Aisha and Layla rode in a litter, accompanied by Zahra, Mariam, and several guards. Layla looked at Aisha.
"Ready to see the real Baghdad?"
"Of course. I'm not a little girl anymore," Aisha replied.
"But you've never walked freely in this city," Layla teased with a chuckle.
Zahra added, "And there are many thieves as well."
Aisha turned to her. "You worry too much."
"Because you're often reckless," Zahra muttered.
Mariam laughed. "I agree. You really need supervision, Miss."
The litter moved slowly. Aisha lifted the curtain slightly, observing the streets of Baghdad. Layla nudged her.
"Look at that jewelry shop! Want to stop?"
"Not yet. I'm curious about Bayt al-Hikmah," Aisha replied.
Layla sighed dramatically. "Subhanallah, you're so lively this morning."
Zahra glanced at Mariam and whispered, "They really are the same."
Mariam nodded.
As they neared Bayt al-Hikmah, Aisha peeked through the litter's curtain, her eyes sparkling at the bustling scene outside.
"So many people," she said, feigning awe, though her real attention was on their clothes and how expensive their fabrics were.
Zahra peeked from behind. "Yes, and most of them are islamic scholars. Carrying books, scrolls, even discussing as they walk."
Layla smiled. "Feeling like you're in heaven yet?"
Aisha gave a small smile. "Maybe." But in her heart, she admitted: I respect the learned, but sitting for hours reading and discussing? No, thank you.
Mariam signaled. "We're almost there, Miss."
When the litter stopped, Aisha stepped out gracefully and gazed at the grand building before her.
"Bayt al-Hikmah…" she whispered softly, her voice dramatic, but her heart raced as she tried to steady herself.
On the other side of the world, thousands of miles from Baghdad, night had fallen over a pesantren in the Nusantara.
Indonesia, 2024 CE
That night, the rain poured down, drumming on the pesantren's roof like giant drums. Wind danced through the courtyard trees, causing branches to scrape together, sounding like mysterious whispers. The electricity went out, leaving the hallways in complete darkness, only the small emergency lights flickering faintly.
Upstairs, Ruqayyah stared out her window, half sleepy, half curious. From the corridor came a shout:
"Ahhh! A pocong is coming!"
Ruqayyah blinked. "They're doing this again."
Several islamic students, normally calm, had now transformed into "instant ghosts." Some wore white cloth, pretending to be pocong. Others waved black sheets like kuntilanak, complete with eerie sounds. Some mischievous friends even screamed while pretending to crawl like ghosts, causing a few pesantren students to run into the walls.
Bela stifled her laughter, bending over and patting her knees. "I… I want to be a crawling ghost too!" she murmured quietly.
Ruqayyah was shocked, her mouth agape at Bela's antics.
After a few minutes, the supervisors patrolled with small flashlights, giving firm instructions.
"Quiet! Don't panic! The power outage is only temporary."
The mischievous pesantren students merely smiled.
The rain began to ease as the night grew late. The hallways became calm again, only the last drops dripping from the roof could be heard. Ruqayyah walked toward the library—her initial intention to iron her uniform now just an excuse. Unconsciously, her steps slowed, her eyes fixed on the shelves that seemed to call her.
Inside the library, Ruqayyah noticed something different. The shelves seemed taller, the light from candles glowed warmly, and it felt as if every book held a secret waiting to be read.
As she reached for a thick book, a soft voice sounded:
"Do you want to know the story of the Abbasid Dynasty?"
Ruqayyah turned, seeing a woman smiling, holding a thick volume.
"This is Al-'Abbāsiyah," the woman said. "Records of a glorious era—when knowledge and power walked hand in hand."
She began reading the tales of scholars, philosophers, and scientists working under one sky.
"However," she continued, "Bayt al-Hikmah did not always stand. In 1258, the Mongols invaded Baghdad. Thousands of books were swept into the Tigris, the water darkened by ink. The light of knowledge nearly vanished forever."
Ruqayyah was astonished. She stared at the book in her lap, feeling the weight of history. But when she tried to look at the woman again, she had vanished without a sound.
Her eyes widened. "Who was that?" she whispered. "Did Allah send someone to teach me?"
Ruqayyah closed the book, smiling faintly while shaking her head. "Ah, I'm just an ordinary pesantren student. I shouldn't daydream too much."
Not long after, Bela's voice called from outside the shelves.
"Ruqayyah! What are you doing alone?"
Ruqayyah jumped, turning quickly. "B-Bela?! Since when are you here?"
