Now that I’m at work, I wonder
why I was in such a panic in the first place.
I don’t exactly have to strictly adhere to a schedule, more or less I
have the convenience of coming in and leaving when I wish as long as I’ve
worked an 8 hour day and my supervisor knows what’s going on. As far as he’s concerned though, we should be
able to work remote anytime we want. I
do so like that man.
Anyhoo…moving along, as you can
see, it’s been 11 days. Muslims around
the world have been going without something terribly basic for quite some time
now and it’s not even half over. Just
imagine that for a second. There’s many
starvations to be had yet, Folks, many.
As you may have noted, I’ve been
trying hard to be introspective during this most holiest of months. It’s not always that easy but for the most
part I believe I’ve succeeded to some degree.
I’ve struggled with putting aside my own inner demons, calming down,
being less reactionary and more importantly recognizing all the benefits of
fasting. Sometimes it’s not easy to identify
any of these things beyond the weakness of the body but that’s the point,
right? That’s what we’re supposed to
do. We’re supposed to ignore the demands
of the flesh and feed the spirit instead with prayer and focus. (Whoa, check out how profound that last
sentence was! Who knew I had that sort
of depth within my soul?!?! Mhmm, maybe
I’m evolving, although I doubt it.)
So I’m on a mission to
continuously feed my spirit. I confess,
it’s like the most difficult thing in the world to find something meaningful
every single day. Sometimes there is
nothing to talk about. It’s just a
normal day and in 5 years, I won’t be able to distinguish it from another. Sad but true.
Where we should be striving to find complexity in every minute of our
existence, instead we go along blissfully on autopilot. Then again, maybe we’re not predestined to discover
meaning nor attach it to every second we exist?
The very idea is exhausting.
Heck, if we’re lucky enough to be able to do so once every 10 years, we’d
be fortunate.
No, no, I shan’t be
negative. I shall remain positive.
But I wasn’t joking when I said
that finding something to talk about; something that has impacted me on a daily
basis isn’t all that simple. Besides the
normal distractions of life, there’s the pesky fact that since food is fuel for
the brain and that’s the one thing I don’t have presently, making it work also
isn’t a snap. I’d beat it but reaching
into the skull I don’t believe is an option.
Sooooooooooo, I’ve decided to
cheat. Don’t gasp in shock, read me out
first. Instead of finding something
specific, I’m going to talk about a memory.
Here we go:
The first day of this year’s fast
fell on a Sunday and unless it’s a busy workday, I like to take that
opportunity to open it with my family, and I mean my whole family, particularly
eating the food that is closest to my heart, my mother’s. And as I had anticipated, Ammu called to tell
me that everyone was coming over. I got
there early and felt a sense of peace steal over me as I worked with her side
by side in the kitchen. That day in
particular hunger didn’t once bother me because the contentment at being home
again, my childhood home, with the two people that probably loved me the most in
the universe, was enough.
As fast breaking approached, the
rest of the family started to arrive. My
mother suggested that we lay out plates pre-filled with the Iftar food so that
everyone could just grab one and not have to go through a stampede. My cousin P assisted as we carefully doled
out the goodies, equally splitting everything by 30. This is what the end result looked like:
My mom’s youngest sister (Khala)
and my mom’s youngest brothers wife (Mami) both came in, saw the plates
arranged just so and began to reminisce of Bangladesh. My mother joined us as well, taking a minute
to stand still, and added to the memories with her own. We all began to smile and I believe every one
of us was pulled back several years into the past.
Keeping in mind that my childhood
had been here in the USA, including all the most important formative years, going
back to Bangladesh was a trip that was centered on summer vacations and the
main purpose was my mother not wanting us to lose touch with our culture,
family. She did a fantastic job of it,
too. To this day my family in Bdesh is
as important to me as those that are here and every bit as active. Thanks to FB, even more so. But still, spending 2-3 months every 3 years
hardly added up to an abundance of time.
I missed out on more moments than I can probably fathom but for sure, I
also managed to create loads of memories that to this day stay close to my
heart.
The particular memory that I had
then, standing amongst the women of my family, wasn’t a singular one but rather
flashes:
*Nani (maternal grandmother) out
in the courtyard in her starched white cotton sari picking through a basket of
pineapples, or leeches while the toothless hawker sat on his haunches beside
her smiling gummily and fanning himself from the heat. Nani, carrying on a string of conversation
with him about the prices of fruit or the freshness of the bounty before
her. She was very quick witted and
sarcastic woman who was bold as brass but with a heart that loved to infinity.
*Nana (maternal grandfather) returning
slowly from the market with something special in his hand, looking fatigued but
smiling also. The servant boy scurrying
quickly to him to relieve him of his burden, while Nana would make a straight
line for the bathroom in order to wash the dirt off his feet and chapel
(sandals). On his way, he would pause
long enough to straighten a sofa cushion.
