Moments

I grew up in a suburb of Bombay. Ours was a primarily Hindu locality, separated by a main road from a Muslim neighborhood. The muslim neighborhood had a mosque in it. The muezzin did a beautiful azaan every morning at 6:30am or so. Shortly after, when I was walking to school I used to pass by a ton of people performing their morning prayers on a side street. To this day, the azaan anywhere in the world, even here in Houston, Texas, brings back memories of home.

I don't really remember my first Ramadan, but I do have a story.

It was evening, close to sundown, on a busy Bombay street. I was about 12. My mom and I were returning home from somewhere in downtown when we pass through in an autorickshaw through one of the big Muslim localities. The streets were chockful of people shopping and waiting for sundown, tons and tons of food vendors getting ready to satiate thousands of fasting folks. Kababs were being barbecued all around, the aroma was tantalizing, hypnotic. We get stuck in a traffic jam.

We are hungry, the kebabs beckon.

"Those smell really good"

"I know, I wish we could eat those".

"Why can't we, mom?"

"Are you nuts? We're Hindu, moreover Brahmins, we're not supposed to eat that!"

"Why?"

"It's beef, I'm sure!"

"Oh, ok".

Five minutes later

"I'm hungry"

"So am I"

"Those smell really good"

My mom and I look at each other, our greedy eyes meet and we detect the saliva almost drooling over from each other's mouths.

"Please just don't tell your dad".