Threading My Prayer Rug

by Sabeeha Rehman

  Here is what one of them said:

  “I am sure I knew.”

  “How did you know? Did your parents tell you?”

  “No, of course not. Parents didn’t talk about sex.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Well, maybe my elder sister? No, she never talked about these things. Talking about sex was taboo. No one ever prepared us for sex in marriage either. And now that I am having this discussion, I am beginning to doubt that I knew.”

  Hypothesis confirmed. We were ignorant.

  A few days later I was having lunch with my Jewish friend, Toni. I related this story.

  “So that means that Muslim women don’t give birth nine months after Ramadan,” she said.

  “Right. No, wrong. You have to abstain only when you are fasting, which is from daybreak to sundown. But you can eat, drink, and be merry between sundown and daybreak.”

  “Ah, just no daytime sex.”

  Luncheon Meetings—without the Lunch

  The aroma of coffee in the office didn’t help. At luncheon meetings, I would be the only one not helping myself to the spread.

  “Sabeeha, you are not eating?”

  Just say it.

  “I am fasting.”

  “I am sorry. We shouldn’t be eating when you are fasting,” said my boss, Ted Jamison. I was now working at the Interfaith Medical Center in Brooklyn.

  “No. No. It’s perfectly all right. Please go ahead.”

  He must have said something to his secretary. The next time a meeting was scheduled, she asked me if I was fasting. I was. She moved the time to avoid lunch, and I noticed that coffee was off the table.

  Only in America.

  In years to come, I would try to keep my fasting low profile, so as not to disrupt the flow of the workplace. But as awareness about Ramadan increased, it became a moot point.

  “Coming for lunch?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Ah, it’s Ramadan, isn’t it?”

  Years later, when Ramadan moved into the winter months and sundown was as early as 4:30 p.m., I had to break my fast at work. Delaying the breaking of the fast is not an option. I would keep a few dates in my desk drawer, watch the clock, and break my fast with dates and a cup of water, and then, ahhh—coffee. If my boss or staff walked into my office, their standard response was, “I’m sorry. I’ll come back.” And then someone would bring me a cookie, a muffin….

  Several times, when meetings ran late, I would be sitting at the conference table, and as it got close to sundown, I would start checking my watch every minute. If you had been at the table, you would have seen me fumble into my briefcase, retrieve something, and pop a date in my mouth. My boss would give me a knowing nod with a smile.

  “Sabeeha had to break her fast. It’s Ramadan,” he’d say.

  “Shall we take a ten-minute break?” came a gracious offer from a participant.

  “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

  Only in America.

  It was harder when sundown was on my way home, as in 5:30 p.m. I had my car stocked with dates and water, but breaking the fast at the exact minute was a challenge. I could be at the tollbooth fishing out change—this was before the days of EZPass—or speeding away on the highway or just lose track of time.

  People in Pakistan have it easy. Halfway across the world, they adjust working hours during Ramadan, have iftar breaks at the office, no luncheon meetings. At iftar time, everything stops—businesses, offices, traffic, movie theaters—and people stop to break fast. Here in New York, I am going against the flow, and my goodness, it is a struggle. I suppose this is what is meant by jihad—the inner struggle—the struggle to overcome obstacles for the higher purpose of submitting to God. I don’t see it as a hardship, rather as a challenge. I feel a stirring of pride, a feeling that is foreign to my friends in Pakistan. I no longer miss Ramadan in Pakistan—I sort of like the version of American Ramadan we have crafted. So what if it isn’t entirely convenient?

  Is Ramadan in Summer or in Winter?

  Were you wondering how it is that Ramadan moved into the winter months? Muslim readers, this question is not for you. So here is a one-paragraph course in Islam 101. I promise not to bore you.

  The Islamic calendar is based on the lunar cycle. The new moon signals the beginning of the month. A lunar year is shorter—just 355 days. The Muslim New Year therefore begins ten days earlier each year. If Ramadan began on June 30 this year, next year it would begin around June 20, and the year after around June 10, and twelve years later, in the winter months. Thus one gets to experience fasting in all seasons. On one sunny Eid day in New York in July, I called my cousin in Australia. It was the middle of winter there, and she was having a white-snowy Eid. “Your turn will come,” she said to me. “In eighteen years, you too will have snow on your doorsteps on Eid.”

