I almost missed out on being in time for Iftar today. Yes, I almost did. And I don’t have anything else to blame but my ever confused mind, which just keeps on throwing up multiple choices at me, and never is it the case that out of the options available, only one is the right choice. It’s mostly, if not always, the case of each option competing equally against each other. (There, with this I also solved that ever nagging thought about why I was never good at qualifying for entrance exams with objective multiple choice options. Subjectivity has always been my forte, and I think it has been that way long before I even realized that to be the case).
Subjectivity becomes specially potent when it comes to dealing with faith, being that one ingredient most desired at all times in order to deal with the evolving process of how individuals perceive their personal understanding and belief of faith. Most times it isn’t as simple as I just put it down in words, while at some point, it may just be as easy as walking down a street. Like those monks draped in saffron and gathered together alongside a temple’s boundary wall, who I noticed while going down the lane leading towards Hauz Khas Village just struck my mind somewhere. I still can’t put my finger on what it was, but then it was some manner of a faith of commonality which had them assembled there, talking, sharing a joke in a manner of complete bonhomie.
I had set out with Hauz Khas Village originally in mind as the place where I would break my fast. Hauz Khas, one of the landmarks of Islamic architecture in Delhi – now a bustling center of commerce and residence housing some of the most cosmopolitan set of people, not to forget mentioning, the hangout for the hippest and coolest bunch of folks that I know – has always struck me as one place which despite being bang in the middle of the babble of South Delhi still manages to wrap itself in a veil of restraint. Problem was that I wasn’t quite sure which mosque in the Village should I be going to, not that there are way too many either. I wanted to eat under the open sky, around the Hauz and listen to the sound of Azaan. This thought also came with the realization that there was an excellent probability that I would have had to do this all by myself. And I was in no mood to have Iftar alone.
Turn around, and head back straight towards the mosque I’m regular at whenever in the neighborhood – the one in Green Park. Situated right around Aurobindo Market, being on a busy road makes it one which simply can’t be missed, specially if someone is on the move and is desperately looking for a place to offer prayers before time runs out. Spacious modern structure, with a large carpeted prayer hall which could house some 500+ people easily. But it was 2 minutes to Iftar time (yeah yeah, I know, I’m a sucker for Iron Maiden), and I couldn’t figure out where the dastarkhwan was. When in doubt, follow the faithful – I usually wouldn’t apply this thought to myself in moments of doubt, after all who faith what faith might the person you follow be carrying, I’d rather make my own. But then food is something which, to be fair, is a matter of faith itself, and one where you would seldom go wrong. Quaint little make shift eateries crop up outside mosques everywhere during Ramadan (strictly around Maghreb for Iftar), even if you’re bang in the middle of South Delhi, and everyone entering just picks up some of those deep fried conveyors of heart attacks while entering the mosque. Following them led me to a basement, which was whoa, filled with like some 500 people already. What brought a big smile to my face was that after 3 days, I finally reached a place where Rooh Afza was as free flowing as the rivers in Jannah have been promised to be (on that thought, I think I’d be happier, *IF* I’m in Jannah, to have rivers of Rooh Afza, or Orange Juice, oh and Red Bull, instead of ‘wine made of the choicest grapes’ as some mullahs used to tempt teach us as kids to do good – jab yahaan nahi pee, toh wahaan pee kar bhi kya karenge). Since the basement hall was pretty much full already, small groups of 5-6 people each had gathered aside from the dastarkhwan, a nice mini communal iftar, with each group digging into the same plate at the right time.
My group happened to have a young guy, who reminded me much of the way I might have been some 7-8 years back. Dressed sharply, complete with a tie, he looked like the perfect salesguy out on the street while out on his sales calls and who just stopped by at the first mosque visible to break his fast. I usually tend to keep my Iftar somewhat light, mostly fruits and fluids, but at this mosque, some good man had arranged for Chicken Qorma too. I would’ve resisted, but for the young guy who just nudged me with the insistence of having it as a meal well earned by just pushing half of the naan he was having in my direction. And then one never says no to food, or an act of love – might just be as much as turning back on faith.