a sacred pause, a moment of spiritual anchoring.

    As we exited the chamber and stepped back into the bright courtyard of the mosque, I felt deeply grateful—for this journey, for the saint whose presence continues to bless generations, and for the privilege of standing in the very space where *divine love and service* once radiated.

    : As we left Tanta behind, the landscape slowly transitioned into quieter towns and open stretches of rural Egypt. After about an hour’s drive, we reached Dasuk around noon. Our bus pulled up right in front of the grand mosque, its minarets piercing the sky and its white-washed walls gleaming under the afternoon sun. Unlike Tanta, the arrangement here was a little different — the ablution area wasn’t within the mosque itself. We had to cross a narrow road and walk about thirty meters to a separate building to perform wudu. It made me pause and think: perhaps the separation was intentional, designed to keep the mosque’s carpets clean and dry. It actually made a lot of sense in a place where hundreds come and go every day.

    As we walked into the ablution building, I noticed a modest office on the first floor with a signboard that read “Tariqa Burhaniya.” Egypt is home to numerous Sufi tariqas, each with a long and rich tradition, and many operate small centers or offices like this one across cities and towns. I was curious about what happened inside — spiritual gatherings, maybe, or Sufi instruction — but time didn’t allow for exploration.

    After ablution, we returned to the mosque and joined the congregation in jamā‘ah, combining Zuhr and Asr prayers. The inside of the mosque was peaceful, with wide open spaces and the gentle murmur of worshippers all around. I noticed something charming and consistent — small stickers placed on pillars and walls bearing phrases like “Sallu ‘ala an-Nabi”, gentle reminders to send blessings upon the Prophet ﷺ. You find such reminders almost everywhere in Egypt — on mosques, cars, shops, and even lamp posts. It felt like a subtle yet beautiful way to keep the heart connected.

    The tomb we came to visit was located on the right side of the mosque. It drew a steady trickle of visitors — some offering silent prayers, others simply standing in awe. As I stood there, I felt that familiar stillness, that quiet reverence which every shrine in Egypt seems to hold in its air. Dasuk was not as crowded as Tanta, yet the energy here was no less intense. I left the mosque slowly, taking a final look at its dome and doorways, feeling a sense of gratitude for having stepped into yet another sacred chapter of Egypt’s living spiritual tradition.

    After leaving Dasuk and the soulful serenity of the shrine, our next stop was for lunch — something we were all eagerly looking forward to after a long morning. The restaurant was a roadside eatery, perched on the first floor of a modest building along the highway. From the outside, it didn’t look very different from the many other small joints dotting the road, but it had already been reserved for our group.

    We climbed up a narrow flight of stairs and entered a fairly large hall filled with long dining tables. The windows were open, letting in a warm breeze and the faint sounds of the street below. After settling in, we waited — hungry but patient. Eventually, the aroma of grilled chicken began drifting in from the kitchen, awakening our senses.

    Lunch was served in stages — first the Aish (the ubiquitous Egyptian bread that had now become a staple in every meal), followed by a generous serving of mildly spiced Egyptian-style rice, and then the main course: charcoal-grilled chicken. Its texture and flavor reminded many of us of Al Faham back home in Kerala — juicy, smoky, and cooked to perfection. Accompanying it were fresh salads, pickles, and bowls of creamy hummus.

    One oddity we had come to expect by now repeated itself — no drinking water was provided. It seemed to be a common practice in most Egyptian restaurants. Bottled water was available, of course, but at noticeably steep prices. Thankfully, a few of us had the foresight to carry extra bottles from our travel stock on the bus, so we managed just fine.

    The setting was simple, the food humble, but the experience was fulfilling — the kind of meal that stays with you not for its extravagance, but for its honesty. A warm plate after a long road, laughter shared between bites, and a view from a dusty roadside window in the heart of Egypt — that’s what made it special.

