Following interview of Bhai Idris Khazanchi, New York, by Mudar Patherya

I was sitting in my systems administration department of the Port Authority of New York office on the 66th floor of the World Trade Centre on 11 September 2001. Even though it was around 830 am and a little ahead of the time that the rest of the `army' would generally start trooping in, I checked my email, ran through the server logs and stayed abreast with the prevailing office reality.

Then THUD!

You will never get an idea of how loud is `loud' so let me explain it differently: I was thrown five feet, the building tilted to one side, then reverted to status quo, chairs rolled off in all directions, sprinklers were activated, papers were scattered and tiles fell off the ceiling. If one had blinked ten seconds, one would felt transported to another time and office.

We got our bearings back in less than a minute. Called mum to say "I am fine". Must have been a short circuit somewhere, I said, and by now the fire engines would be on their way. As a precaution, one walked around our office perimeter – 400 feet by 400 feet - to check if anyone needed clearing or cleaning - or both. Then someone indicated that it might be a good idea to walk down as well and exit the building until it was absolutely safe to resume work. Made sense. Besides, it was still early in the day so no one would be missing out on much work by exiting and entering all over again.

For the next half hour, it was still mundane detail. The elevators had closed. We were walking down. All one could hear was the solid `thump, thump, thump' of feet. The crowd was getting thicker; more people were pouring in from each floor. The mood was light. There were diverging views on the reasons for the evacuation. Some said `blast'. Others said `short circuit'.

While we were below the fortieth floor, there was another proximate explosion, creating a pervading smell of kerosene as if a kitchen primus had tripped over. When we saw the faces of those being evacuated from the fortieth floor, it finally started to sink in: "This thing looks serious." And sure enough, when we reached the mezzanine, we could see dropping aircraft debris, glass pieces and burning fuselage. Man, this was something else. The social chatter was now a more urgent "Don't look outside! Go! Go! Go!"

It was only when one had walked 200 metres away from Tower One that the real picture emerged. Two giant candles burning brightly. My first reaction: shucks, no work today. Another's reaction: left the laptop in all the hurry. My afterthought: left my wallet and cellphone as well. The crowd under Tower 2 milled around and exchanged notes. People were taking pictures as souvenirs. No urgency. For a good 15-20 minutes.

And then suddenly – unmistakably – one heard The Voice. It said: "Idris, tamey yahaan si hamna ne hamna chala jaao!"

I walked. Then brisker. Then ran. Then really ran. Then I turned while I ran. And then there was no Tower 2. I must be making a mstake. So I turned again. The place where I had worked for years, the place that had housed thousands of people, the place that had been invested with the best hardware, software, carpets, fittings and people, the place was Photoshopped out of reality in ten seconds. Ten seconds. Just ten seconds.

If I had stood where I had been for just two minutes longer, I would have been buried standing.

Now fast-track to the iftetaah of the New Jersey masjid two years later. Shaikh Mufaddal Motiwala sought me out; he wanted me to tell Huzurala my story. And that is when I met The Voice. Just the three of us. I told the man who knew everything anyway what had happened. He was a polite enquirer: "Kayaa floor par hataa?" "Kem utra?" "Kivi reetey baahar aaya?"

And then he pronounced: "Tamein bachi gayaa!"

That day I came away from my communion with a simple belief system. That, yes, one can be far from The Presence wherever one may be, but never far enough.

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