Aparita

Toronto Star

After a month of Ramadan fasting, Muslims find self-denial pays off with elaborate meals

Melt-in-your-mouth sheek kebabs (minced lamb kebabs). Deliciously fragrant biryani (rice with meat). A simpering nihari (thick gravy prepared with lamb) served with hot, hot kulche bread. Fiercely spicy baghare-baingan (stuffed eggplants). And, of course, the traditional sheer korma (almond milk drink) and seviyan (vermicelli pudding.)

Growing up Hindu in New Delhi, even I looked forward to Eid-ul-Fitr, the festival of breaking the fast at the end of Ramadan. I’d be invited to my Muslim friend Sarfaraz’s house to share the feast his mother had conjured up.

She wouldn’t bat an eyelid when a group of us showed up at her doorstep, since there was always a steady stream of people going in and out. The older ones would exchange sweets, the younger ones would get gifts, usually money, from the elders. And they, too, would partake of the food.
Ramadan is the ninth month of the lunar Muslim calendar.

During these 29 or 30 days, from one new moon to the next, the faithful fast from dawn to dusk, abstaining from food, drink, tobacco and sexual activities as long as there’s light enough to enable the eye to distinguish between a black thread and a white thread held at an arm’s length. In practice, the fast is governed by the morning and evening calls to prayer.

The morning meal must be finished before dawn. After sunset, the meal is called iftar. Those who are old, ill, pregnant or menstruating do not fast, and travellers are exempt during their journey: Some can “make up” for their missed fasts during that year. At the end of the month, each person may give a month’s ration of food to the needy. Those unable to fast may give a year’s ration.

Fasting has been, and in many cases still is, an integral part of Judaism, Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism and the Baha’i faith. The idea of self-denial and noting one’s unworthiness in the face of God by fasting is common, whether it’s limited to a specific day or prolonged.

Fasting has also become commonplace in alternative health practices and fad diets. People undergo juice fasts and mono diets (eating a single food, like grapes) to cleanse their bodies of toxins. It’s also supposed to give the digestive system a rest.

But denying oneself sustenance, especially for religious purposes such as Ramadan, poses an inherent duality. The fast ends with a feast. The idea isn’t to gorge yourself silly, although some people do. The purpose is to share the bounty. It’s almost as if to truly appreciate the special food, you have to achieve a certain pitch of hunger.

Ramadan feasts vary from region to region. It’s customary to break the fast with a date, in the custom of Mohammed. Packed with carbohydrates, dietary fibre and natural sugars, dates are also a powerhouse of energy.

In Sudan, people drink a cup of tea to return shrunken stomachs to normal size. In Ethiopia, barley soup is easy on the stomach. Samosas and stuffed grape leaves are popular in Egypt. In India and Pakistan, the mild curries called kormas, biryani or pulao rice dishes and kebabs are common fare.

Habeeb Salloum, a Toronto freelance writer who has often visited Morocco, is enthusiastic about harira, a rich chick-pea soup traditionally served in that country to break the fast. While not a practicing Muslim, Salloum has twice observed the month-long fast on his visits to North Africa.

“Harira helps relieve the body from the day’s fasting,” he says. “And after a main course of tajine (fragrant stew), they eat bariwat, a honey-dipped sweet.”

In India and Pakistan, the popular sweets are jalebi (fried fritters dipped in a sugar syrup), kheer (rice pudding) or ice cream.

During Ramadan, Muslims invite relatives and friends to break the fast at iftar parties. It becomes a communal as well as a culinary activity. And during Eid-ul-Fitr (which will fall either Dec. 15 or 16, depending on the sighting of the new moon), people open their doors and prepare enough food to feed hundreds of guests.

The Merchant family of Thornhill used to host large iftar and Eid parties. This year, they are inviting only 14 people, including their children’s friends.

The spacious kitchen in their four-bedroom condominium is abuzz with activity when I visit recently. With an hour left before sunset, Fatima Merchant, dressed in a brown tunic and pants, directs daughter Farah and niece Rubina Nazir Ali in the kitchen.

“I usually prepare everything beforehand,” says Fatima, instructing Rubina to add lime juice to a fruit salad.

Anwar (Andy) Merchant, Fatima’s husband, hovers around the dining table, lighting decorative candles. Guests are ushered into the main living room. Shrieks of laughter can be heard from the room where the children are entertaining their friends.