    We reached Alexandria around 4:30 PM. The moment our bus rolled into the city, the long coastline greeted us like an old friend. There’s something instantly calming about the endless stretch of the Mediterranean Sea — the rhythm of its waves, the salty breeze, and the wide open horizon. Alexandria, with its ancient heart and Mediterranean soul, felt different from Cairo — more relaxed, more breezy, and draped in layers of layered history.

    Our guide pointed out the grand structure of the *Bibliotheca Alexandrina*, the modern-day revival of the legendary Library of Alexandria, once the largest and most significant library in the ancient world. Now, it stands as a symbol of knowledge and cultural exchange, its sleek, circular architecture sloping down towards the sea as if in humble salute to centuries of learning. Although we couldn’t enter due to time constraints, just seeing it — bathed in the golden afternoon light, its outer wall inscribed with scripts from across civilizations — was awe-inspiring.

    But our first destination in the city wasn’t the sea or the library. It was something far more intimate and spiritual — the resting place of two revered figures: *Prophet Daniyal (Daniel)* and *Luqman al-Hakeem*. Our bus stopped near a busy street, and we walked about 500 meters through a narrow, bustling lane lined with shops and homes. Finally, tucked into a quiet corner of the street, stood a modest, old mosque. It didn’t look remarkable from the outside, but the air carried the weight of sacred history.

    The entrance to the graves was closed. But this is where being part of a guided tour came to our advantage — our guide had a quiet word with one of the men in the mosque, and soon enough, the gate was unlocked. We were invited in with the kind of quiet reverence that only familiarity with saints' shrines can allow.

    We descended a small flight of wooden stairs, leading us underground into a cave-like chamber. It was dimly lit and humbly constructed, but rich in spiritual presence. Two graves stood there: that of *Prophet Daniyal, known for his steadfastness and divine vision, and **Luqman al-Hakeem*, the wise sage immortalized in the Qur’an for his profound advice to his son.

    The verse from Surah Luqman came rushing to my mind — “Ya Bunayya…” — “O my beloved son…” — his tender counsel echoing across time. Dr. Hakeem Azhary, who was with us, softly explained the origins of Luqman’s title “Al-Hakeem.” It could be due to his immense wisdom or perhaps because he was a physician — a man who healed, with both insight and medicine.

    We stood in quiet reflection, making heartfelt du'a — for wisdom in our decisions, for patience in our trials, and for healing in all forms. The presence of these two noble souls made us feel small, yet safe — like we were being held by the legacy of their light.

    As we emerged back into the streets of Alexandria, the sea breeze felt cooler, crisper — as though the city itself had whispered an ancient blessing into our ears.

    By the time we got back into the bus, the sun was nearly set, casting an amber glow across the coastline. Alexandria was beginning to take on its evening rhythm. The sea breeze had turned cooler, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of salt and seaweed, tinged with the aroma of street food being grilled at stalls scattered along the roadsides. The city, now glowing in the dimming light, seemed to come alive even more as the day faded.

    As we made our way towards our next destination — the tomb of the great Imam al-Busiri — the serene voice of the adhan echoed through the air from several minarets at once, overlapping like a chorus calling the faithful to prayer. We continued along the same coastal road, the Corniche, which runs parallel to the Mediterranean. This stretch was alive with people.

    Every few meters, we saw groups of families sitting on the compound walls that separate the road from the beach — elderly couples leaning into the breeze, young parents watching over toddlers clambering up the stone edges, teenagers capturing selfies with the sea behind them. The Alexandrians, it seems, have an unspoken ritual of visiting the seafront in the evenings. Some were sipping tea from small thermoses, others were snacking on corn or feteer bought from the vendors nearby. The sound of laughter, the rustling of the waves, and the faint hum of Arabic pop music from passing cars created a scene that was both lively and peaceful.

    Unlike Cairo — loud, bustling, and intense — Alexandria had a more laid-back, Mediterranean soul. There’s a grace to this city. The air is cooler, the streets feel wider, and the mood is lighter. It’s no surprise that Alexandria is considered the cultural and romantic capital of Egypt. Historically rich, it was once the shining jewel of the ancient world, home to philosophers and poets, queens and conquerors. Today, it’s Egypt’s second-largest city, an industrial hub and the country’s most important seaport. But it hasn’t lost its old-world charm — it lingers in the architecture, in the street names, in the smell of the sea.

