Sa’i - Between Two Hills, Between Two Selves
Chapter 4 — Sa’i: Between Two Hills, Between Two Selves
After tawaf, the body does not immediately understand what the soul has touched.
Aleem walked beside Malek with legs that felt heavier than they should, as if each step was still carrying the momentum of circling the Kaabah. The marble beneath his feet was cool, but his skin held warmth from the crowd, from the closeness, from the constant movement.
His throat was dry.
His chest, strangely, was not.
Something inside him felt rinsed, not clean—just… less clogged.
Malek handed him a bottle of water without a word. Aleem accepted it, drank slowly, and felt the cold slide down his throat like a quiet correction.
Around them, pilgrims moved in different directions—some heading to pray, some sitting with tired faces and shining eyes, some speaking softly into phones, whispering updates back home.
Aleem sat for a moment at the edge of a pillar, resting his back, letting the noise blur into a distant tide.
He realised he had not been looking for Almahirah.
Not constantly.
Not compulsively.
It startled him.
In Singapore, his mind had been trained to scan for danger. In relationships, danger meant being made a fool again—being a backup, an option, a convenience.
Here, in this place, the danger felt smaller.
Not because it had disappeared.
Because the centre had changed.
Malek leaned slightly toward him. “Ready for Sa’i?”
Aleem nodded.
He stood, adjusted his ihram, and followed.
As they walked toward Safa, Aleem’s eyes drifted upward to the architecture, the bright lights, the signage guiding thousands of pilgrims through sacred routines that were older than every modern building around them.
He had always thought worship was about stillness.
But Umrah was teaching him that worship could also be movement.
Circling.
Walking.
Striving.
The corridor between Safa and Marwah was wide, bright, and endless in a way that made it feel symbolic even before you tried to interpret it. The marble floor reflected the lights overhead, and the air was cool from the powerful fans that fought back the heat outside.
Aleem stood at Safa, looked toward the long stretch ahead, and felt the shift.
Tawaf had been surrender.
Sa’i felt like effort.
It carried the memory of Hajar—a mother alone, searching, running between hills with nothing but desperation and trust.
Aleem had heard the story all his life.
But now, standing in the corridor that millions walked in remembrance of her striving, he felt it differently.
You could not teleport to relief.
You walked it.
You did it again and again.
You repeated the motion until your body started to believe your intention.
They began.
Step.
Breath.
Step.
Breath.
Pilgrims flowed around them like a current. Some walked quickly, determined. Others moved slowly with age or exhaustion, leaning on companions. Many carried quiet tears that they did not bother wiping.
Aleem walked in silence, lips moving with dhikr.
But his mind was not silent.
It never was.
It had always been too good at building patterns.
He thought of Almahirah’s betrayal, years ago, and how his eighteen-year-old self had tried to survive it.
He had turned pain into a rule.
A rule into a worldview.
A worldview into safety.
He told himself it was logic.
But as he walked, as he felt the corridor stretching ahead like time itself, another thought rose.
Maybe it had never been logic.
Maybe it had been fear wearing a suit.
He swallowed.
The thought irritated him.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was accurate.
They reached the green-lit section where people traditionally jogged, remembering Hajar’s urgency.
Aleem did not jog.
He simply walked a little faster, the way a man does when he wants to feel like he is moving toward something rather than away.
Malek stayed beside him, matching his pace.
Malek was quiet for a while, letting Aleem have his thoughts.
Then, as if choosing the exact moment when Aleem’s mind was most honest, Malek spoke.
“You keep saying you do not trust them,” Malek said.
Aleem’s eyes flicked toward him. “I did not say that.”
Malek did not smile. “You have been saying it without saying it.”
Aleem’s jaw tightened.
Malek’s voice stayed low, calm, almost gentle—like he was making an observation about weather rather than wounds.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Malek continued, “if you really do not trust them… or if you do not trust yourself.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He looked forward.
“Trust myself to do what?” Aleem asked, though he already knew.
“To survive it again,” Malek said simply.
The words landed in his chest with a weight that had nothing to do with fatigue.
Aleem wanted to argue.
He wanted to say he was logical, not weak.
He wanted to say he had boundaries, standards, self-respect.
But the corridor kept stretching ahead, refusing to let him escape into performance.
And the truth sat behind Malek’s words like an unavoidable shadow.
Aleem had survived before.
But he had not survived clean.
He had survived by hardening.
By generalising.
By turning one woman’s betrayal into a whole category of people he refused to risk.
It had protected him.
It had also imprisoned him.
They reached Marwah.
Aleem’s breath came slow.
He did not respond.
Malek did not force him to.
They turned and walked back.
Again.
And again.
The rhythm of Sa’i did something to the mind.
It made you confront repetition.
It made you understand that sometimes healing was not a single event, but a series of returns.
You return to the beginning.
