My First Prayer

My first experience of the ritual prayer was exotic and awesome. It was prayed approximately a week prior to my embracing Islam in a typically claustrophobic prayer room located in the bowels of a university campus, late at night. My companion, a much older mature student specialising in facial-reconstruction surgery, was open about his less than pious lifestyle. However, motivated by a combination of exam-season nerves and the duty to convey the message to an interested observer (which in my experience is found in even the most lax believer), he took it upon himself to accompany me to the prayer room. Prior to the prayer, I followed his lead as I washed my limbs in a small bathroom that reeked of what would become a familiar stagnant, damp odour. It was not particularly spiritual, with all of my attention directed towards not doing anything wrong and trying to save my trousers from being drenched. As I subsequently lined up for prayer in what I now recognise to be a storeroom with some lines taped onto a cheap and rough carpet (like a cheese grater on the forehead), I was mesmerised by the single colourful prayer mat, most likely mass-produced in Turkey or Pakistan and sporting a barely recognisable woven representation of the Ka’ba. It was different, alien, and exhilarating. This was not an impressive place of worship. But the process of standing with a friend, performing a curious set of motions, petrified to set a foot wrong but all the while deeply focused on my every movement was entrancing. I question whether I have ever prayed with such intensity since. I remember the awesome, haunting silence that followed my friend’s melodious Qur’anic recitation. It occurred to me that this series of actions was perfectly designed for reflection and stillness. I experienced the gravitas I had encountered walking into gold-plated Vatican churches years before, but this time the profundity was entirely internal, for, should I have moved my eyes from the exact spot on the floor which I had been directed to gaze at, I would have been faced with an uninspiring sight: Peeling paint and metallic air conditioning pipes. I finished the prayer in a spiritual vacuum, a different universe to the one in which I had lived in for many years. It was an act of deep reverence, a moment of indescribable peace and glorious clarity. I immediately understood that this practice was sufficient as a proof for the veracity of Islam, and decided there and then to embrace the faith. However, that brief moment of Divinely-inspired peace was short lived. Soon, I was informed that my reflections on the prayer were not mentioned in any 'authentic' books, and that the prayer should be considered little more than an exoteric action performed out of obligation. To show reverence, or to even encourage others to be silent when in proximity to those who were praying, was entirely unnecessary and quite possibly an undesirable innovation. Within months, the exotic spiritual fragrance of the ritual prayer was replaced by a need for mechanical rigidity, a desire to conform to the behaviours of a group of angry people whom I secretly disliked, but dared not admit to myself. My heart experienced a drought that would not be quenched until the beginning of the monsoon season, when I experienced the prayer of the Beloved ﷺ by means of the Saints.