‘How can you go hungry all day long, no chicken shawarma, and you can’t even drink water?” said a friend, trying to needle me.
“Yes, that’s why it’s called fasting,” I said patiently. My sense of humour was wearing thin as the clock showed it was only 11.30 am. I had been on a fast seven hours already since I had the early dawn repast, suhour (sahiri in Urdu) at 4.30am.
It was Ramadan in Dubai and the media had thoughtfully highlighted the fact that the average fasting day would be an agonising 15 hours long. “In Denmark it will be 21 hours,” the media said. (“Who cares about Denmark, it is so hot here,” I said to myself).
“We also fast,” said a Christian friend suddenly. “We do not eat fish and meat,” he said. “Fasting does not mean complete denial of food. Maybe I will join you and our Muslim brothers and fast this Ramadan,” he said.
I looked at him tiredly, hoping he was not teasing me. I was not feeling hungry anymore. My stomach had got fed up growling and getting nothing to eat.
“I fast on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays,” said my Hindu friend. “I can drink water and fruit juices,” she said cheerfully.
“What happens if you drink coffee here in the canteen with us and nobody sees you”? she said.
“It is said that the devil is let loose among us humans from time to time to test us. I think you are he,” I said.
She giggled and said, “No, really. What happens if you cheat? Is there a way out?”
“Saudi Arabia was so much better,” I thought to myself, remembering the time I worked for a paper in Jeddah, Riyadh and Al Khobar.
When Ramadan started, one of the perks of fasting in the Arab world was that everyone you knew also fasted along with you. “I haven’t had anything to eat since ‘suhour’,” an American colleague would shout in the office. “I feel sooo great! God, I need coffee,” he would say.
Heavy smokers and those addicted to the shisha would start fainting at around 4pm, the time to have tea and a drag on the ciggie, on normal days. Anti-smoking clinics would report that a number of people had quit smoking.
To add to the torture, we were allowed to smoke in the office on other days along with umpteen finjans of sweet tea, but not during Ramadan of course, and then everyone would have a dreamy faraway expression while editing or proofreading the copy as the fasting day progressed.
Adding days to life
After living in the Muslim world for ages, we moved on to Canada. The change in scenery, from dry desert to snow wonderland, did not matter if you are hungry and thirsty.
“I am fasting,” I told my colleague a little diffidently, thinking that she would take me for a health freak.
“Cool,” she said. “Try intermittent fasting but don’t forget to hit the gym at least three times a week. Less calories add days to your life.”
After years and years of living abroad, my family returned to India. I surfed the web to find out what the Ramadan experience of Indian Muslims was like. Zilch, nothing, no blogs, no girls writing how they would excitedly wait for naya chand, the Ramadan moon that heralds the start of the Holy Month.
“Seriously, where are you guys?” I said to myself. India is said to have the second-largest number of Muslims in the world.
Then I found a section in a local newspaper that said that Ramadan is not only important to Muslims but also to non-Muslims. “Here are some of the eateries, road-side vendors around Bengaluru that are a definite must-go to,” it said. “The kebabs are delicious.”
Mahmood Saberi is a storyteller and blogger based in Bengaluru, India. Twitter: @mahmood_saberi