You walk the same stretch.
You hope something changes.
Not outside.
Inside.
Somewhere near the midpoint, Aleem stepped aside for a moment, letting a slower group pass. He moved toward a water station, took a small cup, drank, and felt his body reset.
Voices drifted around him—snatches of conversation, casual remarks, soft laughter.
Then he heard a familiar tone.
An aunty voice.
Warm, firm, the kind that sounded like it had raised children and corrected men without needing to raise volume.
Aleem did not turn immediately.
But his ears sharpened.
“She is single,” the woman said, “but it is complicated.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
Complicated.
The word slid under his skin like a needle.
Complicated meant uncertainty.
Complicated meant waiting.
Complicated meant the kind of relationship where someone could still keep you as a backup while claiming they were confused.
The old rule inside him stirred, pleased and vindicated.
See?
This is why you do not try again.
He kept his face neutral.
He did not look.
But he knew, even without seeing, that the voice belonged to Almahirah’s mother.
He took another sip of water.
His throat was suddenly dry again.
He returned to Malek’s side.
Malek glanced at him once, sharp-eyed. “You heard something.”
Aleem did not deny. “Her mother,” he said quietly.
Malek’s expression remained calm. “And?”
Aleem hesitated.
He hated how quickly his mind had turned one overheard sentence into a whole future catastrophe.
“It is complicated,” Aleem said.
Malek nodded slowly, as if tasting the word. “Complicated is not always bad,” Malek said.
Aleem’s gaze snapped toward him.
Malek held it. “But it is always a warning.”
Aleem exhaled.
He looked forward again.
His heart beat heavier.
Not with love.
With recognition.
Because the fear that had shaped him was not abstract.
It had a name.
It had a face.
It had a history.
And now it had returned to sit beside him in a corridor between two hills.
As they continued the rounds, Aleem caught glimpses of Almahirah again.
Not close.
Not constant.
Just enough.
She walked with steady pace, head lowered, lips moving in prayer. She did not look around as if hunting for him. She did not turn her head when the crowd shifted.
She did not act like someone who wanted to play games.
That detail created a strange tension in Aleem.
Because it made her harder to hate.
It made it harder to keep her frozen in his mind as the villain of his story.
She looked like a pilgrim.
Just a pilgrim.
Like him.
Aleem’s gaze returned to the floor.
He forced his lips to move with dhikr.
He repeated Hasbiyallahu wa ni’mal wakeel until his mind began to loosen.
But the fear stayed.
Not loud.
Just present.
The part of him that had learned to protect himself whispered:
Do not be someone’s option again.
He did not know yet whether this was wisdom or trauma.
Maybe it was both.
When the seventh round ended, Aleem’s legs ached.
His feet felt bruised from the constant walking.
His shoulders were damp under the cloth.
But the ache in his chest was different now.
It was not the sharp sting of rejection.
It was the slow heaviness of truth.
Malek walked beside him toward the area where men trimmed their hair to exit ihram.
“Aleem,” Malek asked softly, “are you still okay?”
Aleem’s mouth tightened.
He wanted to say yes.
He wanted to say he was fine.
He wanted to say this was just tiredness.
But something about this place had been stripping him down, and it felt wrong to keep lying.
“I do not know what I feel yet,” Aleem admitted.
Malek nodded once, as if that answer was enough.
They sat, and Aleem watched as hair fell in small, dark strands to the floor.
It was a simple act.
A symbolic shedding.
He stared at the hair, then at his hands.
He thought, unexpectedly:
I want to shed this fear too.
Not because it was entirely unreasonable.
But because it had become too powerful.
It had started shaping his life more than faith did.
When they finished, Aleem felt lighter.
Not spiritually elevated.
Not magically healed.
Just… lighter.
Like a man who had finally admitted he was carrying something.
Night returned.
The group regathered at the hotel lobby, faces tired, eyes shining.
The ustaz gave gentle reminders, spoke about gratitude, about patience, about leaving the Haram with a heart that did not immediately return to old habits.
Aleem listened.
He did not search for Almahirah.
But when his eyes lifted, he saw her anyway.
She stood beside her mother, posture calm, expression neutral.
Their eyes did not meet.
There was no new scene.
No dramatic moment.
Just the quiet reality of proximity.
Back in his room, Aleem sat on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand.
He stared at the screen without unlocking it.
The urge to control rose in him—an urge to define the narrative before it defined him.
He could text Malek’s words into his memory like code.
He could repeat his own rule like scripture.
But beneath those impulses was something else.
A quieter question.
If Allah was stripping him down to intention, what was he supposed to do with the parts of him that had been built from pain?
Aleem leaned back, eyes closed.
The air-conditioning hummed.
The city of Makkah outside was alive even at night.
And inside him, Sa’i continued.
Not between Safa and Marwah.
Between who he had been.
And who he was trying to become.