I'm fallen into the the past again. The call for morning prayer waking me up ever so softly. I intentionally left the window of my room open just a little for the morning breeze and Azan to wake me up.
During Ramazan however, I was woken by the subtle sound of my parents foot steps, walking to kitchen, preparing sahari, the cooked meal we had prior to dawn after which we fast. The house was softly filled with Doaa ye Sahar, the dawn prayer. Allahomma enni as'aloka men nooreka be anvarehaa va kollo nooreka nayyer.
It was beautiful every time. Then we all gathered around the table. Sleepy faces. Slowly eating. Rushed to the washroom to brush our teeth. The tic toc of the clock counting down to the moment of morning Azan. And then the Azan itself filled the house and the streets and the city. Glorious and powerful. Merciful and compassionate. Forgiving and promising.
Ramazan began and so did our individual journey amids the crowd. Everyone in their own inner search for the Truth, for the Light, for the Grace.
Days stretched silently, with nothing as much as a family table to summon us together. Until a few hours before sunset when the smell of something sweet filled the house as my mom baked a sweet dish to break our fast with. Halva, shole zard, ranginak.
My dad had taught us a prayer to open our fast with: Oh God! Yours is our fast, and on Thy we trust, and upon Your sustenance we break our fast, for sure You are The Listener, You are The Knower.
Some evenings we had guest for Iftar, to feed those who fast for God. The house would suddenly fill up as all the guests arrived just a few minutes before the call for evening prayer. One by one they greeted each other praying for blessing for everyone they greeted. Namaaz roozehaatoon ghabool. We were responsible to pour hot water and offer everyone a cup with dates. The cling cling of teaspoons in the small cups filled with sugar rocks and a drop of lime was the symphony of the evening as some stood up to pray. Then the meal was served. Always extras for everyone to take home for their morning sahari and even more to be sent to the poor.
Some nights we were invited to a relatives' place. Everyone arrived at once again, cheerful after a full day of obstinance and contemplation, greeting each other and pouring wished of blessings on one another.
Then came the Ghadr nights. The night that was better than a thousand nights. Most of the evening was spent at mosques, starting with prayers and meal and then night vigils of prayers and Quran till dawn at which point everyone was promised forgiveness, given a new life, except for those who owed to other human beings. Lest the all Merciful forgave everything except any wrong one had done to another.
Finally Eid arrived. Like a new bride shy about when to unveil her beautiful face. It was to celebrate a month of barekat. Melancholic yet joyful, we once again met at the elders' house, greeting each other and praising little ones for their efforts to fast and wishing each other more blessings.
That's how I remember the Ramazan of my childhood. With busy streets just before night Azan and quiet and peaceful just moments after. With dates and sweets and melody of Quran as my grandmother, God bless her soul, was listening to the radio in her quest to finish the verses one whole time as the month unfold. With many hours of contemplation and many nights of presence in community.
May this Ramazan bring Grace and Blessing to all!
* The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak
