The deafening roar of jet engines pierced Anwar’s ears like needles as he searched the tarmac for Hangar B-15. After a half-mile scanning, he spotted the bolded letters stenciled onto a yellow sign.
He hesitated at the foot of the hangar as the weight of his decision settled over him. He wasn’t ready—somewhere in his mind, he knew that.
How do you practice for a plane you’ve never flown?
He thought about turning back, but a vision of his future self crossed his mind. He donned a sharp uniform with three gold stripes on his sleeve, catching the light as he walked towards a plane. As he turned to face the rows of passengers, their eyes lifted towards his strong silhouette with an admiration that affirmed that he belonged in the cockpit and could successfully straddle the thin border between life and death in the skies. The praise and respect beckoned him.
He shoved his doubt into some far corner of his mind and stepped inside.
***
The hangar gaped ahead of him like a mansion, the tiles reflecting the dull gray of the sky, leaving the cavernous space in half-shadow.
Anwar inhaled the sharp tang of high-octane fuel, laced with traces of scorched rubber—faint echoes of an aircraft that had just taken off and now roared unseen in the skies above. The familiarity evoked a sense of nostalgia from his past flights that soothed his nervous temperament, but only slightly.
To his left lay a line of four medium-sized aircraft. Their condition showed signs of wear—carbon streaks marred the wings, paint peeled in uneven patches, and dents warped the lamplight into distorted reflections. He paused to look at them, how they had once gleamed like medals of honor, and now stood as witnesses to countless successful flights by pilots who were closer to his vision than he was.
His eyes darted between the aircraft and the specifications sheet in his hand: Beechcraft Baron 58: Twin-engine, high-performance light aircraft featuring retractable landing gear, advanced avionics, and manually adjustable aileron trim for enhanced lateral control.
One of these weathered veterans was his, at least for today.
Just then, Anwar spotted a tall man behind one of the planes, his shoulders slightly hunched as he scribbled notes on a clipboard.
Anwar immediately recognized him by the unique patterns of gray in his beard—straight and evenly spaced—as Mr. Rasheed Ahmed, a man with such extensive knowledge of mechanics that one would think he was part machine. Even though he had been Anwar’s instructor for Introduction to Aircraft Systems and Performance, Anwar had paid little attention to the man until one Ramadan evening when he’d looked up toward the mihrab after eight rakahs of taraweeh and was taken aback at the sight of Mr. Rasheed turned to face the congregation.
Their eyes met only briefly, but long enough for the man to gently smile in recognition at Anwar.
At the head of the classroom, he commanded knowledge; at the head of the masjid, he commanded faith. He stood tall in both worlds, a man who had mastered what Anwar hungered for. If prestige had a face, it was Mr. Rasheed’s.
Seeing him there ignited something raw and hungry in Anwar’s chest, a fire that would not be extinguished.
In the months that followed, he stayed longer than all the other students, asking questions—some to learn, but mostly to mirror the man. The way Mr. Rasheed spoke, the way he prayed, the way he carried his success—it all had a shape, a rhythm. Anwar knew if he wanted it, he had to move, speak, and act the same way. If he played the part well enough, maybe then the rest would come.
“As-salamu alaikum, Anwar. Nice to see you again,” Mr. Rasheed called out in a cheery tone as he reached out his hand.
“Wa alaikum as-salam, Mr. Rasheed. I hope you’ve been well,” replied Anwar in an equally jovial tone, as if deliberately mimicking his energy.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you walk in. I was just completing this pre-flight checklist here,” said Mr. Rasheed. “Are you excited about today?”
“I can’t wait,” Anwar answered quickly, swallowing his nervousness. “Thanks for agreeing to be my assessor.”
“Not a problem. The more experience with this plane, the better. You’ve flown it before, right?” he replied.
“I’ve flown the Cessna 172, which is similar enough,” Anwar responded cheerfully.
Mr. Rasheed’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well… they are different planes from different decades. This one has a higher sensitivity,” he paused, gaze held towards Anwar. “It uses a traditional control system with cables and pushrods. Its twin engines require careful management of throttle, propeller, and mixture settings. Have you worked with the Garmin G1000NXi before? It’s super advanced for its age.”
The details flew over Anwar like a crosswind. He forced a confident smile. “Right, right. But at the end of the day, it follows basic flight mechanics, right? I flew the Cessna a few weeks ago—smooth ride.” The words felt hollow even as he spoke them.
Mr. Rasheed stared at the ground before replying. “Who signed off on this choice of plane? Must’ve been Cory, right?”
“Yes, it was Cory,” Anwar confirmed, hoping his voice didn’t betray how hard he’d had to push—practically beg—for that approval a few nights before. He hadn’t considered that Cory’s approval might arouse suspicion given the man’s careful nature.
Mr. Rasheed checked his watch—almost three in the afternoon. “I’ll finish the rest of the pre-flight check, and then we can get going in a few minutes,” he said, his tone carrying a note of reservation as he began to inspect the aircraft’s wing.
“Awesome. I’m going to go inside and get familiar with the controls.”
