Ramadhaan in a Farm (A Memoir)

This year marks the first year I have spent Ramadhaan (the holy month of fasting) on my own. No mother to look after me, no sweet boarding lady to cook my meals and wake me up before dawn to eat. I am on my own and I can’t help but look back at the moments in the past that are no longer realities but memories to return to in moments of nostalgia.

When reading the title of this post I’m almost 100% sure your mind will conjure up pictures of cows being milked, hens pecking and scratching around in a coop and perhaps a goat or sheep or two roaming around in the pastures. While that adequately sums up the idea of a farm, that isn’t quite the image I was going for. Sure you find cows patiently awaiting their turn to cross the roads as well as see the occasional goat race up the mountain-side; Ladysmith is by no means a farm. Many a city rat will scorn at the idea of Ladysmith even being classified as a town. Hence, I refer to it as a farm, as many an ignorant city lover would.

My earliest memories of this time of the year is of my little brother sneaking steak pies into the pantry of the kitchen and eating them in secret all the while pretending to be abstaining from food. He would walk out with crumbs down his top and continue to insist upon the authenticity of his fast to the utter horror of my parents. Every year without fail we all look back at this moment and laugh as he remains adamant in his belief of my parents’ ignorance with regard to his actions.

Sehri time saw my father lining up 5 bowls as he painstakingly made Pronutro for each of his 5 daughters to their exact specifications as my brothers still struggled to get out of their blankets. The funniest days would see my father running down the hallway in a panic exclaiming we only have 5 minutes to eat and so we would find ourselves eating whatever we could find in our haste to fill our empty stomachs. With one bathroom shared amongst 8 siblings the struggle for the chance to brush your teeth before praying always saw the person who gobbled down their food fast enough as the winner. If you were lucky, someone would have woken up on the right side of the bed (which was almost never) and offered you the chance to share the sink.

I remember waking up on weekends with the house filled with the sounds of the pots clattering, utensils falling around the kitchen and on the oft occasion, the sound of glass breaking accompanied by my mother’s muffled halaal version of the curse “shit”. Waking up to the smell of chicken or mince filling sizzling on the stove was pure agony for the grumbling abdomen and worse was when mum lined us all up to help her prepare. The food so tempting yet time said no to even a taste. Each of us had a duty: one to fill the pies, one to seal, one to dip in egg, one to roll in breadcrumbs and one to fry. Till today I puzzle at how this can be achieved without five daughters as unpaid labour. Many times we would sit in our room conspiring as to how we would get out of helping mummy to no avail- she was always one step ahead.

Iftaar time, of course, is my favourite time in Ramadhaan. In Ladysmith, the experience is of a different kind. All the men who attend mosque carry food from their homes and a bring-and-share iftaar is the order of everyday. As most every second person in town is a tea addict, every day someone is tasked with bringing two huge pots of brewed tea to the musjid. Up until last year it was the job of my late cousin to carry the pots to the musjid. My father and brothers were tasked with delivering the fried chips. I remember the smell as it wafted into the house on the days they were running late. The constant rush to find containers to carry their samosas and pies was a constant source of amusement. With so many children, and an equally large number of containers, it was no surprise that many found themselves lidless by this time of year resulting in new containers being purchased every year.

The calm that followed the breaking of the fast at sunset is incomparable. Sitting out in the driveway waiting for the Azaan was my favourite part of the day. The moment when the entire world held its breath and the sun slowly began its descent behind the hills and the collective sigh that followed as the call of “Allahu Akbar” spread through the town, still leaves me breathless.

The pure tranquillity of this month has only grown. Though this year I spend this time without the bustle, only preparing food for two and generally spending my late nights without the sweet dessert of my mother’s, the peace and overall beauty of this month will not be lost.

Although I no longer have the sound of the Azaan to fill my heart with joy, I have found a new way to find happiness. I have spent the last two mornings walking along the beach and have been blessed with the chance to see the sun rise. Truly, with this month being the peak of all blessings I found myself taken aback by the sheer beauty I chanced upon two mornings ago. Perhaps this picture could sum up the peace and harmony that strums through my heart at the onset of this month and perhaps you too may have the chance to revel in the beauty of it.