Just after Bruce Grove, a woman gets on. I shift my gaze from the traffic light by the Costa to the back of her fuzzy weave, bobbing up and down as she ascends the stairs. She is carrying an enormous black backpack on her shoulders. As she turns to survey the top deck, the bus jolts forward. A blue lanyard, bearing the words ‘STAFF’ in white across its length, swishes from side to side. She careers forward and her backpack barges my shoulder as she passes me. I tut out loud and instantly regret it. It wasn’t her fault. For a start, I’m sitting on the aisle seat and she’s a little unbalanced as the bus slaloms along, so if anything it’s my fault.
‘Sorry!’ she says cheerfully, as she disappears behind me.
A mere minute later, in the absence of any inane chat from fellow passengers or announcements from the driver’s PA system, in this comfortable silence, I hear:
Tala’l badru alayna, bi’thaniyatil wadaa’
Wajaba shukru alayna, ma da’a lillahi daa
It’s coming from the back; a faint child’s voice. Accompanying this is audio of the same melody, slightly lower in volume than the singing. I immediately recognise this voice as that of the woman.
Ayyuhal mab’oothu feena, ji’ta bil amril mutaa’
Ji’ta sharraftal madinah, marhaban ya khair daa
It’s the chant that the Madinan Muslims greeted the Prophet Muhammad with, as he sought refuge in the city. Many Muslims know this poem by heart.
Shame sweeps over me for my earlier hostility towards her. I run a couple of scenarios in my head:
‘Assalamu alaykum sister! Louder inshallah!’ Nope.
Getting up to sit near her and say some nice words? Absolutely not. Single woman, night time. No.
As my stop approaches, I deliberately stand from my seat a little earlier than usual, and zip up my coat, while facing the back of the deck. The woman is in the last row by the window, eyes closed, eyebrows raised, chin tilted upwards, chanting softly but purposefully.
I linger for a few seconds, then grab my rucksack off the seat and head downstairs.
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A Series Of Pointless Conversations 