Day One, and I did nothing today. Nothing. So much for all my plans of going out to visit a mosque and break my fast in the company of others. Not that I didn’t want to. After all, I spent considerable time planning things over the past couple of weeks. Over the past couple of days, my excitement for Ramadan to begin was reaching levels that would’ve challenged whatever would’ve been going on in Charlie Bucket’s head before he went through the gates of the chocolate factory. I just ended up surprising myself once again today.
Today was a quiet day. Still. It was as if my mind had taken a cue from the weather, and synced itself with the dead breezeless nothingness of a July day. There were thoughts, a lot of them, going through my mind. But like the pools of sweat which kept dripping by the sides of my body, the thoughts just kept bleeding out of my mind leaving nothing behind. Not even any furrows with traces of where they had been, unlike the streaks of salt stains which pointed to where I had been dunked in sweat.
It was a quiet Iftar too. Three dates. One serving of three kinds of fruits. Two sandwiches. Three glasses of orange juice. On the same table where I’m used to having meals with three empty wooden stools for dining companions. Not sad. Not happy. Just a sense of quiet.
After Maghreb prayers, I went out to the balcony to sip on the customary cup of tea I’m used to having right after breaking my fast. The sun had gone down. My body’s metabolism was gradually returning to normal, after the way it just crashes downward in the first few moments of eating food after a day of fasting and leaves you slightly light in the head. The gradual return of normalcy was made better by a gentle evening breeze which seemed to be waiting for the sun to disappear. Which was when I read this:
There’s hidden sweetness in the stomach’s emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less. If the soundbox
is stuffed full of anything, no music.
If the brain and belly are burning clean
with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears, and new energy makes you
run up the steps in front of you.
Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.
When you’re full of food and drink, Satan sits
where your spirit should, an ugly metal statue
in place of the Kaaba. When you fast,
good habits gather like friends who want to help.
Fasting is Solomon’s ring. Don’t give it
to some illusion and lose your power,
but even if you have, if you’ve lost all will and control,
they come back when you fast, like soldiers appearing
out of the ground, pennants flying above them.
A table descends to your tents,
Jesus’ table.
Expect to see it, when you fast, this table
spread with other food, better than the broth of cabbages.
I kept coming back and lingering on this part:
Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.
The serendipitous discovery of this verse by Maulana Rumi brought sense to the empty quietness of a day gone by. Like the way an abstinence from food and drink was imposed on my body, the mind had self-imposed an abstinence from thoughts. It wanted to stay alone, all by itself. To reflect in the company of its solitude and rediscover itself, which is a neglected activity in the company of the beauty of other minds.
(In other much inconsequentially unsubstantial news, I turned into a hijabi while offering Taraweeh prayers tonight. Those who feel curious may feel free to ask me about the details. For anybody who can guess the how bit: there’s an offer of three dates with me. Yes, dates.)
(Anyone wondering about the title to this post: No, I don’t listen to Celine Dion. Any more.)