Dastarkhwan-e-Mohabbat; of fasting and feasting
The Muslim women who have been organising interfaith iftars in Gurgaon since 2017 know that food is a unifying force.
On social media, I announced: “An open iftar for friends on Facebook”
“Mama, how can you call strangers home for iftar?”
I smiled at my daughter as I straightened the stalks of the red gladioli. She looked sceptical as she looked up from her laptop.
“The idea is to invite people to experience our home and our food – most of them might not have met people like us before. This interfaith series was started by Nazia Erum in 2017 as a way for Muslim women to take control of their narrative. Maybe after the iftar, Facebook friends might turn into friends in real life,” I said.
My daughter nodded and gave me a thumbs-up. That’s high praise from a teenager.
Such were the conversations in our home a fortnight ago. Ramzaan 2024 is being observed this month. It is the most pious month for Muslims; one of abstinence, purity, and prayers. We fast or keep roza; we forgo water, food, and temptations. We eat sehri before sunrise and break our fast with khajoor (dates), water, or something sweet or salty. Sometimes, we drink a refreshing glass of Roohafza.
This Ramzaan follows the violence that rocked Gurgaon in early August last year. Gurgaon is the city I’ve made my home, where my kids went to school, and where they played football. It was here too that buses were torched, stones were pelted, terrified people cowered in their offices and homes, and a mosque was burnt. The young imam of the mosque lost his life. The fiery flames split the city into us versus them and a cloud of distrust, suspicion, and wariness enveloped us all. Suddenly, the innards of this millennium city were exposed. Slowly, life returned to normal, but the distrust lingers in the air like the aftertaste of burnt food.
A message from my friend Rukhsar popped up: “Farah, let’s host an iftar – an interfaith one, to be precise”. A Whatsapp group was formed and 12 of us, all opinionated Muslim women looking to open our homes and hearts, quickly joined it. Most of us did not know each other. What had brought us together was the desire to host this interfaith iftar and to invite people to share our food and create memories.
Each of us decided to call at least two people who had never been to an iftar. The most burning question was who would bring what: one person decided to bring chole, someone else chose dahi vada, and yet another one opted for haleem. As for myself, I volunteered to make a fruit chat. One hostess called herself Sadia Samosa Wali, and that name stuck. Who does not like samosa?
Sumbul Khan opened her home to guests on a beautiful spring day. It was heartwarming that her neighbours, Swati and Kapil, also offered their adjacent terrace. The food was laid out under the clear blue sky, and the introductions began.
“In our childhood, we walked in and out of each others’ homes. We were only interested in the food! That was the norm then. Now, we need invites to enjoy festivities together,” said Kapil.
His voice took me down memory lane and I recalled the fruits and thekua that my grandfather’s friend, Ram Pratap, always sent for iftar during Ramzaan. Yes, rozas are a way to connect with ourselves and with the larger community.
After the day’s fast was broken by biting into khajoor, everyone feasted on the delicious spread. Afterwards, it was time to take questions from the guests. After the initial awkward giggles and tentative glances, the queries came:
“Aren’t Muslims all non-vegetarian?”
“Are so many vegetarian dishes cooked at Muslim homes?”
“Is it mandatory for Muslim women to host iftar?”
The last question had us in splits. We spoke about not believing in the narrative that all Muslim women are oppressed, that we have no agency or voice. One guest was pleasantly surprised to see that all of us, the hosts of this interfaith event, were from every walk of life. Many myths were shattered that evening.
My eyes nearly teared up when a guest, Pragya, revealed that she fasted on both Ramzaan and Navratri. There was so much love, camaraderie, and solidarity that it was hard to believe this was the same city beset by trouble. Rukhsar discussed the necessity of building bridges among communities in peaceful times, not as a crisis solution, and Aasima read a dua that was duly translated.
As we laughed, took selfies and enjoyed cups of chai on that terrace, I felt that India was indeed a land of diversity; that we are all one. We might face hurdles, but most of us want to overcome them.
Afterwards, I told my child that I had made friends. One of them had even volunteered to host an iftar-cum-Holi milan. I was glad that a small effort had succeeded in creating ripples in the hearts of everyone who attended. May such efforts keep on multiplying.