    As we moved slowly through the traffic, the sky turned a deeper shade of violet, and the streetlights began to flicker on, casting golden halos on the wet pavement. I leaned back in my seat, soaking in the atmosphere, grateful for the stillness that Alexandria — even in its busiest hour — had to offer.

*A Night of Poetic Light in Alexandria*

    By the time we reached the shrine of Imam Al-Busuri, night had gently fallen over Alexandria. The bustle of the coastal city had dimmed into a soft hum, the streets glowing under scattered lamps, and the sky above us deepened into a quiet blue. Maghrib prayer had just ended. Our bus rolled into a small open space beside the mosque, and we stepped down into the cool evening air, already scented with salt and stillness.

    Inside the mosque, we performed our combined Maghrib and Isha prayer, led by Hakeem Azhari. The group gathered afterward around the sacred chamber of Imam Al-Busuri, and one by one, we opened our phones to bring up the verses of the Qasidah Burdah. Standing there, shoulder to shoulder in that sanctified space, we recited the Burdah aloud—each voice rising and falling, some soft and melodic, others firm and trembling with emotion.

    As the verses echoed through the chamber, I found myself swept into memory. I thought of the Burdah gatherings in Bangalore that I used to attend every Saturday, held by students of the Markaz. I thought of Majlis Ganemar near my native place—those monthly evenings filled with Thwaha Thangal’s soulful renderings. Tonight, in Alexandria, those pieces of my past felt tenderly stitched into the present.

    After our recitation, the mosque's own imam joined us for a brief and heartfelt du’a. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Futuh Tours presented each of us with a copy of The Joy of Emulation, a gift authored by Hakeem Azhari. A sense of barakah lingered, woven into every step we took.

    Inside the chamber, I noticed calligraphy of the Burdah lining the walls. It felt deeply symbolic—like the verses were not just being read but had been etched into the very skin of this sacred place.

    As we stepped out, guided by dim streetlights and quiet alleys, our feet carried us to another hidden gem: the resting place of Yakut al-Arsh. From the outside, it looked like a modest building—a small mosque-like structure tucked among homes where children played and laughter spilled from open doors. Inside, past a simple hall with benches and prayer mats, lay a beautiful marble chamber where Yakut al-Arsh now rested in peace. There was something profoundly calming in that space—white marble, soft light, and the quiet reverence of time stilled.

    I remembered Ustad’s words during our bus journey: that three disciples of Abul Abbas al-Mursi had each made a distinct wish. Imam Al-Busuri had asked to be blessed with poetry, Yakut al-Arsh with eloquence in speech, and Ibn Ata Allah al-Iskandari with divine wisdom. Two of them were now before us in Alexandria. The third, Ibn Ata, rests in Cairo. Somehow, standing here connected me to a thread of history, longing, and divine response.

    We continued our walk through narrow streets, past tiny shops and weathered walls, toward the shrine of Abul Abbas al-Mursi himself. Unfortunately, the gates were closed. Our guides tried their best, negotiating and making calls, but the one with the key was nowhere to be found. We stood at the gate and made ziyarah from a distance. A few poor women gathered around us, urging us to buy small items—perhaps incense or tasbih—but we gently excused ourselves.

    Dinner awaited, and our guide told us that Alexandria is famous for its seafood. The city, now alive with nightlife, shimmered with character. I noticed yellow taxis that reminded me of Mumbai, double-decker buses packed with commuters, and a rhythm to the streets that felt both Mediterranean and unmistakably Egyptian.

    That night, as I sat in a high-end restaurant savoring fish cooked in fragrant spices, I realized something. This wasn’t just a spiritual journey—it was a journey through people, poetry, and prayer; through alleyways and aspirations; through cities both living and long gone. Alexandria had wrapped its stories around me, softly, like a sea breeze whispering across history.