*M Mama (mother’s brother) would
stride in managing to look freshly pressed in his kurta and matching lungi even
though he had been out all day long, holding a clay pot of the best haleem in
the world in his hand, seemingly satisfied.
He flashes me a smile and says to me after laying a hand on my head, “just
wait till you taste this, you will never forget it.” I believe him. He’s rarely wrong.
*R Mama (my mother’s immediately
eldest brother) also comes in eventually from being at work and in his hand
there was a packet also, this time of ripe mangoes that one could smell from
yards away. He hands the packet to his
wife, who takes a whiff. M Mama asks me
if I was okay, had I fainted, and then informed me with a mischievous twinkle
in his eyes what he had eaten for lunch.
His wife yells at him to stop committing a sin but he simply winks at me
and walks away, but I know he’s teasing.
*S Mama (the 2nd
eldest brother), who was a musician by profession, emerges from his room asking
what he could do to help. He felt guilty
that he has been locked away giving classes all day long. His wife tells him things are under control
but he disappears anyhow only to return shortly thereafter with a brown paper
bag filled with something that smelled amazing and was oozing grease. He hands that off to his wife who yammers on
a mile a minute about how it wasn’t necessary, that there was so much food
already but soon she retreats to the kitchen.
*My Khala’s are all in or near
the vicinity of the rannar ghor (Bangla for kitchen) working in time with the servants
and themselves in beautiful unity, the smells of Iftar being prepared wafting
in delicious waves through the house.
They fluttered around in their colorful saris, anchal pulled over their
head to cover their hair in respect, unbelievably active considering the
oppressive heat and fasting and their laughter is like music to the ears and
soothing to the soul.
*The female cousins, young and
old, are in the dining room laying out the plates, filling them with food as
they came from the kitchen piping hot.
The conversation is upbeat because the time to break fast is close at
hand. One person is in charge of making
the sharbath and does so meticulously, filling enough glasses for each person. Periodically they step back in union to
admire the bounty, calculate what else is needed and then continue to work
tirelessly.
*The male cousins are laying about
somewhere staying cool under the fan or washing up or maybe discussing how much
they will eat. Their role in the daily
ritual preparation of the Iftar is minimal with only an errand to run here and
there on occasion. They do however on
occasion make an appearance into the kitchen or dining room to check out the
activity, then retreat back to the safety of the bedroom after being scowled
at.
*My mother is also in the kitchen
leaned over a bubbling vat of oil frying eggplant fritters. She’s sweaty but happy because she is
surrounded by her loved ones, in her element, secure in her world. She complains about the heat but regardless
there is a glow about her that bespeaks her happiness.
*There is weak laughter everywhere;
the world seems energized, inside and out.
*All around us, in the streets,
in every home, the preparations are on full force. The smells are drool-inducing.
*And just at the right instant,
everyone gathers and waits breathlessly for the first strains of the Azan (call
to prayer). First it starts at the local
mosque, and then soon is echoed by the others.
It’s haunting and beautiful, calming and revitalizing all at the same
time. It is the sound of the beauty of
our religion. It is the calling one to
prayer, the most beautiful melody you will hear. Listen for yourself:
These are the visions that are
going through my head in a flash. All
these things didn’t happen in one day, not one particular evening. Rather these are apparitions from Iftars over
the years. The fact that I was blessed
enough to not only have them but retain them and hold them close, is what
brings me comfort. Many of these people
who I mentioned are no longer with us, and they are missed, every single
day. And it seems appropriate to
remember them now.
Here’s a fact you may not know,
but during the month of Ramadan, the spirits of our departed are freed,
released to visit their loved ones. We,
the living, are to pray for them, remember them, ask Allah (swt) to bless them
with Jannat (heaven) and forgive them for all their sins, and when the first
strains of the Azan is heard on Eid (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eid_al-Fitr)
morning, the souls retreat and once again leave us. It is said that they cry when they hear the Azan.
Anyhow, so that first Sunday, as
I stood with the others looking at our handiwork, I became misty eyed, heart
tightening a smidge and thanked Allah (swt) quietly for having blessed me with
those memories from so long ago. It is a
blessing to be able to pull them out, relive them for a moment and then tuck
them back into my mind to bring out once again later.
I do admit, I love sharing these
stories with my readers. I don’t know
how much you enjoy reading them but I hope to some extent you can experience
some of what I did/do. Will it change
your life? No. Will you feel more enlightened? I hope not.
But maybe my recollections of happy times will prompt you to recall some
of your own memories and possibly even write them down? Or if you’re not a writer, the best thing
that can come of it is that you hold your own memories closer?
Side note: Someone I love very much is going through a very difficult time, someone very close to me. Please pray for them, if you pray, and if you don't, can you send out good vibes to the universe? Thank you! :)
Have a good day, where ever in the world you are and once again, Happy Ramadaning!
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