  Summers are a challenge, because the days are long and one can be fasting for as long as sixteen hours. Managing thirst is hard, and one has to be cautious and avoid dehydration. No jogging in Central Park.

  Period Break

  I mentioned earlier that when a woman has her period, she is exempt from fasting but has to make it up later. You also know how I feel about both the break and the exemption. Try explaining this at the workplace: It’s Ramadan, I am fasting. It’s Ramadan, I am not fasting.

  If I don’t understand why women cannot fast during the menstrual cycle, how can I explain it to my coworkers? Besides, who wants to advertise “that time of the month”?

  Do I keep a low profile?

  Do I pretend I am fasting and avoid the explanation?

  Do I appear to be noncompliant, which I am not?

  Do I tell it like it is?

  “Coming to lunch? Sorry, didn’t realize it’s Ramadan.”

  “I’ll come. I’m taking a break.”

  No questions asked.

  Phew! Thank God Americans are not as nosy as Pakistanis.

  What about the children? During the long summer days, when iftar was late in the evenings, say around 8:00 p.m., I would have dinner with the children at 6:00 p.m. Khalid would wait until sundown.

  “Isn’t Mummy fasting?”

  “Mummy is taking a break,” Khalid would explain.

  Living in the college hostel in Pakistan, taking a break during Ramadan is everybody’s business. I am serious. On the bulletin board of the dining room is a roster titled, “Students Not Fasting.” Girls on a break put down their names for the next day. The kitchen plans the meals according to the head count. One day, I forget to put down my name (yes, it was that time of the month). At the stroke of the deadline, the roster is removed and there I am, locked out of the dining room. Some girls are too embarrassed to advertise their break and forego the meals, eating in the privacy of their rooms on an overextended budget. There are always a few girls who do not fast by choice. But by and large, this is an open advertisement of who is having their period.

  If you can come up with a better privacy-protection system, I’d love to hear it.

  Communal Iftars

  Think of it this way: in Ramadan, every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday you and all your friends, as in “all” your friends, get together for huge dinner parties. Have you ever done that? By the way, this question is for non-Muslim readers. Monday through Thursday, we would eat at home, but on weekends we got together with friends for a communal iftar. No sooner had Ramadan started than friends would start calling.

  “I am hosting the first Saturday of Ramadan. Iftar at my place.”

  “I am hosting the first Sunday.”

  Everyone was invited to the home. If you weren’t among the first twelve to book the weekend, you were out of luck. Hosting an iftar was a privilege. In the iftar package was: (1) reading of the Qur’an—all thirty volumes; (2) iftar—breaking of the fast with refreshments; (3) evening prayer in congregation; (4) dinner; (5) night prayer in congregation; and (6) taraweeh—a special Ramadan night prayer, a long congregational prayer.


  It’s my turn to host the iftar. I try to be organized, planning my menu a week in advance and doing my grocery shopping the night before, running through the aisles of Pathmark on Richmond Avenue, list in hand. Khalid picks up the meat from the halal grocer on his way home from the hospital.

  “Don’t cook too much food. People are not very hungry after breaking their fast,” says Khalid.

  “Yes, but I don’t want to be short on food.”

  If there is one thing Khalid and I disagree on, this is it. At every party I have hosted, he always cautions me: “Don’t cook too much,” and I always insist on making sure I don’t run out, which I never do, and we end up eating leftovers for a week.

  On the day of, I can barely sleep after dawn, my to-do list running through my mind.

  Did I forget to buy something? Will I have enough food? I hope the children do not make much noise when everyone is praying. Oh dear, I forgot to get the recipe for palak gosht. It’s no use, I might as well get up and get started.