“Just hold off, I’ll be up there to show you in a sec—” Mr. Rasheed stopped mid-sentence as he looked back and saw Anwar already adjusting himself in the pilot’s seat.
He turned over his clipboard, entered the plane, and pulled the door shut behind him.
***
Turning left into the close, almost claustrophobic cockpit, Mr. Rasheed found Anwar strapped in with the main power switched on. He tucked his clipboard into the pocket behind his seat and strapped himself in.
“All right, Anwar. Let’s go over the pre-flight procedure and calibration again,” he said.
“I’ve already switched on the main power source and am calibrating the avionics now,” Anwar responded as he adjusted a dial. He had completed this portion of the flight at least a dozen times.
Mr. Rasheed was pleasantly surprised at the precision. “That’s correct. Don’t forget to also center the aileron trim—you know, the part that keeps the wings level during takeoff,” he said, sternly gesturing toward the trim control near Anwar’s left hand.
Anwar stared at the control with widening eyes. All the planes he had flown before lacked a dedicated aileron trim adjustment. When he brushed over the plane’s specifications the night before, he learned that it required careful trimming to compensate for engine torque and weight distribution. While he understood it in theory, he wasn’t about to admit his unfamiliarity with the thing. He forced a half-response. “Yeah, don’t worry, I’ve centered it.”
Fumbling with the trim wheel, Anwar could feel the man’s gaze—sharp and knowing—the way a lion watches a gazelle.
Still, Mr. Rasheed said nothing. Not about Cory’s suspicious approval of this flight, nor about Anwar’s obvious incompetence with the trim.
Maybe he was getting the benefit of the doubt. A lucky sign, he thought.
“Engine on,” Mr. Rasheed firmly stated.
Anwar pressed the ignition switch, and the propeller groaned to life, its hum vibrating through the cockpit. Mr. Rasheed was elevated in suspense as he watched the dials flicker to life. For now, they would move forward.
Mr. Rasheed slid on his headset, and Anwar, noticing this, mimicked the motion as naturally as he could. Its familiar weight settled over his ears, dulling the ambient hum of the cockpit.
Anwar lifted the radio to his mouth. “Air Traffic Control, this is ALX48 requesting—”
“ALX47,” Mr. Rasheed corrected. His words were sharp and flat, stripping the warmth from the cockpit.
“ALX47 requesting clearance for takeoff,” Anwar followed. The voice in his ear felt nearer to him than the man beside him.
Receiving clearance, Anwar half-pressed the throttle forward, and the plane jolted as it rolled out of the hangar and onto the tarmac. He felt the heavy vibrations of the wheels through his legs. It grounded him in the memories of past flights.
He glanced to his right. “Ready for takeoff?”
“Bismillah,” Mr. Rasheed said.
“Bismillah,” Anwar echoed under his breath.
He looked ahead at the mile-long stretch of asphalt, the front wheel aligned with the bright yellow markings down the middle of the runway. It was a familiar sight, but his anxiety persisted. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pushed the throttle forward. The engine growled, deepening into a roar as the plane surged ahead. The vibration intensified. The world outside became a blur as the number on the speed indicator climbed rapidly. Inhaling sharply, he tightened his grip on the yoke. His heart pounded, but his hands were steady.
“Approaching lift-off,” he reported in a controlled voice. He eased the yoke slightly back. The nose tilted upward. A brief moment of weightlessness coiled in his stomach as the wheels left the ground. His mind was a blur now. Then, the horizon dipped below them, the asphalt giving way to the open sky.
As he pulled the yoke back further, his anxiety was interrupted by an appreciation for the sensitivity of the aircraft. He felt like the captain at the helm of a 16th-century ship, sensing the aircraft responding with precision to every slight movement he made. At Mr. Rasheed’s command, he adjusted the right trim to carefully bank the plane into a smooth ninety-degree turn eastward. Perhaps the system wasn’t as complicated as he thought. Below them, the world shrank, city blocks fading into a patchwork of gray and green.
Then they broke through the first layer of cloud as a pale blue stretched in all directions. Sunlight illuminated the controls in a soft golden glow. The radiance forced a smile out of them both as Mr. Rasheed gave a vow of approval at the textbook procedure. “Solid takeoff, Anwar.”
The words rounded out Anwar’s confidence as he responded with a nod and maintained a firm lock on the sky ahead of him.
***
A few minutes later, Mr. Rasheed spoke up, “What’s your reading?”
“Approaching 6,500 feet. Speed is 120 knots. Leveling out,” Anwar responded.
He slightly nudged his yoke to the right, but because the dual controls moved together, something felt unusual in Mr. Rasheed’s hands. A slight resistance. Anwar corrected by moving the yoke further, though the plane responded sluggishly. The plane stabilized, the horizon now fully level with their line of sight.
Had he imagined it? He needed confirmation.
“Something wrong?” he asked, his voice calm but alert.
Anwar tightened his grip. “No, I just felt the right aileron was a little unresponsive, but I’m sure it was just a crosswind,” he responded with a hollow certainty.
That word—aileron—coupled with Anwar’s report carried Mr. Rasheed’s pulse up his throat. It quickly occurred to him that his frustration with Anwar’s arrogance when he barged into the cockpit had rushed him past the pre-flight inspection.
