“The Ramadan Of My Youth: A South Asian Woman’s Reflections On How The Holy Month Has Changed Over Time.”
The Ramadan of My Youth: A South Asian Woman’s Reflections on How the Holy Month Has Changed Over Time
The evening air was filled with the aroma of pakoras frying in hot oil, the rhythmic sound of the Azan echoing from the nearby mosque. Naila sat comfortably on the couch, her hands wrapped around a warm cup of chai, while her younger sister, Zara, scrolled through her phone, occasionally glancing up.
Another Ramadan almost over,” Zara sighed, setting her phone down. “It feels like it just started.”
Naila smiled, stirring her tea thoughtfully. “You know, when I was your age, Ramadan felt different… slower, more meaningful in some ways.”
Zara raised an eyebrow. “Oh no, here comes another ‘back in my day’ story.”
Naila chuckled. “Trust me, you’ll enjoy this one. Do you know what Ramadan was like when I was younger?”
Zara leaned back. “Alright, Apa. Tell me.”
The Rhythm of Ramadan in the Past
Naila took a deep breath, allowing herself to be transported back in time. “For starters, there were no social media countdowns, no perfectly curated Iftar spreads on Instagram, and no late-night online shopping sprees for Eid clothes.”
Zara smirked. “So, what did you even do?”
Naila laughed. “We lived it. Ramadan wasn’t about posting—it was about experiencing. We would wake up for Sehri with the sound of the neighborhood drummer walking the streets, banging his dhol. I remember burrowing under my blanket, hoping Amma wouldn’t notice I was trying to sneak in a few more minutes of sleep.”
Zara grinned. “Did it work?”
“Never,” Naila said, shaking her head. “Amma would come in, pull me out of bed, and set a plate of fresh parathas and yogurt in front of me. I’d eat half-asleep, listening to Abba recite duas before Fajr.”
Zara sighed. “Sounds cozy.”
“It was,” Naila agreed. “And Iftar was even better. We didn’t have extravagant buffets like now—just simple dates, fresh fruit, and samosas that Amma made from scratch. The whole neighborhood would share food. You’d hear kids running from house to house, delivering plates of pakoras and kheer.”
Taraweeh Under the Open Sky
Zara tilted her head. “What about Taraweeh? Did you go to the mosque like we do now?”
“Not always,” Naila admitted. “But when we did, it was magical. The mosque didn’t have air conditioning back then, so we’d pray under the open sky, feeling the cool breeze on our faces. The Imam’s voice carried through the courtyard, and we’d stand shoulder to shoulder with our neighbors. No distractions, no one recording on their phones—just pure devotion.”
Zara nodded slowly. “I guess people are more distracted now. Even at the mosque, some are busy taking pictures instead of focusing on prayer.”
“Exactly,” Naila said. “We lived in the moment. And Ramadan wasn’t just about rituals—it was about connection. People visited each other without texting first, kids played in the streets after Iftar, and elders sat together, telling stories about their own childhood Ramadans.”
The Changing Times
Zara frowned. “It sounds… better. Like people actually spent time together instead of just sharing WhatsApp messages and watching Netflix after Iftar.”
Naila sighed. “Things change, Zara. It’s not necessarily bad, just different. Now, we have online lectures, charity fundraisers that reach thousands, and virtual Quran study groups. But sometimes, I miss the simplicity of those days—the way we gathered, the way we truly felt Ramadan in every part of our lives.”
Zara smiled, nudging her sister playfully. “So, what you’re saying is, I should put my phone away more this Ramadan?”
Naila grinned. “Exactly. Try it. Experience Ramadan like we used to—be present, be mindful, and cherish the small moments. Because those are the ones you’ll remember years from now.”
As the Azan for Maghrib sounded, Zara picked up a date and glanced at her sister. “Alright, Apa. Let’s break our fast the old-fashioned way—no pictures, no distractions. Just us, Amma’s pakoras, and a whole lot of gratitude.”
Naila smiled, feeling the warmth of nostalgia and hope intertwining. “Now that, my dear, is the true spirit of Ramadan.”