  Khalid and I get the house ready. Sofas are moved against the wall to create floor space for guests to sit on. Sheets are spread on the rug—pale yellow king-size flat sheets I found at Macys. Colorful pillows are placed against the wall for back support, incense burners are lit, and thirty volumes of the Qur’an are placed on the coffee table with the sign TO BE READ. Next to the stack, I place another sign: COMPLETED. Once a volume is read, it will be placed in the “completed” section. It takes me all day to cook, with Khalid helping chop the onions (he cannot bear to see my tears), crush the garlic (he likes my hands fragrant), skin the potatoes, cube the meat, wash the pots, and do anything I need a hand with.

  I hope I didn’t put in too much salt or make it too spicy. I wish I could taste the food, just to be sure. Oh, the aroma is making me so hungry. Oh, I am so tired. My feet ache.

  “Sit down. Put your feet up. Let me give you a foot massage,” says Khalid.

  Ahhh!

  I put the food in the oven; I will turn it on half an hour before serving. And I go take a shower.

  “Saqib and Asim, time to get ready,” I call out.

  “What should I wear?” Asim asks.

  “Shalwar kameez.” I wait to hear a groan. I don’t hear one. Aha! They know that their friends will be dressed traditional as well.

  Precisely an hour before iftar, guests start arriving, giving themselves an hour or so to read a volume of the Qur’an. I have invited the Sunday school teachers, one of whom I regard as our spiritual leader. I shall call him Imam. Adults and young adults remove their shoes, enter in silence, say, “Salaam Alaikum,” to the assembled guests, pick up a volume of the Qur’an next to the sign TO BE READ, take a place on the rug, and silently start reciting. Women cover their hair with the dupatta. Children play outside or cluster in the bedroom. If a child were to run in to ask mom something, he would first stumble over the shoes in the foyer, and, making his way to the living room, he would see a room full of people seated on the rug, against the wall, heads lowered, reading the Qur’an, and swaying back and forth, mommies on one side, daddies on the other, the late afternoon sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’d hear a buzz in the air, of whispered chanting, and inhale the fragrance of incense.

  It takes me an hour to recite one volume of the Qur’an. I hope enough guests come on time to finish all thirty volumes. Only forty-five minutes left for iftar, and the pile of “completed” is way lower than the “to be read” pile. Look, she just got up and is walking over to the completed sign, placing her volume in the pile. She is picking up another from the “to be read.” That look of devout accomplishment! Maybe we will complete the Qur’an by iftar after all.

  Thirty minutes to iftar. The “completed” pile is getting taller.

  I better get into the kitchen and start preparing the individual dishes for iftar.

  Like birds in a flock, the ladies who are done reading join me in the kitchen, and we start chatting in loud whispers.

  “Can we help?”

  “Yes, please. Here, just put two dates and the fruit chaat in the dessert bowls.” I point to the stack of foam plates stacked on the counter (I am embarrassed to recall) and watch as the assembly line of ladies gets going. From the living room, I can hear the hum of the recital.

  “Here, the roof afza has to be poured in these cups.” I take the drink out of the fridge and hand them the cups, as the assembly line goes into motion again.

  Twenty minutes to iftar.

  I take a peek in the living room, and the “to be read” pile is almost gone. Some of the men who are done are sitting back and reciting the names of Allah on a tasbeeh, and by now all the women are in the kitchen. I turn on the oven to 250.

  Fifteen minutes to iftar.

  Khalid walks into the kitchen, picks up the individual dessert bowls, and starts carefully placing them on the rug in front of each guest; along with the rooh afza—no tipping over, please.

  “Children, come on in. Iftar time. Shoes off.”

  In my tiny foyer, you have shoes flying all over. Every inch on the floor is carpeted with sneakers, sandals, high heels, pumps, and loafers. Try walking out—you first have to navigate the shoes.

  Ten minutes to iftar.

  The ladies rush back in the living room; the children squeeze in. Every inch on the rug is taken. I look at the TO BE READ sign—nothing there. Ah! The Qur’an is completed.

  Imam starts reciting the last chapters of the Qur’an, and like a curtain call, the room goes quiet.

  Even the children are quiet.