The kids understand the religious significance of Ramadan but also see it as an opportunity to socialize. Most started fasting on the weekends when they were 6, building up to the month-long fasts as they grew older.

“But we always wanted to fast more than that,” says Farah. “There was a sense of accomplishment.”
Although they have no trouble fasting, they say, it can be exhausting during exam times and when Ramadan falls during the long days of summer.

“I just change my three meals around,” says Tarek Merchant, a boarder at St. Andrews College and an avid tennis player.

He eats a bigger meal at night before hitting the books and another in the morning, but continues tennis practice.

“I go after 6: 30 p.m., so it’s not bad,” he says. “I break my fast at 5 p.m., which helps me digest the food.”

Growing up in Kingston, where there wasn’t a large Muslim community, the children were often met by bewilderment from their friends.

“I hated all those ‘What if’ questions,” laughs Nadine Mouftah, Farah’s friend. “‘What if your mouth is open and a fly enters it? What if you forget?’”

They found themselves dispelling misconceptions.

“If you accidentally drink or eat something, you are still fasting,” says Syma Merchant. “It’s the intention that counts.”

Outside, the sky slowly darkens. The dinner table quickly fills up with appetizers and other dishes. There’s veal korma, mixed vegetables, chana masala (curried chick-peas), samosas, chicken wings, sheek kebabs, pita bread and hummus, potato cutlets stuffed with meat and boondi ka raita (tiny chick-pea flour dumplings in yogurt). Sitting in the middle of the table is a plate of dates, which Fatima begins to hand out.

Rubina wonders whether the salt in the food is all right. “We can’t taste the food,” she laughs.
Meanwhile, in Mississauga, children run amok in the small garden of Farah and Fahad Dawood’s house.

The Dawoods are hosting an iftar for their two children’s friends, aged 5 to 9, who attend the same Islamic school. Two of the 9-year-olds, Hamza Sanoushi and Shadman Chaudhary, are fasting on weekends, although all of them claim they are fasting too.

Farah is in the kitchen preparing the children’s favourite snacks - chicken balls and dahi-puri (wafer-thin wheat balls filled with yogurt). In the adjoining TV room, a debate rages about whether to watch Digimon or Men In Black.

“They always get invited to their parents’ iftars,” says Farah, as she lays out the table. “I thought I would have one just for the kids.”

Sometimes, Muslims break the fast with just immediate family. Shaha Husain, the woman behind the Mezban line of bottled condiments, is cooking food for her three children. Her compact midtown apartment is calm.

The table is already laid out with sliced bananas in lime juice, lentil salad, chewy flatbread, cucumbers and yogurt, a tray of dried nuts, some lemonade and a plate of dates. Samir Husain, Shaha’s son, periodically peeks in the oven at the banana tart he’s baking. “Too many bananas in the house,” he grins, hoping this recipe he just made up will turn out.

Dressed in a rust coloured silk sari, Shaha sits down and slivers almonds for chicken pulao. “This is a festive time for us because this is the month that the Qur’an was revealed to the Prophet,” she says as she wipes almond dust from the coffee table.

“The idea is to discipline yourself and understand how the needy feel. You also break habits. Keeping roze (fasts) was good for my father. He was a chain smoker but gave up smoking during Ramadan. He would continue without it for six or eight months after Eid, and then slowly get back into it.

“Your body adjusts to it,” she says. “Fasting from sunrise to sunset for 30 days is not hard if you have the willpower.”

Bustling around in the kitchen as she puts the final touches on the pulao, Shaha explains that easily digested meats such as chicken and seafood are preferred during Ramadan. Thirst-inducing garlic and salt are used minimally. A heavy breakfast is followed by fresh fruit. “Some people eat steak and eggs,” she says.

Although Zannat Mirza, a registered dietician, is dismissive of the supposed health benefits of fasting, she does advocate a smarter way to fast. She advises waking up early and eating a protein-rich meal to sustain yourself for the day.

“The key is not to overdo it, even if you are hungry. Pace yourself. Drink lots of fluids,” Mirza says. “Water, juices, milk, soup.”

Shaha, reminiscing about Ramadan in Hyderabad, capital of the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh remembers using a lot of yogurt in cooking. “It’s cooling,” she explains.

“When the sun sets, you break the fast with a little bit of food. Then you pray and have a bigger meal in the evening. It was special there. We would wait for the azan (call for prayer) and then break our fast.”

There’s no azan here, but as the sun sets, Shaha takes a date. She slowly whispers a small prayer before popping it in her mouth.