Memory of My First Fast

Dear Readers:

My first observation of fasting in the month of Ramadan occurred when I was just about six or seven years old: My father promised my sister and I beautiful gifts should we succeed in keeping our fasts, but I opted to keep the fast rather in the spirit of commitment to an “adult thing.” Since it was the first fast of my life, I remember eating what my father and mother prepared at the designated time called “ sehri” with enthusiasm. I did not think fasting would be that hard, but in some ways, it was both better and worse than I expected. I recall that time like it was yesterday; only, it wasn’t yesterday but years ago. My first fast was a self-learned lesson that I never forgot, a memory near to my heart.

When I decided to keep my first fast, I thought I might be very hungry in the morning, which is why I decided to eat overmuch at sehri. But what I did not account for was the nagging, pitiful thirst; therefore, instead of feeling hungry, I kept feeling thirsty throughout the day. I did not know what to do. I tried to contend with the thirst for as long as I could before I decided to complain to the Wonder Woman of my life: My mom. So, I went searching for my superhero, hoping to have her solve this problem in the way mothers are supposed to. But then… I still recall what I now term as the “moment of truth.”

Truly, I felt a child’s impatience and frustration at the situation. But I was confident my mom would know what to do. I felt thirstier by the minute, yet I could not catch sight of her in the expected locations. Where was she? My throat was really dry; I could just imagine cotton balls occupying the tiny opening space. Oh, how I desired to sip water and have the cool liquid slip past my lips and soothe my aching, parched throat! I was sure she would understand. But oh, where was she? Hoping to catch her in our cozy kitchen, I ambulated to the place and saw no one there. Disappointed, I was about to turn back, go somewhere else to search for her, when my eyes fell on the plastic carton boxes.

Glass bottles of Coca-Cola lay in the plastic carton boxes, superimposed one upon another in a neat column; I was in love with Coca-Cola sodas. (These cartons were sent weekly to our home in Kuwait when we resided in the Gulf.) I was tempted; I stood there for quite a few seconds, suspended in indecision and inaction. If I drank a Coca-Cola to quench my thirst, no one would know. But then an unbidden thought penetrated my covetous mind, “God is watching. And I shall break both His and my parents’ trust should I choose to partake in this wrongdoing.” With one long look at the Coca-Cola bottles, I turned my back to the tempting sight. From somewhere in my child’s big heart, I mustered the courage to tiptoe out of the kitchen, still thirsty, and still wondering when my fast would be over.

I never complained to my mother as per my original attention, ashamed and confused about what had happened earlier. As time past slowly in that day of my first fast, I got used to the thirst, and I especially did not feel it as acutely when my sister and I were busy watching television. However, when we sat in the car to attend a desi “iftar” party (a social gathering that celebrates the breaking of fast together), I started feeling thirsty in the course of the seemingly long drive to our destination. (The party was organized by one of the many friends from my parents’ large and active social circle.) When it came time to break the fast, all the uncles and aunties rose from their sitting positions at the party to hog the table comprising of delicious Indian food.

So, the opening of my fast became more delayed, until my mother realized that my sister and I had not been given a chance to obtain anything from the table. So, she grabbed some plates and filled ours with various delicacies. But I cared not a farthing about the victual; I cared only about possessing a fresh glass of water. When my mother finally handed me that glass of water, I could have sworn to its heavenly taste and the divine nature of the original morsel of food that day.

At the end of the whole shebang, my sister and I indeed received gifts from my father in the form of the most beautiful, most expensive and delicately-etched small 24 karat gold pairs of earrings that I had ever seen. But at that moment, I cared nothing for it. I cared instead about praying for all the hungry and thirsty children of the world; sadly, they would not be able to quench their thirsts that day as I eventually had in that iftar party. I cared much, just not about what I thought I would; I certainly did not care that I had accomplished the feat usually managed by adults. I cared rather about having acted rightly and having learned something worthwhile from it all.

Sincerely,
Ek Umeed

P.S. Do you remember your first fast? What was it like?