“The Feeling Of Waiting For ‘Maghrib’: South Asian Women’s Memories Of The Anticipation Of Breaking Fast.”
The Feeling Of Waiting For ‘Maghrib’: South Asian Women’s Memories Of The Anticipation Of Breaking Fast
As the last rays of the sun began to dip below the horizon, Ayesha and her younger sister Sara sat quietly at the dining table, their eyes fixed on the clock. The long day of fasting was almost over, and the sense of anticipation that always accompanied this moment was thick in the air.
Ayesha shifted in her chair, her mind wandering to the days of her childhood when waiting for Maghrib (the evening prayer) felt like an eternity. The clock seemed to tick slowly, each second dragging as the aroma of iftar dishes filled the house. The sound of sizzling samosas and boiling pakoras made her mouth water, but she resisted the temptation to sneak a bite, knowing that soon, very soon, it would be time.
“Do you remember how we used to count the minutes until Maghrib, Sara?” Ayesha asked softly, her voice filled with nostalgia.
Sara looked up from the clock, her eyes wide with the same eagerness that Ayesha could see mirrored in her younger self. “I still do! I remember the first time I fasted. It felt like the day would never end. But when it was finally time, the feeling of breaking my fast was like nothing else.”
Ayesha smiled warmly at her sister. “Yes, the feeling of waiting for that moment was almost unbearable, wasn’t it? But it made everything taste so much sweeter when you finally sat down to eat.”
The Countdown to Maghrib
“Do you remember how Amma would tell us to sit quietly, just waiting for the sound of the adhan?” Sara asked, her voice almost a whisper.
Ayesha nodded, her heart swelling with warmth at the memory. “Amma would always say, ‘Patience, girls, patience. The moment of breaking fast is the reward for your endurance.’ And we’d all sit there, staring at the clock, counting down the minutes until the first call of the adhan echoed through the house.”
It was as if time slowed down during those final moments. The bustling of the kitchen, the laughter of younger cousins running around, and even the sound of the clock ticking seemed to fade into the background. Everything became secondary to the Maghrib adhan, the call to prayer that marked the end of a long, hot day of fasting. The adhan was the signal, the sacred moment that brought the entire family together. It was like the heart of Ramadan—the call that meant not only the end of hunger but the beginning of a celebration of faith.
The Rituals and Anticipation of Breaking Fast
Ayesha could vividly remember how, as children, they would sit at the dining table, eagerly waiting for the time to finally come. Amma would sit beside them, smiling gently, her voice calm but firm as she repeated, “Wait for the adhan.” The minutes seemed to drag on, but then, in the distance, the call to prayer would finally begin to echo through the air. That was the signal.
“Maghrib is here,” Amma would say, and the anticipation would burst forth in a wave of excitement. The first dates would be broken open, followed by the sweet and tangy taste of rooh afza, and finally, the delicious spread of food that filled the table. The sense of relief, both physical and emotional, would rush over Ayesha, and she could see the same joy on her younger sister’s face.
“Remember how we would always fight over the first samosa?” Sara laughed.
“Of course!” Ayesha chuckled. “I used to always claim the first one, but you would always try to grab it from my plate.”
Sara’s eyes glinted with the playful memory. “It’s because you always ate so much, Apa! I was trying to make sure I didn’t miss out!”
Ayesha laughed softly, her mind back in those moments, when breaking the fast was more than just eating—it was a moment of joy and closeness. “It wasn’t just about the food, though. It was the whole experience. The waiting. The gathering. The family. The feeling of gratitude after a long day of fasting. The sense of being part of something bigger than yourself.”
The Taste of Patience and Gratitude
As the table in front of them slowly began to fill with platters of biryani, chana chaat, pakoras, and fruit chaat, Ayesha glanced at her sister, who now looked as eager as she had once been. “It’s funny, isn’t it? No matter how much we fasted, that feeling of waiting and that moment when you break your fast—nothing ever compares to it.”
Sara nodded, her eyes glistening with excitement. “It was the feeling of waiting that made it so special. It wasn’t just hunger—it was a deep, spiritual anticipation. The moment you hear the adhan, it’s as if the world stops for a second, and everything becomes clear. It was like all the struggles of the day fade away, and you’re surrounded by love and family.”
The two sisters sat in silence for a moment, lost in their thoughts and memories. In the quiet of their home, the call to prayer echoed in the distance, marking the end of yet another day of fasting. The anticipation was still the same, even though the years had passed, and life had changed. The old traditions remained—at least in their hearts—and in these moments, it was as if time stood still.
Ayesha placed her hand on her sister’s. “Ramadan is never just about the food. It’s about patience. It’s about the moments of togetherness and the reminder of what we’re grateful for.”
Sara smiled, her eyes reflecting the same sense of reverence and warmth that had been passed down through generations. “And it’s also about remembering the feeling of waiting. The sweetness of the moment when everything is finally ready, and you can break your fast with the people you love.”
As the adhan finally reached their ears, signaling the end of the fast, Ayesha and Sara sat together at the table, ready to share a meal. But it wasn’t just about the food—it was about the feeling of waiting for Maghrib and the joy of breaking the fast, together, once again.