Jabal Rahmah - Where Two People Meet, and Pride Dies First
Chapter 7 — Jabal Rahmah: Where Two People Meet, and Pride Dies First
Some places carried symbolism so heavy it felt almost unfair.
Aleem stood near the bus with Malek as the group gathered, listening to the ustaz explain the itinerary for the day. He heard the words, but they floated past him like wind through open hands.
Jabal Rahmah.
The Mount of Mercy.
The place associated, in tradition, with the reunion of Adam and Hawa after their descent to earth.
A place people visited to make dua, to ask for forgiveness, to pray for love, to pray for marriage, to pray for a life that would not stay broken.
Aleem felt a quiet irritation bloom in his chest.
Not at the place.
At the timing.
At the way his life seemed to be stepping into metaphors he did not ask for.
He glanced toward Almahirah.
She stood beside her mother, her posture composed, face calm beneath her scarf. She did not look at him. She did not hover in his orbit.
Yet her presence was enough to make the word complicated return to his mind like a warning sign.
Aleem hated how that one word could undo peace.
He told himself, again, that he was not here for her.
He was here for Allah.
He was here for mercy.
He was here to be clean.
Malek leaned close. “You look like you are about to argue with the sky.”
Aleem did not look at him. “I am fine.”
Malek sighed quietly, amused and concerned at the same time. “You keep saying that, and one day your heart will believe you, and that will be the saddest thing.”
Aleem’s jaw tightened.
He did not respond.
The group began to move.
Jabal Rahmah was not as brutal as Jabal Nur.
It did not tower with the same harshness.
But the heat was still honest. The steps still demanded patience. The crowd still moved in uneven surges—some pilgrims racing as if mercy could be reached faster, others climbing slowly with the humility of knees that had carried them through years.
The bus dropped them off near the base.
Vendors lined the sides of the path. Pilgrims gathered under shade where they could find it. A few uncles were already bargaining for water as if water was a luxury.
The ustaz gave reminders.
Stay together.
Do not push.
Make dua.
Keep your intentions clean.
Then the usual scatter began.
Not dramatic.
Just the ordinary chaos of human movement.
An aunty needed the toilet.
Someone forgot their bag.
A family decided to rest before climbing.
Malek was called again—this time by a younger man from the group.
“Brother Malek,” the man said, worried. “My mother is feeling dizzy. Can you help me talk to the ustaz?”
Malek’s expression shifted instantly into concern.
He turned to Aleem. “Go ahead slowly,” Malek said. “I will catch up. Do not sprint like you are proving something.”
Aleem’s mouth tightened. “I never sprint.”
Malek’s eyes said otherwise.
Then Malek walked away.
Aleem stood still for a moment, watching Malek disappear into the cluster of people.
He exhaled.
He adjusted the strap of his bag.
He looked toward the path.
And realized Almahirah was moving forward too.
Not with her mother.
Her mother had settled under shade near the base, talking with other aunties.
Almahirah walked ahead at a steady pace, as if she had decided not to waste time.
Aleem’s heart tightened.
Again.
The pattern returned.
Twice was coincidence.
Three times felt like something else.
Aleem hesitated.
He could stay behind.
He could wait for Malek.
He could merge himself into another cluster.
But his feet moved forward.
Not because he was chasing.
Because he was tired of running.
And the mountain, like all mountains, did not care about his pride.
It waited.
They climbed.
For a while, they did not speak.
The silence was not awkward in the way it had been at Jabal Nur’s first separation.
This silence was heavier.
Like two people walking beside a wall they had built and pretending they did not see it.
The heat pressed against Aleem’s skin.
Sweat gathered under his cap.
He could hear Almahirah’s breathing beside him—steady, controlled.
At one point, Almahirah slowed slightly.
Aleem slowed too, not as a gesture, just as a natural matching of pace.
They reached a small landing where people paused to drink water.
Almahirah took a bottle from her bag, drank, then looked at Aleem as if she was weighing whether to speak.
“We keep ending up like this,” she said quietly.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
The sentence was simple.
But it carried everything unsaid.
Aleem stared at the steps ahead.
He could respond with sarcasm.
He could respond with coldness.
He could respond with silence.
Instead, he chose honesty.
“We can talk,” Aleem said quietly.
Almahirah’s eyes softened slightly.
Aleem continued, voice steady but careful. “But not about the past yet.”
Almahirah held his gaze for a moment.
Then she nodded once.
“Okay,” she said.
The agreement felt like a breath.
Not relief.
Not forgiveness.
Just space.
They continued climbing.
Conversation came gently, like approaching a wounded animal.
Not to capture.
To calm.
Almahirah spoke about nursing.
About how shifts blurred together until you forgot which day it was.
About how sometimes she watched families collapse in grief and realized love was not a romantic thing—it was a responsibility.
“You see people at their worst,” Aleem said quietly.
“Yes,” Almahirah replied. “And sometimes… at their best too. When they are terrified but still kind.”
Aleem nodded.
He spoke about work.
About deadlines.
About how his life sometimes became a loop of code and sleep.
About how being productive was easy compared to being emotionally present.
“I used to think being busy was a good thing,” Aleem admitted.
“And now?” Almahirah asked.
Aleem hesitated.
Now he knew being busy could also be avoidance.
Now he knew productivity could be a hiding place.
“Now,” Aleem said softly, “I think being busy can also be a way to stay numb.”
Almahirah was quiet.
Then she asked, cautiously, “What kind of person do you think you need now?”
The question landed gently but it still landed.
Aleem’s heart tightened.
He looked up at the sky.
It was bright, wide, unbothered.
“I used to think I needed someone who made me feel chosen,” Aleem said.
Almahirah’s breath caught slightly.
Aleem continued, voice low. “Now I think I need someone who makes me feel… safe. Not in a childish way. In a clean way.”