Twenty-four years of deferring to demanding students from wealthy families had trained him to swallow objections rather than assert protocol. Now, it was obvious he had to force a calm demeanor so as not to rile up Anwar, whom he sensed was already a bit nervous.
“Try another turn. Right this time,” he commanded calmly but firmly, the words hot as they left his mouth.
Anwar complied, shifting the yoke slightly to the right. The turn felt smoother but still delayed.
Then, a jolt.
Both men slid in their seats as the aircraft lurched to the right, banking sharply.
Anwar tried to correct the imbalance with the rudder, but the plane resisted, continuing to tip. The seconds stretched, thick and heavy, as the clouds ahead rushed past his left.
The seams around Mr. Rasheed’s composure were weakening. Panic, however, made the line between catastrophe and recovery razor-thin. His thighs clenched, and his gaze was fixed on Anwar, begging for some kind of response.
But Anwar had nothing to give—only a pale face and wide eyes.
He himself was a bag of emotions—rage at himself for skipping protocols and at Anwar for his deception. Terror at the rapidly worsening trajectory of the plane. And an acknowledgment that whatever would happen to them was the will of God. He squeezed his hands white against the edge of his seat and straightened his posture to take control.
Something about that sight—perhaps he sensed his window for heroism closing—compelled Anwar to make an extremely short-sighted decision. In one swift movement, he yanked the yoke to the left as far as it would go. The plane snapped in the opposite direction.
Too much. He yanked it back to the right. The plane wobbled like a foal trying to find its legs.
“Stop!” Mr. Rasheed’s restraint finally fractured. “Let go of the yoke, now!”
Anwar obeyed. His hands floated in the air, trembling.
Mr. Rasheed strapped himself in tighter and carefully reduced the throttle.
His gaze remained glued to the instruments as he remarked, “I should’ve said something before.”
He gently applied right-rudder pressure to counter the left aileron’s fixed position. “You don’t know how to work the aileron trim, do you? You never knew.”
He finally tapped the backup hydraulic system, feeling the subtle vibration as it engaged.
The plane’s banking slowed, then leveled off at an awkward angle.
***
The older man let the silence stretch, thick with the scent of disappointment and rage.
Finally, he uttered, with his head down, “Why, Anwar?”
The younger man said nothing, shame burning hotter than fear now.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t been here, God forbid?”
The question hung between them, heavier than any answer could be.
Anwar swallowed hard. He searched for excuses about pressure, expectations—anything to soften the truth. But he was out of white lies. They had burned away the moment he lost control. In their place, the heaviness of a dream shattered by his gall, and the painful clarity that came with it—the badgering of his supervisor for approval to fly this plane; his casual dropping of aviation terminology in conversations despite his shallow understanding; his rushing through simulations.
He chased achievement upon achievement like a dog after a butterfly, all to tell the world, “I’ve made something of myself. I belong here.”
All to claim mastery he had never earned.
It was now evident that physics, indifferent to his ambitions, had called his bluff.
With a shaky voice, he blurted, “I’m sorry, Mr. Rasheed. I—I just wanted it. I wanted to feel like I belonged up here.”
Mr. Rasheed let out a slow breath, turning his face toward Anwar. He saw the anger in the man’s eyes subside, replaced by a quiet, measured disappointment.
“You want to summit the mountain without climbing it, but that’s not how it works. The feeling you’re chasing isn’t something you can have without doing the dirty work. That feeling isn’t yours yet,” he said in the tone that fathers sometimes use with their sons when they just want them to learn from their mistakes.
He adjusted the heading, then flicked a switch. “We’re descending. You’re going to help me land this properly.”
Anwar’s pulse spiked. “Are you sure?”
“If you’re going to be flying this plane regularly, you should probably know how to land it,” he remarked, a faint shadow of a smirk on his face.
Anwar nodded, hands trembling as he placed them on the yoke again—this time, with no illusions of control.
Mr. Rasheed guided him through each movement, correcting his grip, his overcorrections, and his breath.
It was methodical and slow, nothing like the effortless flying Anwar had imagined for himself, but the plane obeyed as if it respected its master. The crosswinds had died down as the two men descended through the cloud cover and spotted the runway ahead.
“Ready to land this? Bismillah,” Mr. Rasheed said.
“Bismillah,” Anwar replied with quiet confidence.
When the wheels finally kissed the runway, Anwar exhaled shakily, finally able to feel the pool of sweat that had formed around his collar.
They taxied back to the hangar, splitting the turns and switches between them.
As soon as the engines powered down, Mr. Rasheed unbuckled his harness and stood.
He didn’t offer reassurance, didn’t soften the blow. He simply met Anwar’s eyes with a kind gaze—not quite forgiving, but lined with the recognition of human frailty, of the chasm between aspiration and readiness that they almost dropped into today.
“Now that you know what it takes, for the sake of God, don’t make that mistake again.”
Then he turned and stepped out of the cockpit, leaving Anwar alone with the quiet hum of the instruments and the weight of his future.
In the distance, a single aircraft took off into the cloudy skies.
