As your WAY too wide awake parent shakes you up for Sehri and you try to Zombie walk yourself to the kitchen without walking into a wall, desperately trying to keep your eyes closed for as long as possible so as to maintain every last ounce of sleep, you realise that ten days have already gone by. A third of the way through. Not quite halfway, but not quite at the start either. No mans land- you get the drift. As you hear Hafiz Wadi talking about how many children kept their half fasts this week, you vaguely recollect fragments of Suhoors gone by. Making enemies with the toilet, best friends with Vita Thion, somehow everyones a dietician who knows exactly what food will give you enough energy to last you till Witr so that you don't go down by mistake in Ruku when the Imam gives the trick Takbeer (it happens to the best of us, just look straight and walk it off). Ten down brothers, but the next ten are generally the hardest.
Somehow, people tend to forget that the month consists of thirty days, not just the opening five when your wife chases you out the house and the odd nights during the final third. These middle few are sort of a natural filtration system wherein you seperate the men from the boys. The guy who made eye contact with you as your hands crossed over tearing a giant toiletroll may not be there tomorrow, the kids who formed their alliances on the first night suddenly find themselves short of numbers. This is when the sheepish looks form on faces after Esha salaah, when sneaking out the back with your head down becomes an art. The saffs are short enough for teenagers to find where their fathers are standing before the first ruku, but not long enough for them to leave the mosque between rakaats. This is when iftaar starts to get a little bit longer, when the leftover savouries come out and trips to Caminettos frequent because the ladies are tired of cooking for you. Enter the long lines and impatient tut tutting of uncles wanting to get home before azaan. Enter angry phone calls because their food is cold and the cheese is dry. Sabr is short, Miswaaks thrown away, only the strong survive without a pre azaan headache.
Even the ever present Malawi brothers find these days hard. Look outside, see how many plants need watering or how green your pool is looking. Chicken fillets arent cleaned properly, cheese is grated half heartedly and the glare of the Muazzin is enough to stop many a war. Those 8 minutes suddenly become a haven for the famished, when rations equivalent to the harvest of many a famined country are single handedly devoured by brothers driven to breaking point by hunger. Pie Crumbs and Samoosa Crust adorn many a beard whilst milk moustaches decorate many a visage. The collateral is vast- many a mosque carpet runs with the stains of spilled milkshake, yet the loud satisfied Haleem burps during Salaah are enough to indicate that come the end of the day, all is well.
Somehow, people tend to forget that the month consists of thirty days, not just the opening five when your wife chases you out the house and the odd nights during the final third. These middle few are sort of a natural filtration system wherein you seperate the men from the boys. The guy who made eye contact with you as your hands crossed over tearing a giant toiletroll may not be there tomorrow, the kids who formed their alliances on the first night suddenly find themselves short of numbers. This is when the sheepish looks form on faces after Esha salaah, when sneaking out the back with your head down becomes an art. The saffs are short enough for teenagers to find where their fathers are standing before the first ruku, but not long enough for them to leave the mosque between rakaats. This is when iftaar starts to get a little bit longer, when the leftover savouries come out and trips to Caminettos frequent because the ladies are tired of cooking for you. Enter the long lines and impatient tut tutting of uncles wanting to get home before azaan. Enter angry phone calls because their food is cold and the cheese is dry. Sabr is short, Miswaaks thrown away, only the strong survive without a pre azaan headache.
Even the ever present Malawi brothers find these days hard. Look outside, see how many plants need watering or how green your pool is looking. Chicken fillets arent cleaned properly, cheese is grated half heartedly and the glare of the Muazzin is enough to stop many a war. Those 8 minutes suddenly become a haven for the famished, when rations equivalent to the harvest of many a famined country are single handedly devoured by brothers driven to breaking point by hunger. Pie Crumbs and Samoosa Crust adorn many a beard whilst milk moustaches decorate many a visage. The collateral is vast- many a mosque carpet runs with the stains of spilled milkshake, yet the loud satisfied Haleem burps during Salaah are enough to indicate that come the end of the day, all is well.
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