Friday — 23 Ramazan 1426 — 06 Kartika 1927 — 28 October 2005
Jumma tul Wida. The last monday in the month of Ramazan. A very different month. A very different Friday.
My day in Ramazan starts at 0345 to the musical cacophony of drum beats of less then acceptably trained drum beaters on run down bicycles. Wakeing up in the middle of the night. Swollen face and bad tempered. The family gathers over badly cooked distasters of health that some, including my mother, call Sehri. Just because she wakes up in the middle of the night to cook Sehri for us does not mean that I appreciate her and like her food. Au contraire.
Immediately after Sehri I hop into bed and enjoy the sweet pleasures of a long and deep slumber. Much to the tune of fat English Lords in their manors while their servants laboured and bled for their fortunes. But, like all (good ?) things in life, this wasteless slumber has to come to an abrupt and violent end at the hands of an infernal piece of mechanical horror called the alarm clock.
So starts the business of life. Wake up. Rub your face over and over again and keep hoping that you will wake up in a Spanish Hacienda with naked men tottering about multiple circular bannisters. Clean yourself. Keep your eyes closed and keep hoping that you alight from under the showers into a Turkish bath with naked men filling my Harem to the brim. Have breakfast.