When Grandpa Went to the Moon -Mohammad Kajol Irfan

No one believed him. Not his neighbors. Not the people at the masjid. Not even his own son. But Mihir did.

“Dadu is going to the moon!” Mihir announced proudly to his classmates, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

They laughed. “Your grandfather? The old man who walks with a cane and talks to pigeons on the rooftop?” asked Arif, the class clown.

Mihir didn’t flinch. He knew what he heard, and more importantly, he believed in his grandfather. After all, this was the same man who had once sailed a boat across the Bay of Bengal with only the stars and a dusty compass to guide him. If anyone could do the impossible, it was him.

It all began one warm Ramadan night. The moon hung low, glowing like a lantern in the sky, and the scent of roasted dates and cardamom milk still lingered in the air. Mihir was lying on the rooftop next to Dadu and Abbu, tracing constellations with his fingers.

“See that one?” said Dadu, pointing with his cane. “That’s the Sea of Tranquility. That’s where Neil Armstrong landed in 1969.”

Mihir nodded. “Baba says you watched it live on TV.”

“I did,” said the old man with a twinkle in his eye. “And I promised myself I’d go there one day.”

Mihir blinked. “You mean… to the moon?”

“Yes,” said Dadu. “And now I finally have the chance.”
At first, Mihir thought it was just one of his grandfather’s legendary stories. After all, Dadu also claimed he once shook hands with a tiger in Sundarbans and found a treasure map in the old library at Aligarh University.

But this time, it felt different. There was a calm seriousness in his grandfather’s voice. A certainty.

“You see, Mihir,” he said, “I’ve been selected for the Moon Elder Program.”

“What’s that?” Mihir asked, sitting up.

“It’s a secret program by the International Lunar Harmony Mission. They want to send elders from different cultures to the moon. To pray. To reflect. To plant something that humanity needs—hope.”

“Hope?”

Dadu nodded. “The world is full of wars, distractions, and noise. But sometimes, looking at the Earth from above can remind you of how small we are, and how big Allah’s mercy is.”

The next morning, Mihir found a shiny silver envelope on the breakfast table. It had the seal of the Lunar Harmony Mission, a crescent moon cradling the Earth. Inside was an invitation, a boarding pass, and a booklet titled “Guidelines for Moon Travelers.”

“Participants must be over 70, be of sound spiritual health, and able to recite verses from their Holy Book in zero gravity,” it read.

“That’s… you,” Mihir whispered.

Dadu chuckled. “I memorized Surah Ar-Rahman before you were born, my boy. I’ll be the first person to recite it on the moon.”

The training was intense. Every day, Dadu was picked up in a black space van with tinted windows. He learned how to float, how to breathe through oxygen tubes, and how to perform wudu in space using minimal water.

Mihir watched it all, eyes wide with amazement.

“But Dadu,” he asked one night, “what if something goes wrong up there?”

The old man smiled. “Then I’ll meet my Rabb a little earlier, from a little closer.”

Launch day came faster than Mihir expected. The entire neighborhood gathered in front of a giant screen at the community center. Even the ones who doubted him came.

The rocket—Noor-7—stood tall and bright, painted with verses in Arabic, Swahili, Chinese, and Bangla. The mission commander, an Indonesian astronaut named Amina Fatima, gave the signal.

“Three… two… one… Bismillah.”

WHOOSH.

The sky lit up, and Mihir felt his heart rise with the rocket.

The moon base was called Bayt al-Qamar—The House of the Moon. It looked like a silver masjid with a transparent dome, so the Earth could be seen during sujood.

Dadu’s duties included planting the Lunar Garden with seeds from every continent, writing stories about the stars for future generations, and recording Adhan every day from the Sea of Tranquility.

Mihir received voice notes from the moon.

“Mihir baba, do you know what I saw today? I saw Earth rise over the lunar horizon, a beautiful blue marble wrapped in clouds. It looked so peaceful. I prayed Fajr facing it.”

“Yesterday, I saw a shooting star fly past Mars. I thought of the ayah: ‘Indeed, your Lord is Allah, who created the heavens and the earth in six days.’ How tiny we are, and yet how kind He is.”

“Today I finished reciting Surah Yaseen while floating. It felt like I was swimming in Allah’s signs.”

Weeks passed, then a month.

And then—radio silence.

No voice notes. No updates. No one knew what had happened.

The news spread fast—”Moon Elder Lost in Lunar Storm.”

Mihir refused to believe it.

“He’s not lost,” Mihir insisted. “He’s just… somewhere higher.”

The community held a special du’a for him after Jummah. Even Arif, the class clown, stood quietly.

Then, one night, as Mihir lay on the rooftop staring at the moon, his tablet buzzed.

New Message from Dadu

It was a video.

The old man sat inside the dome of Bayt al-Qamar, white beard floating, a Qur’an on his lap, stars behind him.

“Mihir, I’m safe, Alhamdulillah. The storm passed. We lost signal. But listen to me, beta—never stop believing in the impossible. The moon is silent, but it listens. The stars are distant, but they watch. And Allah… Allah is always near, wherever you are.”

“Take care of your prayer. Take care of the Earth. And one day, when your generation goes to the stars, remember to carry peace with you.”

Mihir wiped his tears and smiled.

He opened his school notebook and began to write:

“My Dadu went to the moon. Not to conquer it. But to remind the world that devotion, dreams, and dua can take you farther than rockets ever will.”