The Qawwali Night | ليلة القوالي
"At a Sufi shrine in Lahore, the music opens hearts—and bodies. A widow finds ecstasy in the hands of a man she shouldn't want."
The Qawwali Night
ليلة القوالي
The qawwals have been singing for hours.
Mast Qalandar. Allah Hu. Songs of divine love that blur the line between sacred and profane.
I'm at Data Darbar, Lahore's greatest Sufi shrine. Around me, people sway in ecstasy. The air smells of roses and sandalwood.
And there is a man watching me.
I'm Nadia.
Forty-nine. Widow. My husband died three years ago, and since then, I've been... lost. My daughters say I should remarry. My mother says I should be content with grandchildren.
I am neither remarried nor content.
The man is perhaps fifty.
Dressed simply—white kurta, gray beard, kind eyes. He's not swaying like the others. He's still. Watching.
When our eyes meet, he doesn't look away.
"Assalamu alaikum, sister."
He's beside me now. The crowd has pushed us together, or perhaps that's his excuse.
"Wa alaikum assalam."
"You seem troubled."
"I'm fine."
"One doesn't come to Data Sahib when one is fine. One comes seeking."
"What are you seeking?" I ask.
"I came seeking peace. But now I'm finding... something else."
"What?"
He doesn't answer. The qawwali shifts—a new song, faster, more urgent.
Dama dam mast qalandar...
The energy surges. People leap to their feet. And in the chaos, his hand finds mine.
I should pull away.
But the music is overwhelming, and his touch is warm, and I haven't been touched in three years.
"Come," he says. "There's a quieter place."
I follow.
Behind the main shrine, there are small chambers.
For private prayer, supposedly. He leads me to one, closes the curtain.
"I'm Farhan," he says.
"Nadia."
"Nadia." He says my name like it's a prayer. "Why are you sad?"
"I'm not—"
"You are. I see it. The kind of sadness that comes from being alone too long."
"My husband died."
"I'm sorry."
"Three years ago. And since then, I've been..." I don't know how to finish.
"Empty?"
"Yes."
"I understand." He steps closer. "My wife left me. Five years now. I thought I'd fill the space with prayer. But prayer doesn't touch back."
"What are you suggesting?"
"Nothing. Everything." His hand rises to my face. "I'm suggesting that maybe Allah brought us both here tonight for a reason. And maybe that reason isn't proper, or halal, or anything our families would approve of. But maybe it's what we both need."
"That's—"
"Crazy? Yes." His thumb traces my cheek. "Tell me to stop."
I don't tell him to stop.
He kisses me while the qawwals sing.
Their voices echo through the walls—Allah Hu, Allah Hu—as his mouth claims mine. It's been so long. So desperately long.
"Please," I gasp.
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop. Whatever you're about to do—don't stop."
He unwraps me like a gift.
My dupatta first, then the buttons of my kameez. The chamber is dim, lit only by oil lamps. I should be embarrassed by my body—soft and aged—but he looks at me like I'm beautiful.
"Mashallah," he breathes.
"Farhan—"
"You're stunning. Every curve. Every year. Stunning."
He lays me down on the prayer rugs.
Allah forgive us, I think. We're sinning at a shrine.
But then his mouth finds my breast, and I stop thinking about forgiveness.
He takes his time.
Kissing, touching, learning me. By the time his hand slides between my thighs, I'm soaking.
"Here?" he asks, fingers hovering.
"Ji. Please."
He touches me.
The qawwali reaches its peak outside.
Mast! Mast! The ecstatic cries mirror my own as Farhan's fingers work me. Two inside, his thumb on my clit, his mouth on my neck.
"Let go," he whispers. "Let Data Sahib hear your joy."
I come with a cry that the music swallows.
Waves of pleasure I'd forgotten I could feel. Farhan holds me through it, his fingers gentling but not stopping.
"More?" he asks.
"More. I want—I need you inside me."
He enters me on the prayer rugs.
Both of us gasping at the connection. The qawwali has shifted again—slower, more plaintive—and we move to its rhythm.
"Ya Allah—Nadia—"
"Don't stop. Please don't ever stop."
We make love while the shrine sings.
Allah Hu. Allah Hu. God is present, even here. Especially here. The Sufis say the divine is found in love—all love—and maybe they're right.
"I'm close—" he groans.
"Me too. Together—"
We shatter together.
His release hot inside me, my body clenching around him. Outside, the qawwali ends. Applause. New beginning.
New beginning for us too.
"What now?" I ask, lying in his arms.
"Now I marry you."
"What?"
"Did you think this was just one night?" He props himself up. "Nadia, I've been watching you at the shrine for months. Praying next to you, admiring you. Tonight was just... the beginning."
"You've been watching me?"
"Every Thursday. You come to pray at Data Sahib's grave. You cry. You leave. And every Thursday, I lack the courage to speak."
"Tonight you spoke."
"Tonight the qawwali gave me courage." He kisses my hand. "Let me do this properly. Let me visit your family. Ask for your hand."
"I'm forty-nine."
"And I'm fifty-two. We're not children. We know what we want."
"My daughters will think I'm mad."
"Let them. We'll be mad together."
Six months later
We marry in a small ceremony at Data Darbar.
The qawwals sing at our walima. My daughters cry—not from disapproval, but from relief that their mother is finally happy again.
"Mubarak," they say.
"Shukriya, beti."
Farhan takes me home that night.
Our home now. A small house near the shrine where we met.
"Ready, wife?" he asks.
"Ready, husband."
He makes love to me the way he did that first night.
With reverence. With joy. With the qawwali playing softly in the background.
Allah Hu. Allah Hu.
God is here.
In this love.
In this second chance.
Alhamdulillah.
The End.