Almahirah nodded slowly.
“I understand that,” she said.
They walked.
The crowd shifted around them.
Some pilgrims brushed past, murmuring prayers.
Some stopped to take photos.
Others sat on the side, eyes closed, palms raised.
Then Almahirah spoke again, quieter.
“My situation… is not clean,” she admitted.
The word complicated did not need to be said.
It hovered anyway.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
Almahirah’s voice held no defensiveness, only fatigue.
“It is off and on,” she said softly. “And I am tired of uncertainty.”
Aleem did not reply immediately.
His old instincts wanted to rescue.
To advise.
To insert himself.
But he had promised himself dignity.
He had promised himself he would not become someone’s comfort while they still belonged to someone else.
So he listened.
He let the silence hold her admission without trying to fix it.
That restraint felt like adulthood.
Painful.
Necessary.
They climbed higher.
The path leveled briefly.
Wind brushed against their faces.
The mountain was gentler than Jabal Nur, but the conversation was not.
And then, in a moment that felt like the air itself had asked for honesty, Aleem spoke.
“I need to tell you something,” Aleem said.
Almahirah glanced at him.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He kept his eyes forward.
“I have… a rule,” Aleem said quietly.
Almahirah’s brows knit slightly.
“A rule?” she repeated.
Aleem exhaled.
He hated how childish it sounded.
But it had shaped his life.
“A rule I built after… being hurt,” Aleem said.
Almahirah’s breathing slowed.
Aleem continued, voice controlled, as if speaking carefully could stop the past from biting.
“I stopped trusting Malay Muslim girls,” Aleem admitted.
The sentence landed with the weight of shame.
He had never said it out loud.
Not to Malek.
Not to anyone.
Almahirah’s eyes widened slightly, then softened.
Aleem swallowed.
“I told myself it was logic,” Aleem said quietly. “Pattern recognition. Protection.”
He let out a slow breath.
“But here… I realised it was not logic.”
His voice dipped.
“It was fear,” Aleem said.
Almahirah’s face changed.
Not offended.
Not defensive.
Just… affected.
As if she could hear the implication without him spelling it.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“I am not proud of it,” he added. “It is not fair.”
Silence.
The wind grew stronger for a moment, tugging at Almahirah’s scarf.
Almahirah stared at the path ahead as if she needed the ground to be steady for her to stand in this truth.
Then she spoke, voice quiet and careful.
“I was not a good person then,” Almahirah said.
Aleem’s heart stuttered.
She continued, not dramatic, not pleading—just honest.
“I did not realise what I was doing,” Almahirah said. “I did not realise what I damaged until I grew older.”
Aleem swallowed.
The past rose.
Not as rage.
As grief.
For his younger self.
For the way he had shrunk.
For the years he had spent building armour instead of healing.
Almahirah’s voice softened even more.
“I wish I could take back how I treated you,” she said.
She did not say his name.
She did not say sorry.
Not yet.
But her regret was not performance.
It was weight.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He did not know what to do with it.
He had imagined this moment as anger.
As confrontation.
As victory.
Instead, it felt like two adults standing beside an old grave.
No shouting.
Just acknowledgement.
When they reached the top, the sky felt impossibly wide.
Wind brushed against their faces, cooling sweat, lifting fabric.
The crowd gathered in clusters—some taking photos, some raising hands in dua, some weeping openly.
Aleem stood slightly apart.
Almahirah stood a short distance away.
They did not stand shoulder to shoulder.
They did not hold hands.
They did not perform reunion in a place famous for reunion.
Instead, they allowed space.
Because space was the only way to keep things clean.
Aleem raised his hands.
He looked up.
He felt the sunlight on his skin.
He felt the wind.
He felt the weight of what had been spoken.
Ya Allah, he thought.
Not a dramatic plea.
A quiet request.
Teach me how to forgive without betraying myself.
Teach me how to protect my dignity without hardening into prejudice.
He lowered his hands.
Beside him, Almahirah’s lips moved in silent dua.
Her eyes were closed.
She looked small against the sky.
Not helpless.
Just human.
Aleem stared at her for a moment.
Then looked away.
Because he could feel the pull inside him—the pull to soften more, to do more, to chase the warmth that had returned.
And he refused.
Not because he wanted to punish her.
Because he wanted to keep the mercy clean.
On the way down, the air between them felt different.
Not lighter.
Warmer.
Silence did not feel like avoidance anymore.
It felt like respect.
At one point, Almahirah paused to adjust her footing.
Aleem slowed, offered his hand briefly—not grabbing, not pulling—just steadying.
She accepted for a second.
Then released.
Their fingers touched.
Not electric this time.
Just human.
“Thank you,” Almahirah murmured.
Aleem nodded. “Take your time.”
They continued.
When they reached the base, Malek was waiting.
His eyes found Aleem quickly.
Then his gaze flicked to Almahirah.
Then back.
Malek did not ask.
But his expression softened, as if he could see something had shifted in Aleem’s face.
Not romance.
Something deeper.
A crack in the armour.
That night, back in the hotel room, Aleem lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
His body was tired.
His heart was not.
He thought of Almahirah’s words.
I was not a good person then.
He thought of his own confession.
I stopped trusting Malay Muslim girls.
He felt shame.
He felt grief.
He felt something faintly like relief.
Forgiveness was starting to feel possible.
Not because the past had been erased.
But because it had finally been named without violence.
And yet, the warning still remained.
Complicated.
Off and on.
Uncertainty.
Aleem’s pride stirred, protective.
He would not ignore red flags.
He would not become a backup again.
He would not repeat the same mistake twice.
At the place where the first pair reunited, Aleem realised reunion was not always about two people.
Sometimes it was about a heart returning to itself.