Recalling my very Hindu-Christian-Muslim Ramadan of 2018...

By Rumaan Mecci*

The title came to me first before any of these forthcoming words did, and my heart races at the very thought of its eventual reception by readers who are educated enough to grasp this foreign language, but also hate that they do.

I will not state which group, community, or religion I belong to right away, for I bear the tantalizing fear of upsetting every community who reads this very blasphemous title (I assure you it is not). The Houdini reveal comes later on. My name doesn’t evoke or provoke direct apprehensions. For most of my very Indian life, I have had people ask me if I am Italian. Now, however, more so than ever, I would urge you to read this piece from the perspective of this neutral Italian — one that I never was.

The time was 2018. I was 22. Studying in a coveted residential programme about 10 km from home. Close enough to home to get home-cooked meals delivered during appropriate times, and far enough to stay the night at my hostel doing supposed group projects. I had the best of both worlds, and the best of the entire India. It was a beautiful mini-India in itself. With friends from across the subcontinent, I was living a Discovery of India in my very own Ahmadnagar-like (open) cage — which I never felt like leaving; soaking up the entirety of the exact 2-year term of the degree.

It was Ramadan and my first year there, away from my 10-kilometer-far-away home. I had never felt so alone, for I had to wake up around suhoor time and prepare food all by myself. I had some basic items stored the first few days — you could very well imagine a very Bollywood-esque dramatic visual of a young girl with tears in her eyes, biting into a dry bun, sitting by her bed at 3 am thinking of what life had become. My throat, stomach, and heart were all protesting. And like all good protests with the right intentions, you reach favourable outcomes.

I befriended many saare jahaan se acche log. From Bihar, Jharkhand, Maharashtra, Kashmir, Delhi, and more — each as interesting as the other. One of my most memorable conversations was with my Bihari bhaiyya from my programme who was (very openly) from the good ol’ Sangh (to be clear, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak one, of course), who claimed that he had read the entire Quran and possessed the translation with him at all times. I spent a good deal of time with him during our group projects and developed a deep sisterly adoration for the wonderful human being he was. He called himself my elder brother, and I couldn’t be happier that I had finally found one. He would greet me with an ‘Assalamu alaikum’ each time we met, and I, with a ‘Jai Shri Ram.’ It was our thing — our brother-sister thing outside the constraints of obsolete social identities and frightening political correctness.

He offered to make suhoor for me upon getting to know my very bun-ny situation. Waking up at 3 am and cooking food — every day — for some 20-odd days is no joke; I tried to dissuade but failed in front of his very noble gesture.

If you thought it ends here, it doesn’t.

The boys’ hostel was a good kilometer away from the girls’. I was told to reach the canteen at 3 am. It was dark and the whole university was asleep. I walked midway and sat, guiltily and cluelessly. What I saw emerge from the darkness was something I can never forget. My other beloved brother from my class, a Christian from the Dalit community, was walking up with food in his hand. The pavement lights shone on him, and he looked nothing less than an angel. It was hot Maggi and some other things; Maggi was a staple and sometimes, I got other fun food items from the boys’ hostel that they had stored for my suhoor. On lucky days, I got biryani. No effort or resource of mine was expended for the 25 days of this feast. Each day, all I had to do was show up, and in an almost routine-like fashion, I was fed hot and healthy things that filled my soul more than anything else.

To top this off, my girls’ hostel mate and friend, from an upper-caste Hindu community, woke me up on most days without fail, and even did some fasting with me — to the best of her abilities — to give me company. My heart feels full right now as I recollect this memory from about 8 years ago. Life has changed quite a lot now, and I have traveled quite extensively, but these memories laid the foundation for my love for my India.

Where else could you find a deeply religious Hindu man from Bihar making suhoor, with a Christian from Karnataka bringing it up to me, and with another Hindu woman from Delhi waking me to fulfill the routine? All this for a Muslim woman from Karnataka (in case my very Arabic name did not give it away already). They did not have to take such trouble, but they did, out of their sheer good-heartedness. For them, I was their little sister first.

I yearn to live those days again, in these very confusing and severely divisive times. I yearn to be the younger sister to all those I meet in my beloved country. I yearn to have a chance to make modaks with them during Ganesh Chaturthi, or light candles with them in a church, or light diyas during Diwali. I yearn for times we could have free-spirited conversations discussing issues rather than being made the issue. I yearn for that very secular Maggi.

Most importantly, I yearn to greet ‘Jai Shri Ram’ in response to an ‘Assalamu alaikum’ with smiles that reach our eyes.

This is the educated group of foreign-language-knowing Indians I grew up with.

I do not know how the other educated ones, who hate this foreign language that, according to them, has apparently infiltrated Bharat, react to me.

All I can say is, hey, let us give this brother-sister thing a chance once? It is beautiful on this side of India, I promise.

---

*President of Socialist Yuvjan Sabha, a Socialist youth organisation

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