Chapter 41

CHAPTER 14 — BOOK III

 

Friday — Commonwealth Street

 

(2009, Curtin Sydney)

 

Morning lectures at Curtin University of Technology ended without ceremony.

 

Chippendale was already warming. Students drifted out in loose clusters, backpacks slung over one shoulder, conversations half-finished and carried into the street.

 

Geoffrey closed his notebook and slid it into his bag.

 

“You driving?” he asked.

 

Embong shook his head. “We’ll walk. It’s not far.”

 

They crossed Regent Street and moved toward Surry Hills, the city adjusting around them — café doors open, delivery trucks idling, traffic impatient but contained.

 

By the time they reached Commonwealth Street, the rhythm had shifted.

 

The mosque stood upright in white-painted brick, framed by two slender concrete towers that rose just beyond the roofline. A wide pointed arch recessed into the façade formed a portal-like hollow — simple, almost austere, unmistakably Islamic in outline. There were no tiles, no courtyard, no forecourt to soften it. Just glass, metal gates, and pavement. An old form compressed into Surry Hills proportions.

 

The recessed arch reminded Embong faintly of the iwans he had studied in photographs of Persian mosques — vast tiled portals opening into courtyards and domes. Here, the gesture was stripped back to concrete and paint, vertical rather than expansive, fitted between terrace houses instead of framing a square.

 

The gesture remained.
The scale had changed.

 

Once, he might have sketched it.

 

Now he paused only briefly before stepping forward.

 

They removed their shoes without speaking and entered King Faisal Mosque.

 

Inside, the building unfolded vertically.

 

A narrow stairwell led downward toward the ablution rooms — tiled, echoing softly with running water as men washed hands, mouths, faces, and feet in practiced sequence before prayer. The faint scent of soap lingered beneath the wool of the carpets above.

 

The ground floor was reserved for women, separated by space rather than spectacle. A low hum drifted upward — fabric shifting, greetings exchanged quietly, a child gently hushed.

 

Embong and Geoffrey climbed.

 

The first floor opened into the main prayer hall; above it, another level extended the space further for men, the building compensating for its narrow footprint by rising rather than spreading.

 

The carpet was patterned in long parallel rows, subtle lines woven into it to guide alignment shoulder to shoulder. Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead. Fluorescent light softened against cream walls.

 

At the front wall, a shallow arched niche marked the mihrab — indicating the qibla, the direction of Mecca. Beside it stood a small seated pulpit, the minbar, from which the sermon would be delivered.

 

An older bespectacled man with brown skin and a neatly trimmed beard adjusted his notes. When he began, his voice carried a measured Indian cadence — deliberate, precise, neither theatrical nor hurried.

 

There were no statues.
No imagery.
Only geometry, carpet, and the human voice.

 

The space was designed for bodies in rows rather than eyes in wonder.

 

They moved shoulder to shoulder.

 

No hesitation.
No instruction.

 

Geoffrey aligned his feet with Embong’s.

 

A few rows ahead, Embong recognised a familiar figure — Dr Gavin Andrews from Finance.

 

Even from behind he was unmistakable: sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm, posture composed, wire-rimmed glasses catching the light when he turned slightly. On campus he lectured in measured tones about markets and monetary restraint, diagrams clean, conclusions cautious.

 

Here, he stood without distinction — another man in line.

 

Embong had once overheard that his wife was Malaysian. They had a son.

 

The detail did not feel unusual.

 

It felt consistent.

 

The khutbah unfolded steadily, measured and unforced.

 

When the rows bowed, they bowed.

 

When they lowered themselves to the carpet, their movements were synchronized — deliberate, unhurried.

 

The floor met Geoffrey’s forehead without resistance.

 

For a moment, the world narrowed to fabric, breath, and the quiet weight of his own body.

 

He did not think about conversion.
He did not think about doubt.

 

There was no argument inside him.

 

Only stillness — structured, intentional, held.

 

Outside, Sydney continued — sirens somewhere distant, buses braking, pedestrians impatient.

 

Inside, the lines held.

 

After the final salām, the room loosened gently. Conversations resumed in low tones. Shoes were reclaimed. The ordinary world waited beyond the door.

 

On the pavement, Dr Gavin Andrews adjusted his glasses and offered a small nod.

 

“Good khutbah,” he said evenly.

 

“Yes, sir,” Geoffrey replied.

 

Embong returned the nod.

 

No further exchange was necessary.

 

They turned toward Crown Street.

 

“Malaysian for lunch?” Geoffrey asked.

 

Embong smiled faintly.

 

“Always.”

 

They walked toward George Street and slipped into Café Kemuning, the small Malaysian restaurant tucked neatly into the lower level of the boutique hotel.

 

Inside, the air carried turmeric, lemongrass, and the quiet sweetness of fried shallots. Stainless trays lined the counter behind glass — curries held warm but not hurried, steam lifting in soft intervals.

 

Friday had drawn a familiar crowd. Office workers. Students. A few men who had come straight from prayer, sleeves still rolled, conversation low.

 

They ordered nasi campur without discussion.

 

Rice first.
Then measured selections.

 

Ayam masak merah for Geoffrey — the sauce deep red, balanced between heat and sweetness.

For Embong, sambal ikan bilis, a spoon of beef rendang, and stir-fried kangkung glossy with garlic. A ladle of dhal shared between them.

 

Nothing elaborate.

 

Just food that steadied.

 

They carried their plates to a small table by the wall.

 

For a while, they ate without commentary — the kind of silence that did not require management.

 

Outside, buses sighed at the kerb. Traffic resumed its minor negotiations. The city did not register that anything had aligned an hour earlier.

 

Embong broke a piece of papadum and glanced at Geoffrey.

 

“You’re quieter after Fridays,” he said.

 

Geoffrey considered that.

 

“Maybe,” he replied. “It feels… calibrated.”

 

Embong nodded once.

 

That was the word.

 

They finished their tea slowly.

 

When they stepped back onto George Street, the afternoon light had sharpened, the day already in motion.

 

The city resumed around them — unchanged, continuous — and they stepped back into it without friction.

 

<< Back to Chapter 13 || CHAPTER 14 || Continue to Chapter 15 >>

 

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved.  Omar Onn