Do you remember when Ramadan used to fall in the freezing cold? The bone-chilling winter of the month of Magh. Even quilts or blankets couldn’t keep the cold away. The icy wind would seep through the gaps in the tin house, making it feel as if someone had poured ice all over us. But I never felt the cold because I used to sleep in my mother’s embrace. The warmth of her body would drive away all the cold, fear, and discomfort.
Back then, I knew nothing about foreign lands. As I grew older, I learned a lot from books. I used to read travel stories a lot. Without books, I wouldn’t have developed an interest in the outside world. Perhaps I would have stayed in Barishal. I would have stayed with my mother. That was the plan—to stay with her. My mother never imagined that I could ever be separated from her. Since I was the youngest, she always kept an eye on me. But somehow, one day, I became someone from afar. I never wanted to be distant.
Whenever Ramadan arrives, I return to those childhood days. I return to my mother. That tin house, the careful counting of one or two coins, the simple one or two dishes at the iftar table. With just a few basic spices, my mother used to cook. But her food tasted like pure nectar. Whatever she put on my plate, I would gobble up eagerly, always wanting more. It never felt enough. My mother used to say that my hunger was more in my eyes than in my stomach.
I would wake up at dawn for Suhoor. Often, my mother wouldn’t wake me up. But I could sense her absence beside me, and I would get up on my own. In those freezing nights, she would light the stove and warm up rice and curry. Sometimes, there would be shol or meni fish. There would always be lentils too. And at the end, she would give me a little milk and banana—pure cow’s milk.
After eating, the melodious sound of the Azan from the distant mosque would drift in the air. As-salatu khairum minan naum… These words would stir something deep inside me. It felt like a call from far away. Even at the age of seven or eight, I used to wonder—how was such a beautiful melody created?
We children used to learn the Quran from the Maulvi in the small outhouse. He was a man of pure white attire and a serene face. My mother would perform ablution in the late hours and stand for Fajr prayer. Sometimes, she would sit on the prayer mat and silently cry. I could sense it. Why did she cry? Perhaps she missed my father. My mother became a widow when I was just two years old. I would fall back asleep.
Around noon, she would ask me, Did you have enough to eat last night? Is fasting too hard for you? If it’s too difficult, you can break it.
I still observe Ramadan, but my mother is no longer here.
Toronto, Canada