Bela smiled casually, arms crossed. "I should be asking. Weren't you supposed to go downstairs with the others to iron your uniform? How did you end up in the library?"
Ruqayyah closed the book, stood up, and patted her cheek. "Alright, let's go back to the dorm before the night gets any later."
---
Returning to Baghdad
Baghdad, 815 AD
If Ruqayyah descended like a rain that fell without sound, then Aisha binti Al-Fadl arrived like lightning cleaving the sky.
Within the hallowed walls of Bayt al-Hikmah, voices collided in a symphony of urgency. An aged islamic scholar dictated sprawling sentences from a foreign manuscript, while a young scribe feverishly transcribed every word, beads of sweat tracing paths down his temples. Not far off, three learned men clustered around an astrolabe, debating the heavens with a fervor that suggested the stars themselves might be persuaded to shift with their words.
Aisha's lips curved into a wide grin.
"I could live here forever," she whispered to Layla. "The scent of ink, the tension, and that hint of chaos… it feels like life itself."
For the first time, she felt no fear of burning—though the flames that licked her mind were far hotter than any hearth.
A young scholar dashed past, arms laden with rolled manuscripts. He collided with a marble pillar, and the scrolls cascaded to the floor.
"Ohho!" Aisha and Layla exclaimed in perfect unison.
Their laughter rang out, pure and childlike, drawing curious glances from the room. Aisha crouched immediately, gathering the fallen scrolls with nimble fingers.
"Lesson one," she said, handing a roll back to the embarrassed youth. He paused, blinking, then offered a sheepish smile.
"Strange," Aisha murmured. "This place cooks nothing… yet it seems as though something is always ripening within it."
Suddenly, a dignified young man—though clearly still youthful—stepped closer. His robe was simple, neat, and his face bore the marks of wisdom beyond his years. "Assalamu'alaikum, daughter of Al-Fadl and daughter of Al-Hasan. What brings you to this house of knowledge?"
Aisha blinked, slightly startled. She had heard his name from her father—the prodigious boy from Kufa who was said to have mastered logic at a very young age. This must be Abu Yusuf Ya'qub ibn Ishaq Al-Kindi, though not yet the great philosopher he would one day become.
"Wa'alaikumussalam," Aisha replied confidently. "I wished to visit this place and hear the wisdom of those who seek knowledge."
She deliberately chose the word hear, not study, to sound more refined.
The young man nodded slowly. "Curiosity is the beginning of wisdom. But knowledge is not enough to merely hear; it must be reflected upon to be of value."
Layla whispered, "See? Even this boy is giving a lecture."
Aisha almost laughed, but restrained herself. In her heart she thought, Well, if a fourteen-year-old is already this serious, how must the teachers be?
"I wish to learn more," Aisha said politely. "If I may, I would like to see the scholars who work here."
Al-Kindi smiled faintly—a smile of a youth still in awe of the world of knowledge, yet already aware of its weight. "I can show you some places. But remember, the path of knowledge is long. Sometimes heavier than it appears."
Aisha nodded very seriously, as if the advice had truly touched her heart. "I shall remember it."
As the young Al-Kindi turned and walked ahead, Aisha whispered to Layla, "I feel like a philosopher now."
Layla rolled her eyes. "You're more like a performer."
Aisha giggled. "At least, an educated one."
Layla looked at her sharply. "Karma is near, Aisha, and we are calling it." Aisha gasped.
Near the Tigris — Just Before Dhuhr
The breeze from the Tigris brushed her face as Aisha stood for long moments, gazing at the river's broad, serene expanse. It seemed to hold a thousand secrets, each ripple whispering them in silence.
"Is this a river… or an ocean?" she wondered aloud. "It knows too much for water to be so calm."
A pause. A soft exhale.
"Perhaps I am beginning to understand," she whispered, "why some people willingly drown in the pursuit of knowledge. Here, a woman's worth is not measured by the softness of her voice."
Layla, ever practical, stood beside her.
"If you fall in, do not blame fate."
Aisha's smile was deliberate, theatrical.
"Then let fate carry me as far as it wishes."
They strolled along the riverbank, purchasing chilled drinks from a vendor. Aisha's gaze alighted on a decorated boat.
"Noble craft," she murmured.
Layla nodded.
"And that one?" she asked, pointing to a vessel laden with goats and straw.
"Far more honest," Aisha replied.
Layla exhaled, a mixture of exasperation and admiration.
"I cannot believe you are the wazir's daughter."
"Fear not," Aisha said lightly. "I am nobility in words, if not in deed."