A Journey by Train
A Train Journey
28/4/2026
Today, on Tuesday, April 28, 2026, an academic session on jurisprudence and fatwa was held in Birmingham. The gathering was scheduled to begin at 9:30 AM and conclude by 5 PM. I left my home early in the morning. The silence of dawn still enveloped the atmosphere of . A faint line of light appeared on the eastern horizon, as if a thin streak of silver had been drawn across the black velvet of night. The streets were semi-quiet, and dewdrops on the leaves trembled as if the last glimmer of a dream lingered in eyes heavy with sleep.
I walked briskly towards the station. There is a peculiar pleasure in walking; one listens to the city’s breaths, feels the morning breeze, and journeys in solitude with one’s thoughts. I reached the station in about thirty-five minutes. As usual, life on the platform was in full swing. Some were rushing in haste, others stood silently waiting for the train, and the steam rising from coffee cups was dissolving into the cold air. Railway stations always seem to me a brief yet complete picture of human life; people meet for a few moments, then part ways, each face bearing a unique story of its journey.
The train departed at 7:40 AM. Today, it was more crowded than usual. People of various races, languages, and cultures were gathered in the same carriage, like the diverse colors of the world scattered on a single canvas. I found a seat. I opened my laptop and engaged in some academic work, but the passing scenes outside the window repeatedly drew my attention.
Train journeys always have a special effect on me. Whenever I sit on a train, Josh Malihabadi’s poem “A Train Journey” involuntarily comes to mind:
The arrow lodged in my heart, I draw it out
I paint a picture of a train journey
Humming joyfully, I was traveling
From Ajmer towards Jaipur
Indeed, a train journey is not merely about reaching from one place to another, but it is a moving picture of life. The passing scenes outside the window, changing faces, fleeting encounters, silent separations—all form a continuous flowing narrative. One feels that time, like a great train, moves steadily forward; no station is permanent, no traveler stays forever.
As the train left and entered the countryside, nature revealed its full beauty. Lush green fields swayed on both sides. Sheep grazed quietly, and patches of yellow flowers scattered on the ground resembled the sun. Rows of trees stood majestically, as if nature had stationed green-clad soldiers along the path. Occasionally, the red roofs of distant villages peeked through the trees, appearing like rubies set on green velvet.
Today, the sun shone with full brilliance. Its golden rays spread over the fields as if a painter had laid a light golden layer on a green canvas. Small clouds floated in the sky, their shadows sometimes racing across the ground, sometimes pausing at the edge of the fields. I watched these scenes for a long time. Sometimes, the silence of nature stirs a conversation in the heart that words cannot express.
I reached Birmingham station before 9 AM. There, I met Sheikh Abdullah Al-Judai. It had been almost two years since we last met. We embraced warmly, and old memories were refreshed as if spring had suddenly descended on autumn-stricken branches. Sheikh’s face bore the usual dignity, and his eyes shone with the light of knowledge. We proceeded together towards the gathering, engaging in scholarly conversation along the way.
He mentioned that he reads my Arabic articles with interest, even the one I wrote this morning had caught his attention. Such attention from scholars is a source of strength for a person. During our conversation, various jurisprudential issues were discussed. Then Sheikh mentioned Allama Abu Turab Zahiri and asked if I had met him. I replied that although I hadn’t met him in person, we corresponded, and he had granted me permission. However, I had frequent meetings with his brother, Sheikh Abdul Wakeel Hashmi.
Upon this, Sheikh Al-Judai narrated an incident from his meeting with Allama Abu Turab. He said that when King Faisal intended to establish Saudi Radio, a group of scholars was entrusted with overseeing the project. Sheikh Abu Turab was part of this committee. Since he belonged to the Zahiri school and believed in the permissibility of music, he suggested that music should also be broadcast on the radio. This opinion angered the other scholars, who unanimously wrote to King Faisal that Abu Turab should be exiled.
Sheikh Al-Judai recounted that King Faisal was displeased with the scholars’ attitude. He withdrew the entire project from the scholars and handed it over to the modern educated class. Thus, a jurisprudential disagreement and intolerance deprived the scholars of a significant national and invitational opportunity. Sheikh Abu Turab always lamented the narrow-mindedness of the scholars. He used to say that some scholars, even after stepping outside the confines of the madrasa, remain mentally imprisoned in that limited space and cannot collaborate on any broad collective work with other segments of the Ummah.
The day passed in the gathering and discussions. Various issues were deliberated. Sometimes scholarly differences were discussed, sometimes the intellectual challenges of the present era. Academic gatherings are peculiar; sometimes a brief sentence opens new vistas in a person’s mind, and sometimes years of confusion are resolved in a moment.
In the evening, when the gathering concluded, Sheikh Al-Judai and I headed to the station together. We continued our conversation along the way. We lamented how some people have equated sectarianism with religion. Such intensity is adopted on trivial and subsidiary issues that a significant section of the Ummah is becoming disillusioned with the scholars. Religion, which came with a message of breadth, wisdom, and mercy, has, in some hands, taken the form of a narrow window.
My return train was at 6 PM. The carriage was unusually crowded. People stood close to each other, like waves colliding in the sea. During this time, a passenger noticed my white hair. He immediately vacated his seat with great respect and insisted that I sit. I refused repeatedly, but he persisted. Here in England, it is often seen that people respect the elderly, give up their seats for them, help them, and listen to them attentively. Civilization is essentially the name of this sense of respect; otherwise, tall buildings and developed roads are soulless things.
The train was again passing through the same lush landscapes on the return journey. The evening sun had now softened. The golden light on the western horizon was slowly turning red. The shadows of the trees were growing longer, and a slight melancholy was descending over the fields. Josh Malihabadi came to mind again:
Swiftly through the forests, the train was moving
As if Laila was playing her star
The sun was hiding in the colorful hills
Peacocks were sitting with their feathers gathered in the bushes
A little farther was water, the waves were still
Branches were bent over the edge of the pond
In the waves, as if something was drowning the heart
I felt as if I was sleeping
A wave of intoxicating joy was passing through the heart
Everything was dancing gracefully
The valleys were golden with the departing rays
Suddenly, while moving, the train stopped in the forest
A beautiful flute lay on the thorns
Indeed, a train journey is the best metaphor for life; people sit together for a moment, engage in brief conversations, then each person sets off on their own path. Whether one wishes it or not, the train of life keeps moving steadily.
The train reached station at 7:15 PM. From there, I walked home. The cool evening breeze brushed against my face, and the day’s conversations echoed in my mind. It felt as if today’s journey was not merely from to Birmingham and back, but a long spiritual journey of memories, thoughts, meetings, and observations—a journey in which, along with the train tracks, many secrets of life quietly unfolded before me.