  Heads are bent. Everyone raises his or her hands in supplication.

  Oh, look at the little one, raising her tiny hands in prayer. Adorable.

  Imam prays: “May God accept our fasting, may He keep us in good health so that we can continue to fast, guide us on the right path, make us charitable….” Ameen, says Imam. Ameen, everyone responds in chorus. Some people continue with their private prayer. He starts watching the time. At the precise minute of sundown, he announces, “You may break your fast.”

  “Bismillah,” In the name of God, says everyone and picks up the date and then takes a sip of the drink. No one talks—everyone is eating, quietly. It’s been a long, hungry, and thirsty day.

  I hope we put enough fruit in the bowls for the guests. I hope the drink is not too sweet. Please, don’t let the pink drink spill on the rug.

  Khalid asks Saqib to give the adhan, the call for the evening prayer. Guests line up outside the bathrooms to perform ablution.

  I am sure I put enough towels in the bathroom. I did, didn’t I?

  Someone removes the plates and cups. Someone picks up the sheets and folds them.

  Thank you, angels, whoever you are.

  Then I notice a guest picking up one of the sheets and draping it over the photographs on the wall.

  Yikes! I should have taken care of that ahead of time.

  If you have been inside a mosque, you will notice that there are no images of human figures or statues. I remember an elder once telling me that it is to prevent idolatry, i.e., when praying, one is facing God, not the pictures. This was the tradition, and I was going along with it. Later in life, I would question the practice of covering the pictures.

  Imam leads the prayer, the men lined up behind, and the women at the back.

  You see? No woman questions this practice. We all just line up and do as expected. I can’t worry about that right now, I have a dinner to serve.

  I can barely concentrate, worrying about the next step—setting out the food and getting everyone through dinner, dessert, and tea before the night prayer.

  Maybe I should have turned on the oven sooner—I hope the food heated well. Did I get ice? Allah, forgive me.

  Can’t I just get the food out of my mind for five minutes!

  After prayer, we ladies rush to the kitchen and the men rearrange the room.

  Guests compliment me on the delicious food. Not too salty, not too peppery. Thank God.
The best part of the meal comes after dessert—a hot cup of tea. I make the best tea, so everyone tells me. We barely clean up when I hear Saqib give the adhan. It’s the night prayer, and the special Ramadan Taraweeh prayer. Line up again.

  It seems like everyone is not staying for the prayer.

  “Thank you for having us. We do have to leave. It’s late, and the children need to get to bed.” They line up to say good-bye.

  Taraweeh prayer is long, and in the summer months it can end as late as 11:00 p.m. By the time you get home, you can barely get three hours of sleep before it’s time for suhoor.

  Next day, if it’s Sunday, another communal iftar.

  One year, when Mummy and Daddy were visiting during Ramadan, Daddy remarked, “I have never spent a Ramadan like this in Pakistan.”

  He was referring to the communal spirit and activity. In Pakistan, Ramadan was a family affair. There were no weekend communal iftars, communal readings of the Qur’an, or congregational prayers in the homes. In New York, being a minority, we were compelled to build a community for our children to belong to, and communal iftars were the perfect setting for children to break bread, develop reverence for their faith, and get comfortable in their skin.

  I beamed. Mummy and Daddy are approving of my new lifestyle. They will go back feeling good.

  Saqib took the ritual with him when he went away to Haverford College. He simply spoke to the person in charge of the dining room, who, saying, “No problem,” had a breakfast box prepared for him every day for suhoor.

  Only in America.

  A Time to Give

  “During Ramadan you should give to charity. Do you give to charity?” Saqib asked.

  I didn’t have an answer.

  Khalid has been supporting his parents generously since day one of his employment. Does that count for charity? Charity does begin at home, but checking off that line item as charity doesn’t feel right. Other than giving a solicited donation every now and then, we really have not been into the business of charity. Daadee Amma had advised me to give to charity every month, and I didn’t pay heed. How much can we afford to give? There is the mortgage, private school, taxes, car loans…. Is there a minimum requirement?