Those were the days…

Hello guys,
IT CAME, IT saw and it almost left while we sat staring dumbly. The holy month of Ramadan is almost over before we could realise. This is what happens every year. Ramadan brings a flood of some pleasant and funny memories to the mind. Fo quite sometime I have been meaning to pen them down, but laziness and other pre-occupations meant I had to wait till now. Though belated I finally managed to put it down on paper. Here is my second post filled with my childhood Ramadan antics. Enjoy!

The innocent bliss
My earliest memory of Ramadan is of playing gulli danda (a game involving two sticks, one small and pointed on both ends and a bigger one with which you hit the smaller stick), lagori (Seven Stones — an Indian street game involving two teams, a ball and seven small stones) and hide-and-seek, religiously after dawn prayers in my sleepy South Indian hometown of Bhatkal.
Nostalgia has been sweeping me for quite sometime and it finally managed to get the better of me today. Allow me to indulge in a minor bout of bygone and let me for once say “ah, those were the days,” just like we hear our grandparents and parents do so often.
Those indeed were the days — carefree, pristine and fun-filled. (I think when you look back, the past always seems better and brighter than the present).
Let’s not get into that debate now, but it certainly holds true for me here. The Ramadan of my childhood seems so different and better than what we have today. May be, twenty years down the line our children will also say the same.
It indeed was different if you trust my memory — the memory of my childhood Ramadan — of the Sawri (human alarm) playing Daf (an ancient percussion instrument) on the streets to wake up believers for suhour (pre-dawn meal). Of the frenetic eating of suhour meal, of lazing through the streets with my group of friends on the way for prayers and at times giving it a miss, of the games we would play until cries of women folk from the surrounding houses start permeating the space very late in the morning, of the mosques resonating with the echoes of Quran recitations. Then there were the late afternoon cravings and pangs of hunger and our stealthy ways of beating it and getting caught while doing so.

The awe-inspiring
The mornings would begin with the soulful voice of the Sawri waking up the neighbourhood. Boys would jump out of their beds and rush to their windows to watch in awe as a middle-aged man walked in the pre-dawn darkness, singing Ramadan-themed folk songs to the beats of his Daf. For the few moments that we would catch him before he got lost in the dark, we would stay still like rocks, getting immersed in the inspiring renditions of the mystery man.
The boys had different theories about him, some would say he was an angel, others said he was a saint while some others said he was a lunatic beggar. It was only when we grew up that we realised that he was just a common man who was carrying on a baton of family tradition that dated back to hundreds of years.
My most favourite part during the Ramadan of yore was playing on the streets, alleys and in unfinished mansions for hours in the morning. The weather used to be perfect and for as long as I remember during my primary school days – in the late ’80s – Ramadan would blissfully fall during winter or spring. And to add to our joy the dates of our winter vacations would be adjusted to match that of Ramadan, giving us the licence to play away the entire morning till we literally dropped down.
During the afternoon lull we would get lost under the pillows and dream — mostly of sneaking away in oblivion and eating. By mid-afternoon, we would get back on our feet and gather at our favourite hideout – a half constructed mansion a few paces away from my home – sharing our dreams and trying our hands in turning those into reality.
We would either break into some cashew or mango orchard and steal the fruits and run away, or on some of those lucky days when one of us had enough money we would trudge down to some faraway food stall to have our fill of samosas, dosas and wadas. There was always the risk of getting caught and flogged but the thrill and fun of the whole exercise always overrode the fear of being caught. Though my mom and aunts had caught me red-handed trying to break fast prematurely on umpteen occasions, I was usually let off after a scolding.
If on some days we couldn’t sneak out or the vigil was too intense, we had one impenetrable haven, away from all the prying eyes and that was the washroom. Hah, drinking water in the washroom was such fun. I wish I could do that still. (These days the water in the washroom doesn’t taste as good as it used to do).

The temptations
As the day wore off and evening approached, the aroma of samosas and patties and other iftar specialties would start wafting through the house, adding to my cravings and hence weakening my resolve, if there was any. The deliciously violent sounds of batter hitting the boiling oil would serve as a reminder that the end is near — I mean the end of the day’s fast. There was diffcult part of post iftar that I would hate most and that was going on regular errands to buy foodstuff or fruits from the market, with food in your very hands the temptation to eat would be unbearable, but it was impossible to eat for the fear that the entire street was watching me till I entered the gates to my home, where there was always somebody to receive me.
When the hour drew closer and the women begin to set the table for iftar I would make my presence conspicuous in the kitchen, hovering around the food items that were being placed like a fly. My mum with her amazing skill of multi-tasking would continue with her work unfazed by my presence constant presence while heightening her vigil to keep me at bay. Although it was mostly an exercise in futility, for I would always find a way to dodge her.
At the fag end of the day, amidst the tension of endless wait and fear of the food not being sufficient, food gifts from neighbours and relatives would trickle in giving us some solace and adding to the joy of imminent iftar. And just when the siren went off we would jump on plates enmass and start stuffing and gobbling, as if we were taking part in some eating competition.
There were a couple of must-dos post iftar, one among which was the compulsory savouring of the legendary Chana Vatana (chick peas curry) — a variety that is distinct to Bhatkal — sold by part-time child vendors after the dusk prayer. The second was going for Taraweeh (special Ramadan prayers) and roaming in bicycles with friends across all the neighbourhood mosques. The sheernis (sweets), sherbets and Quran Khawanis (the feast after the completion of Quran recital in mosques) would keep drawing us to various mosques.

The merriment
Late evening was when children enjoyed the most — it was time for us to make merry as the elders busied themselves in prayers and in preparation for suhour. The streets wore a festive look, with lights everywhere — only if there were no power cuts. Children would frolic around the temporary food and toy stalls, scurrying like rats from one shop to another and haggling with vendors over their merchandise. A few bold ones would light crackers at the feet of passersby and shoppers, startling them and receiving a torrent of abuses in return. While there were timid folks like me, who would be content in hitting each other — with an occasional mishit on an unsuspecting stranger —with water-filled balloons. The splash of water that introduced me to this sport is still as vivid as the suhour I had yesterday.
Just when the believers would start making their way out of the mosques, we would turn on our heels and head back to our homes, looking like the soldiers of war returning from a glorious battle — happy and content.
Some childhood memories do wonders to your body and soul, as these memories of Ramadan do to me. I think humanity knows no better joy than the joy of childhood merriment, that’s when they are at their best.
Ramadan Kareem!
(A reduced version of this post has been published in Khaleej Times on September 16, 2009)