Ramadan and My Childhood Nostalgia
Ramadan and My Childhood Nostalgia
Peerzada Mohsin Shafi
M.Tech Infrastructure Development & Management (Hon’s)
Blogger, Member ASCE, Researcher-Planning & Contracts
Ramadan, the sacred month
of fasting and spiritual renewal, is a time that unites the Muslim Ummah in
devotion, gratitude, and communal harmony. As one of Islam’s five pillars, it
transcends mere ritual—its blessings resonate through faith, science, and
cherished memories. Modern research now echoes what believers have long
embraced: fasting nurtures discipline, detoxifies the body, and sharpens the
mind. Yet, beyond theology and science, Ramadan remains, for me, a tapestry of
childhood wonder—a time when innocence and imagination turned ordinary moments
into lifelong treasures.
The First Stirrings of
Devotion
My journey with Ramadan
began under the gentle guidance of my parents, relatives, and teachers, who
sowed the seeds of faith in my heart early on. I remember the electrifying
evening when the radio crackled with news of Ramadan’s arrival. I was in 1st
grade, and my cousins and I huddled around the device, wide-eyed, as the
announcement unfolded. In our youthful zeal, we pledged to fast the entire
month, oblivious to the challenges ahead.
Back then, digital alarms
were a novelty. One cousin unearthed one from an old almirah, and we embarked
on a mission to decode Sehri timings. Clueless about predawn hours, we turned
to an aunt, who cryptically advised waking “an hour before the Fajr Azan.”
Unbeknownst to us, the adults conspired to dissuade our efforts, believing us
too young for such rigor. Undeterred, we marched to the mosque, scribbled
prayer times on paper, and triumphantly set the alarm.
The next morning, our
bleary-eyed determination stunned the family. Reluctantly, they served us Sehri
but negotiated an early Iftar at noon. Secretly, we vowed to fast all day—only
to be coaxed into eating by 8 a.m. with promises of “starting tomorrow.” Even
my grandmother’s solemn vows to wake us on Shab-e-Qadr or Jumaat-ul-Vida
dissolved into thin air, a tender ploy to shield our Vigor.
The Gentle Defeats of
Childhood Fasting
Every Ramadan, my cousins
and I approached fasting with the fervour of novice warriors—armed with
determination but outmaneuvered by the seasoned tactics of our elders. Our
daily quest to fast became a playful duel, a dance of innocence versus wisdom.
Just as we’d rally our resolve, our grandparents, aunts, and uncles would
disarm us with creative logic.
“You skipped Taraweeh
prayers last night—how can you fast today?” they’d declare, their faces a mix
of mock seriousness and suppressed smiles. Another day, it might be, “You
didn’t drink water at Iftar! Fasting without hydration isn’t allowed!” Their
excuses flowed like a well-rehearsed script, each one tailored to gently
dissuade us without dimming our enthusiasm. We protested, of course, but their
reasons—stitched with care and humour—were impossible to counter.
And so, the month
unfolded in this tender tug-of-war: our wide-eyed persistence met with their
loving subterfuge. By the time Eid’s moon arrived, we’d tally our “failed”
fasts like badges of honour, unaware that the real victory lay in the laughter,
the lessons, and the quiet knowledge that their protectiveness was its own act
of devotion.
Schoolyard Shenanigans
and Ingenious Myths
Ramadan mornings at
school were a playground of creativity. We devised a tongue-inspection ritual:
a white tongue meant fasting; pink betrayed the “cheaters.” To outwit peers, we
scrubbed our tongues with chalk or towels, erupting in giggles at our own mischief.
My cousin, the self-proclaimed fasting champion, often crumbled minutes before
Iftar, blaming hunger. We’d mock his “weakness,” only to later discover he’d
sneakily broken his fast hours earlier—a secret he wore with pride.
Then there were the raw
dates, bought for two a rupee, and the shopkeeper’s amused smile as we
declared, “These are for Iftar!” We spun myths to navigate the fasting
rules—like believing swallowing saliva invalidated the fast.
A Child’s Clever
Blackmail: Ramadan Shenanigans
Among my many childhood
Ramadan antics, one stands out for its sheer audacity: my ingenious (if
mischievous) method of getting my way with my maternal relatives. Whenever they
refused my demands—be it a treat, a toy, or some small indulgence—I’d unleash my
secret weapon. With a sly grin, I’d threaten to march to the mosque and
announce over the loudspeaker that none of them had fasted that day.
The mere thought of such
public “exposure” was enough to send them into a flurry of negotiations.
“Alright, alright, take it!” they’d say, handing over whatever I’d asked for,
their exasperation tinged with amusement. It was a harmless game, of course, but
in my young mind, I was a master strategist, wielding the power of reputation
to achieve my goals.
Looking back, I realize how much patience and love underpinned their reactions. They could have scolded me or dismissed my threats, but instead, they played along, allowing me to revel in my cleverness. Those moments, filled with laughter and light-hearted bargaining, are now cherished fragments of my Ramadan nostalgia—a reminder of the joy and innocence that once defined this holy month for me.
The Enigma of Sehr-Khan
and Midnight Whispers
Our childhood
imaginations were fertile ground for Ramadan folklore. Elders spoke of
Sehr-Khan, a mystical figure who roamed predawn streets, banging a drum to
rouse sleepers for Sehri. We envisioned him as an angelic being, cloaked in
mystery, and spent nights peering through windows, hoping to catch a glimpse.
The absence of internet left room for such magic—a testament to an era when
trust and wonder trumped skepticism.
One memory still chills
me: a solitary Sehri night when I tiptoed to the kitchen, only to hear a mosque
announcement of a neighbour’s passing. As the family murmured about funeral
plans, fear gripped me. I retreated, skipping my meal—a stark reminder of
life’s fragility amid Ramadan’s warmth.
From Innocence to
Nostalgia
Today, Alhamdulillah, my
cousins and I are adults, yet Ramadan reunites us in laughter over these shared
tales. We chuckle at our chalk-dusted tongues, clandestine alarms, and
Sehr-Khan’s elusive legend. The month now carries deeper spiritual weight, but
its essence remains rooted in those childhood days—a blend of devotion,
mischief, and unfiltered joy.
Ramadan, for me, is a
bridge between past and present. It is the scent of raw dates, the echo of a
radio announcement, and the comfort of familial bonds. As we gather for Iftar,
our conversations drift to those golden years, reminding us that the truest blessings
are often wrapped in memory’s embrace.
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