Farah Naaz is a writer and an advocate who lives and practices in the National Capital Region.
On social media, I announced: “An open iftar for friends on Facebook”
“Mama, how can you call strangers home for iftar?”
I smiled at my daughter as I straightened the stalks of the red gladioli. She looked sceptical as she looked up from her laptop.
“The idea is to invite people to experience our home and our food – most of them might not have met people like us before. This interfaith series was started by Nazia Erum in 2017 as a way for Muslim women to take control of their narrative. Maybe after the iftar, Facebook friends might turn into friends in real life,” I said.
My daughter nodded and gave me a thumbs-up. That’s high praise from a teenager.
Such were the conversations in our home a fortnight ago. Ramzaan 2024 is being observed this month. It is the most pious month for Muslims; one of abstinence, purity, and prayers. We fast or keep roza; we forgo water, food, and temptations. We eat sehri before sunrise and break our fast with khajoor (dates), water, or something sweet or salty. Sometimes, we drink a refreshing glass of Roohafza.
This Ramzaan follows the violence that rocked Gurgaon in early August last year. Gurgaon is the city I’ve made my home, where my kids went to school, and where they played football. It was here too that buses were torched, stones were pelted, terrified people cowered in their offices and homes, and a mosque was burnt. The young imam of the mosque lost his life. The fiery flames split the city into us versus them and a cloud of distrust, suspicion, and wariness enveloped us all. Suddenly, the innards of this millennium city were exposed. Slowly, life returned to normal, but the distrust lingers in the air like the aftertaste of burnt food.
A message from my friend Rukhsar popped up: “Farah, let’s host an iftar – an interfaith one, to be precise”. A Whatsapp group was formed and 12 of us, all opinionated Muslim women looking to open our homes and hearts, quickly joined it. Most of us did not know each other. What had brought us together was the desire to host this interfaith iftar and to invite people to share our food and create memories.
Each of us decided to call at least two people who had never been to an iftar. The most burning question was who would bring what: one person decided to bring chole, someone else chose dahi vada, and yet another one opted for haleem. As for myself, I volunteered to make a fruit chat. One hostess called herself Sadia Samosa Wali, and that name stuck. Who does not like samosa?
Sumbul Khan opened her home to guests on a beautiful spring day. It was heartwarming that her neighbours, Swati and Kapil, also offered their adjacent terrace. The food was laid out under the clear blue sky, and the introductions began.
“In our childhood, we walked in and out of each others’ homes. We were only interested in the food! That was the norm then. Now, we need invites to enjoy festivities together,” said Kapil.
His voice took me down memory lane and I recalled the fruits and thekua that my grandfather’s friend, Ram Pratap, always sent for iftar during Ramzaan. Yes, rozas are a way to connect with ourselves and with the larger community.
After the day’s fast was broken by biting into khajoor, everyone feasted on the delicious spread. Afterwards, it was time to take questions from the guests. After the initial awkward giggles and tentative glances, the queries came:
“Aren’t Muslims all non-vegetarian?”
“Are so many vegetarian dishes cooked at Muslim homes?”
“Is it mandatory for Muslim women to host iftar?”
The last question had us in splits. We spoke about not believing in the narrative that all Muslim women are oppressed, that we have no agency or voice. One guest was pleasantly surprised to see that all of us, the hosts of this interfaith event, were from every walk of life. Many myths were shattered that evening.
My eyes nearly teared up when a guest, Pragya, revealed that she fasted on both Ramzaan and Navratri. There was so much love, camaraderie, and solidarity that it was hard to believe this was the same city beset by trouble. Rukhsar discussed the necessity of building bridges among communities in peaceful times, not as a crisis solution, and Aasima read a dua that was duly translated.
As we laughed, took selfies and enjoyed cups of chai on that terrace, I felt that India was indeed a land of diversity; that we are all one. We might face hurdles, but most of us want to overcome them.
Afterwards, I told my child that I had made friends. One of them had even volunteered to host an iftar-cum-Holi milan. I was glad that a small effort had succeeded in creating ripples in the hearts of everyone who attended. May such efforts keep on multiplying.
Farah Naaz is a writer and an advocate who lives and practices in the National Capital Region.