Ramadan meant being home. It meant spending more time with family. It meant visiting relatives’ houses for iftars (evening meal consumed to break the fast), having friends and family over, who savoured my mother’s food. They showered her with love and attention, and she loved every ounce of it. Every year before Ramadan would be approaching, my mother would give us a little talk, on how we should try being a little closer to Allah through our prayers and fasts, and be better humans. Like little lambs, we heard her, squirmed amongst ourselves, because I think we wondered aren’t we good humans already? Then, we’d run back to our distractions, and I would see my mother contemplating something. I never understood what she was thinking.
My uncle had a beautiful tradition. He would take his entire family and us to Mohammed Ali Road one night. We would spend the entire time doing Sehri (meal consumed early in the morning before fasting) eating from different restaurants. Shalimar for its falooda was a must, then we would find some Malpua in a corner of the streets until we heard the fajr azaan (early morning prayers) and couldn’t eat anymore. As we left the crowded and bustling streets of Byculla, Bombay would change. The drive back home was quiet. We would look outside the windows, absorbing a quiet Bombay that we wouldn’t ever see otherwise. These nightly trips would be a way to enter my mother’s childhood spent in her Bombay that was changing every day. It felt like an ode to my grandparents who had spent many beautiful moments on this side of Bombay which we would never see, but during this time of Ramadan, the streets moved back into time. They were more inviting and equal and loving.
As I spent 6 years away from home, I struggled to understand how I could have some semblance of the feeling Ramadan gave me at home. I never came close to it, until I found a renewed meaning and sense of belonging during my time at Jamia. I wanted so many more Ramadans and iftars and prayers in Delhi. Matia Mahal at Jama Masjid reminded me of Mohammed Ali road. I would find my way back home for Eid each year, reviving the age-old customs of making ‘Sheer’ (dessert) and ‘channe’ (chick peas) for the many guests that would visit us through the day. So much of Ramadan meant people and family for us because the busy city life didn’t allow for so much socializing and leisure. My mother struggled to hold onto the chords of a Muslim household in a city where she was born and brought up, that had shaped her, yet she was struggling to recognise it right now. It was changing meaning each year as here children were growing up and moving out.
I write everything in the past tense, because Mumbai like any other big city is outgrowing its capacity, and isn’t the same as it was yesterday. The past year has been a struggle to slow down and find monotonies. Just so that I could find ways to identify with people and a routine. I haven’t found one. Just when I was learning to understand my rhythm, the lockdown happened. And Mumbai came to a standstill. It astonishes me to see the city so quiet. I find myself breathing a sigh of relief because there is less noise and some space to think. And as Ramazan graced us in the middle of this dilemma, it changed its meaning and significance for me.
A beautiful Dhikr (remembrance) by Shaykh Hasan Ali with words ‘la illaha illallah’ plays in the background as I sit to write this down. My mother asks my sister to close the house door. What if the volume is too loud and may disturb the neighbours? We live in a Marathi dominated cosmopolitan colony. Tall buildings surround us on one end. On the other, we see blue tarpaulin covered chawls stretching so far wide, that it’s difficult to say where they end. I paint a very quintessential image of Mumbai. Building after chawl, and chawl after building- like a domino, the city spreads far wide.
In the middle of this chaos, there are many rats, squiggling, and pestering the streets. They dance on the streets until the persons empowered by the state to enforce the law (police), come with their lathis, show some tricks, and scare the rats away.
Injustice and fallacies around the world and India bring to surface Mumbai’s inadequacies. For a city miserably affected by the virus, it came to a halt only for the few who could afford to rest in peace. We came across many migrant labourers who didn’t have jobs anymore. They couldn’t pay their daily rent or support their school children’s fees. Many people who we came across at the beginning of our ration distribution work, have gone back home. Some men from Jharkhand left on foot, while an auto wala who would help us distribute ration for longer distances- packed his bags and left with his family to go back to UP (Uttar Pradesh) in his auto. He messaged a few days back saying, ‘I’ve reached home. I feel great’. An entire community of Bengali Muslims from Bandra East has been struggling to leave for the past two weeks. A resident of Bandra told us that people have packed their bags. They’re waiting when they will get the one phone call from the police, and they can be off and about to their homes. Every trip that we make to Bandra East makes us realise that this entire ghetto will empty soon.
Mumbai changed in its meaning and appearance to me this Ramadan. There is a lot of noise in some ‘ilaaqas’ (ghetto). Children have changed their games from cricket to collecting Jamun (a fruit). They make sherbet out of it, sell it for some money, and give their parents some share of it. Men want to return homes to their wives in the village. People were happy that Ramadan happened right now because they would eat less. Many fear what the rains will bring with them. The smell in the air is changing. Many will be walking home nonetheless. Many will celebrate Eid nonetheless.
