Delicately chewing a couple of khajoors as I opened the door onto my balcony, the clearest Bangalore sky and cotton-like floating clouds greeted me with a salaam.
As my bare feet touch the cold floor, and the chill hits me, there’s a sense of calm. While I wait for the Azaan to stop eating, I convince myself that it’s not that cold and rest my bums on the stairs.
My earliest memories of a sehri are contrastingly differing to the one I’m about to finish. The cold December and the difficulty of getting out from the razai were its trademark. Not to forget the variety of sheermaals from Bhaarat Bakery and the occasional firni from Calkatiya hotel. And of course, forcefully drinking glasses of water to be ready for the next day.
Somewhere from sharing the same jaanemaaz with Ammi to needing our own, we all grew up.
As kids fasting in the holy month, we all were our family rockstars. An elaborate Iftaar awaited at the dusk for us. With special farmaishes. Skull capped kids all around the colony heading towards the mosque like it’s a celebration.
Before I fasted for the first time, the idea of fast meant, ‘Eating Iftaar’. I remember people laughing when this revelation was out in the open.
Ammi’s occasional ‘wont-wake-you-up-for-sehri’ if we didn’t listen to her, scared us. Afraid of missing out on a Roza was an effective scare tactic. After all, counting on who kept the most number of fasts was quite a thing as kids in our colony.
Motivators aside, Ramzan meant something special. Sehris, Roza and Iftar. All part of memories and not possible to recreate.
As I reminisce more, the Azaan breaks through the breeze. It is still dark but there’s a charm in reliving those memories. And yes, the morning Azaan helps.