- I went to a masjid today that wasn't marked by towering minarets or grand domes. It was a humble prayer space tucked away inside the quiet confines of an old-age home. Places like these carry a specific kind of atmosphere. The air feels heavier, often thick with unspoken memories, quiet resignation, and the lingering echo of lives that once roared with activity but have now slowed to a whisper. I went there simply to offer my obligatory prayers, expecting nothing more than the usual routine of bowing and prostrating. I left carrying a lesson that will stay engraved on my heart forever. As I stood in the rows, preparing myself, I found myself next to an elderly man. He was frail, his posture bent by the weight of time. He was an "inmate" here—a clinical word that felt too harsh for the gentle, weathered face I glimpsed. Later, I would learn the fragments of his story. He was a survivor of the brutal COVID era, a period that had swept through his life like a wildfire, ta...