An encounter with mercy

A long time ago, Ali had found himself lost, desolate and trapped in the confines of a cold, dark prison cell. Boredom wasn’t stillness; boredom was sameness. Ali’s life had become an infinite stream of cyclical monotony; no day was any different from the other, and there was no prospect that the day after would differ from the last. Ali craved stimulus, even of the adverse kind. For even conflict would inject some life into him, and resuscitate the purpose of his remaining years.

Ali, a diplomatic writer and a loving husband and father, was captured and sentenced to life as a prisoner of war. His sole crime? Existing in a country under political turmoil. Shackled to a tedious fate, Ali’s only companion was a silent prison guard, employed with the duty of feeding him enough to sustain his withering frame for just another day. This modicum of mercy was no usual treat for a political prisoner. But Ali was no usual prisoner.

We must bear in mind that Ali was an ardent scholar, revered throughout the entire Middle East for his revelatory way with words. He was a man of great personal integrity who devoted his life to the quest for truth. And with every fragment of truth he uncovered, he served to enlighten his people during a time when the truth was needed the most. This was his lifeline. His allegiance to the truth surely saved him from a near mortal fate, for even the most heartless of adversaries knew that Ali’s mind was too valuable to waste.

Each day, the prison guard would attend Ali’s cell and leave two piles of documents at his feet; one pile of old scriptures ready to be translated, and a second pile of blank pages, fresh for him to write on. This was Ali’s work. It helped keep his mind stimulated throughout the hourless days. For this he was eternally thankful, as the texts he received boasted a peculiar depth, with topics ranging from geo-politics, history, science, religious and Vedic texts. There were even cryptic Egyptian manuscripts and esoteric Biblical stories, an entire myriad of subject matters inexhaustible. These were an insatiable mystery to Ali.

But whenever he quizzed the prison guard as to what the source of these texts were? What was their purpose? And for whom he was translating them for? His questions were sorely met with stony silence.

One night, before Ali surrendered to the lull of sleep, he pondered upon the words he had written as they reverberated amidst his thoughts. “Is this how my fate will end? Is this all there is?” he thought, staring vacantly into the ceiling. Frustrated and depleted, he fell into a deep slumber and started to dream. He stumbled into the great infinite nothingness, cascading into the endless void of night, and sang silently toward the sky:

“For uncounted years I have tried to grasp the meaning of my existence. How many more years am I destined to reach you and become whole?

Where are you, my light? Show me the path towards your truth, I am a moth searching for your flame. Please my Lord, do not let me die in vain.

The harder I try, the further I become from you… your purity and beauty.

But how can I not ask, how could I not search? Let your beauty fill my eye.

For eternity I will pray, forever from today. To know the great truth; the truth of myself, of my mind, tell me the purpose of the life I painfully left behind.”

And on that night, in the cold prison cell, while Ali contemplated the wonders of life and the mysteries of the Universe, a great light descended upon him. Mesmerising and iridescent, a magnificent outline of a woman gently emerged. Familiar and roguelike, Hypatia of Alexandria radiant, hallowed and all stupendous, she gazed toward him adoringly, her voice permeating the depths of his mind:

“My dear Ali,

I am the one you have served.

Now you are in need,

I will serve you.”