It’s the people we miss, not the place

This ramazan morning I sit and reminisce of all those ramazans spent in Pakistan. Those sehris and iftaris that are stored in our memories with a million stories.

I remember standing in the kitchen bundled up because of the biting cold, supposed to be helping Mama make sehri as she made her famous parathas. I remember those sehris in Islamabad, when Mama was unwell and Papa, Nadiya and I were up for sehri, making and then eating our 'dawn parathas' (they were still a new thing in those days and had become a family favorite). I remember in Sargodha when I would study after sehri, and Papa would come and check on me before he went back to sleep. And then I remember our last ramazan together as a family in Wah. Asif used to make sehri and we ate together as a family, papa having his roti and us our parathas. And then having our tea served on a TV tray and Mama, Papa and I sipped as we watched Aalim Online (It used to be actually nice in those days). And I remember those iftaris! The luxury of coming to the table right before iftari and enjoying the most sumptuous of meals. The pakoras, the chaats, the dahi bhales have never tasted the same since then.

And while we were spending those days we never knew how precious those memories will become a few years down the road.

All of us overseas tend to be nostalgic about ramazans we spent back home. But as I reminisce, I suddenly realize it’s the people we miss, not the place. It’s the traditions we miss, the full houses. It's a whole era we miss. When our parents' homes were our safe havens, when all the people we loved, lived under one roof.

But one thing I realized today, that when we moved and it all changed for us? It changed back home too. And it's never been the same. Ramazan is the same wherever we are. It is made special only by the people we spend it with.

Praying that all of us are blessed with many many beautifully blessed ramazans with the ones close to our hearts.

Thanks for stopping by!