I grew up next to my grandparents.
In Ramadan, I would frequently accompany my grandfather to break our fast in the mosque of our village. My only task was to tote the basket.
It was a cheap, plastic picnic basket that had most likely been bought from a variety store in a small town in Trinidad that sold imported items from China. The basket was pink and - if I remember correctly - had some colourful flowers printed on it. It was covered and divided into equal halves by two lids fixed at the centre.
Like Tetris blocks, the containers were always packed neatly - no, perfectly - in the basket. They were mostly recycled butter containers: a container of dhal (pureed split peas), a container of meat (usually Trinidadian-style stewed chicken), a container of a vegetable (“tarkari” as the old people in Trinidad say). Tucked to one side was the piping hot, silky paratha roti wrapped in aluminium foil. One special item never went in the basket: the natural fruit drink.
My grandfather was a man of fruits and vegetables. Meals at home, for example, always included a big bowl of plain watercress, which we called greens. When Nana ate, you heard the crunching of greens more than the chewing of anything else. He frequented the market where he selected the best fruits. He would then make the rounds in his car, dropping off fruits at everybody’s house.
“Beep! Beep! Beep!” Nana was downstairs with fruits. I always thought his car had the loudest horn in the entire country. Sometimes it seemed louder than my alarm clock.
In Ramadan, all attention turned to the fruit punch: barbadine (also known as giant granadilla), soursop (graviola), paw-paw (papaya), to name a few of the exotic ones. My favourite was paw-paw. It was milky, sweet, and had a pinkish-orange colour. A pink basket in my hand, a bottle filled with an exotic tropical punch in my grandfather’s, we walked to the mosque, which was less than 100 metres down the street - Mosque Street - from my grandfather’s house.
He walked with an aluminium walking stick that was shaped like a question mark. Each time the stick struck the asphalt road, it made a clicking sound: click, click, click, all the way to the masjid. Each click, a blessing.
The mosque on Mosque Street is the most beautiful mosque in Trinidad and Tobago. (I am obviously biased.) It’s green and white, has a central dome and four minarets. A colonnade of arches runs along the front perimeter. The doors to the mosque are tall, wooden, and arched. Hedges of red ixoras line the pathway to the entrance of the mosque. Every child in Trinidad and Tobago is familiar with the ixora flower. Whether it was in school or at the mosque, church, or temple, at some point in our childhoods we all discovered its wonder: the drop of honey-like nectar trapped in its stalk, and accessed by pulling the thread-like stem out of its base. It was like pulling out an oil dipstick, but instead of dirty oil, there was sweet nectar at the tip. Incredible.
In the middle of the front garden is a tree that looks like an unremarkable patch of wild bush. When night falls, the tree comes to life: it gives off a perfume scent. Honey and perfume as you enter and exit the mosque. Paradise!
The old men gathered every evening in the hall to break their fasts. They trailed in one-by-one, each portioning out their home-cooked items in deep glass plates. They sat facing each other on two long benches on either side of a long table. Their conversations were the usual: sports (usually cricket) and politics.
My grandfather was never into sports. Sometimes I wonder if he thought sports were silly, a waste of time. Big, hard-backed men and women chasing a ball? I have no recollection of him ever talking passionately about sports. Perhaps he did not have the privilege of being entertained by sports. Alas, he - and those in his generation - did not have the privilege of being entertained. Entertainment was a luxury for them. How times have changed: we have been entertained into boredom. Regarding the other topic - politics - I think he might have been guarded.
My grandfather never liked politicians. My grandmother would later tell me what he used to say about all politicians—no exceptions. I won’t repeat it here. Suffice it to quote the late Basdeo Panday, the fifth prime minister of Trinidad and Tobago: “Politics has a morality of its own.” My grandfather voted, and that was that. But I digress.
What I am trying to say is that I can’t recall my grandfather being very conversational at the table. He will have made a comment about the punch; he might have scolded someone for pouring too much of the precious drink; he might have told the men to stay quiet, that it was not the time for “ole talk.” And then there would be silence, followed by the adhaan.
The potpourri of home-cooked dishes all randomly put together on one plate never confused my tastebuds. Whatever was on my plate and in my cup always tasted heavenly. Perhaps it wasn’t the food nor the exotic drink that I was tasting – perhaps it was simply the sweetness of faith and community.
May Allah grant us the sweetness of both this Ramadan.