Ramadan without Mom

When you miss someone dearly, you’re reminded of them everyday, no doubt. Whatever you do, wherever you go, you always think of how that situation would’ve panned out had that person been there. But like always, you go on with your daily life.

However, certain seasons, occasions or festivals tend to spark more memories than normal, leaving you feeling emptier inside, as though everything is falling apart and you can’t seem to put a stop to that.

You find yourself lost in those happy flashbacks of your life from a few years ago, fighting back tears as you struggle to accept the harsh truth of today – the absence of that person and how it’s always going to haunt you year after year, as long as you’re alive.

Every year during Ramadan a million such memories come back to me; memories that I hold close to my heart, memories that I couldn’t list down even if I kept writing for 24 hours straight, memories that I’ve cherished over the various phases of my life – as a child, as a teen, as an adult, and memories that I thought would continue for much longer, but unfortunately came to an abrupt stop 6 years back.

Every morning when I wake up (or not) for sehri, I think of all those times she would be up early to make tea for everyone.
Every evening at iftar I am reminded of our daily routine to the mosque, sitting next to each other during prayers, and as childish as it might sound, sitting beside her was my dream come true. Something I always always preferred over sitting next to a friend.

And then I recollect those few days when we would skip going to the mosque for iftar at home. By midday she would start making a fresh batch of kheema samosas along with a cooling jar of gud paani. And in the evening she would fry those samosas while brewing some chai of course.

I still miss how every year on the night of Eid I would be upset because everyone had lovely mehndi on their hands and I had nothing. And then she would stay up till late at night filling up both my hands with her classic designs from her younger days, making sure I had the best mehndi on my hands on the day of Eid.

I fondly remember how she started her preparations for Eid a couple of days in advance – slicing dry fruits, soaking dates, and bringing them all together on Eid morning for a warm bowl of sheer khurma, the fragrance of almonds, pistachio, ghee roasted seviyan and milk filling every corner of the house. And how she would eagerly serve it to every guest who visited us on the day of Eid, with a twinkle in her eyes, hoping they’ll love her sheer khurma.

Little did she realise, she was the best in everything she did – in her cooking, in her mannerisms, and in her way of living life! I miss these moments and I miss everyday, every minute, every second that I spent admiring her for 25 years of my life.

I know I’ll never get to have her tea or samosa or sheer khurma again, nor will I ever get to sit next to her and pray all night, or doze off on the sofa while she applies mehndi on my hands. All these moments will never return.

Sometimes it’s hard to accept this truth, and more often than not, I try to fill in those gaps by trying to recreate those memories, doing things that she would do, whether it’s saying all those prayers that she would or making samosas for iftar, or applying mehndi on my own hands on the night of Eid or preparing a big bowl of sheer khurma next morning even if there’s no one who’ll really be visiting me for Eid. Yet, I try, in my own little way, to be a fraction of everything that she was.

I miss her with every morsel of food I eat, every sip of water I drink, every breath I take, and with every heartbeat.
I miss you ma, and I really wish you were here with me.