Newark to Istanbul
to Jeddah

Ten hours. That was the flight from Newark to Istanbul. Ten hours in a crowded cabin, seats too narrow, legroom too scarce, bodies too restless. Comfort was not a word that belonged to this part of the journey.

Shehnaz was taller than the rest. Her frame didn't fit easily into the cramped space. She shifted, adjusted, stretched what little she could. Sleep wouldn't come — not for her, not for Nazia either. The air felt still and heavy, the hum of the plane constant but strangely soothing. Soni, somehow, managed to sleep, her head tilted against the window, breathing steady, sleep mask covering her eyes.

If sleep wouldn't come, at least they had conversation. And so they talked — for hours. About the past, memories folded into laughter and gentle ache. About the present, the surreal fact that they were actually on this plane, actually doing this. About the future — what awaited them in Makkah, what duas they would make at the Kaaba, what changes they hoped to carry back into their lives.

They talked about the afterlife. About what mattered. About what didn't. About how they wanted to live — not perfectly, but intentionally. Honestly. Faithfully.

Time passed. Slowly, yes. But it passed. Eventually the pilot's voice crackled through the speakers, announcing their descent into Istanbul. It was raining, he said. A wave of relief washed over them — the first leg of the journey was complete. Now they had to find Saji and her sons. Then, only then, would Team Umrah be whole.

Once the plane stopped, they waited. The crowd moved slowly and impatiently, bodies pressing against each other in the narrow aisle. When the path cleared, they stood up, retrieved their bags, and made their way toward the exit, thanking the cabin crew with brief, polite nods before stepping out into Istanbul's vast, bright, endlessly moving terminal.

They rode escalators up and down, navigating signs in languages they only half understood. Soni tried repeatedly to reach Saji on the phone — once, twice. Finally, she got through. Saji and her sons were resting in a lounge somewhere in the terminal. She had flown in from Chicago, where she lived with her extended family. Her two sons, Yazen and Saif, were both with her. Saif had recently performed Umrah before this trip, but when he heard his mother was going, he insisted on joining her again. Even at his young age, he understood what it meant.

Both boys were mature beyond their years. Grounded. Calm. The best shape one could be in when embarking on a holy journey. Now came the task of finding them. They had three hours in transit — enough time, but not limitless. Soni stayed on the phone with Saji, describing landmarks, reading signs aloud, moving through the terminal like detectives piecing together a map. After much back and forth, they finally spotted each other.

Saji's face broke into a wide smile. She hugged each of them — long, warm embraces that said more than words could. Shehnaz loved hugs. And warm hugs made her feel good about everything happening around her. Now Team Umrah was complete. They found a small café and grabbed some food — nothing elaborate, just enough to quiet their hunger and settle their minds. Then they made their way toward the gate for the final leg.

At the gate, they stood in line together. The seating arrangement on this flight was different — a 2-1 layout. Nazia and Shehnaz sat together. Soni sat in the row behind them, next to a young girl with a distinctive haircut who Shehnaz thought looked remarkably composed and cool, the way children sometimes are when they carry quiet confidence. Saji and her sons had seats elsewhere. She came by before takeoff to let the others know where she was, then settled in with a lightness that was entirely her own — comfortable in her own world, unbothered by the separation.

The plane filled quickly. Most of the passengers were heading to Umrah. You could feel it — the shared purpose, the collective anticipation pressing warmly against the air. It made the journey feel sacred before it had even truly begun. The plane moved, lifted, rose. And as it rose, so did their longing.

Nazia and Shehnaz continued talking — the kind of conversation with no clear beginning or end, covering things they'd never spoken of before and things they had revisited a thousand times. The flight was just under five hours. Time moved differently now — faster, lighter.

With about an hour and a half remaining, an announcement came over the speakers: the Meeqat. The designated spiritual boundary — the place where pilgrims prepare themselves for Umrah. This was where they would enter into ihram, the simple white garments symbolising purity, equality, and humility. No perfume. No adornment. Only intention. The recitations began.

Voices filled the cabin — some loud, some whispered. Men, women, children, all speaking the same words, carried by the same yearning. Goosebumps rose on their arms. All four of them — Shehnaz, Nazia, Soni, and Saji — continued making duas, preparing their hearts, steadying their minds, readying their souls for what was to come. Below them, the city of Jeddah came into view — lights scattered across the dark landscape like stars fallen to earth.

The plane touched down gently. A collective exhale moved through the cabin — relief, anticipation, and gratitude all at once. The need to be at the Kaaba, to see it, to stand before it, pressed against their chests like a living thing.

Immigration moved more quickly and smoothly than Shehnaz had expected — she had difficult memories from a previous visit that still made her wary. But this time the path had been cleared. They walked toward baggage claim, used the restroom while the bags came through, and emerged to find their luggage already waiting, lined up neatly. Another small mercy. Aamir, Saji's nephew, was also at the airport — he had flown in separately and would be joining them for Umrah. Now they were seven. Alhamdulillah.

With bags rolling beside them, they headed outside to call an Uber. Seven people. Ten-plus pieces of luggage. One car. It was going to be tight. But they made it work. The driver — an Arab man with kind eyes and patient hands — helped fit everything in without complaint. He simply made space. The drive to Makkah began.

The road unfolded in pockets of silence. City lights passed by the windows — soft, blurred, dreamlike. Each person retreated into private reflection, thoughts drifting between gratitude, longing, and quiet awe, as if everyone instinctively understood they were approaching something sacred.

Saji took her phone case off to charge her phone in the cab — she would forget to pick it back up. The driver made a brief stop for a restroom break. Saji stepped out to buy water for the boys. Then the journey resumed, moving through almost-empty highways in the early morning hour. They spoke about their families. Saji brought interesting stories about her extended family's history in Mumbai. The rest listened with curious warmth.

At the front desk, two Arab gentlemen greeted them. One had a charming smile, the kind that puts weary travellers instantly at ease. He checked them in smoothly and efficiently, handing over the keys and gesturing toward the elevators. They had asked for a Haram view room — in their excitement, they hadn't thought to specify Kaaba view. The man nodded and smiled, and up they went.

The ride felt endless. Exhaustion competed with excitement, each pulling in opposite directions. They had been assigned two rooms side by side, connected by a door in between — more than perfect. Extra beds were requested for the boys and arranged within minutes.

When they entered the room, they moved immediately to the window and pulled back the curtains. The Haram glowed before them — majestic, alive with light and movement even in the early hours of the morning. Their eyes scanned the view, searching for the black cube. Then it hit them — they hadn't asked for the Kaaba view. The Haram was visible, but the Kaaba itself was not from this angle. A flicker of disappointment. And then it passed.

Fajr was near. There was no time to rest. Despite aching limbs and heavy eyelids, they moved with purpose — their feet guided by something deeper than physical strength. Something older. Something eternal. They changed. They made wudu. They gathered their essentials into the small sling bags that Turkish Airlines had gifted — quiet, practical companions for the sacred work ahead.

And then, with hearts beating loud and fast, they walked toward the door. The next stop was what they had been waiting for: the Haram. The Kaaba. The journey of a lifetime.