Fasting
The writer, Dr Hasnain Gulamali Walji (Texas, USA) is an entrepreneur, investor, technologist, and community volunteer. Born in Moshi, Tanzania, he is a researcher, speaker, and writer involved in developing professional training and e-learning applications in nutrition and integrative healthcare. He is President of Integrative Quest, Inc which specializes in formulating and marketing probiotics. He has authored 26 books, all written from a naturopathic perspective, endorsed by the Natural Medicine Society of England, and translated into several languages including Spanish, French, German, Turkish, Hungarian, Portuguese, and Chinese. A contributor to several journals on environmental and Third World consumer issues, he was the founder and editor of The Vitamin Connection – an International Journal of Nutrition, Health and Fitness, and Healthy Eating. He has written a script for a six-part television series, The World of Vitamins. His institutional work for the Muslim community spans over 30 years, Since 1976 he has served the World Federation of KSI Muslim Communities, as Secretary-General, Vice-President, and then as President of this august body. He is also a founding director and the Current President of the Mulla Asgher Memorial Library and Resource Center (MARC) in Toronto. He has served as editor of Shia International and Living Islam Magazines and is a regular contributor to a number of Islamic Journals. He has traveled worldwide, lecturing and reciting Majlises in English, Urdu, and Gujarati. He has a special interest in the History of the Khojas and currently working on a Documentary called The Khojas – A journey of faith. He is also a founding director of a Social Justice Institute called Penmanship For Peace focusing on the plight of persecuted minorities including the Shia in Pakistan and part of a team compiling a volume on Shia Genocide in Pakistan. His passion is in increasing interfaith understanding to make this world a better place for his five grandchildren. Dr Walji established MARC. He served as the Secretary-General of WF. Dr Hasnian Walji served as the vice president of WF during Mullah’s leadership in the capacity of the president of the World Federation.
Twenty-four days of fasting. Past Laylatul Qadr. The finish line is in sight, yet I find myself standing still, asking, Where am I on my spiritualometer?
Am I ascending toward wisdom, floating in the serenity of self-discipline? Or have I simply mastered the art of distraction, of keeping hunger at bay until Maghrib, of transforming all my earthly desires into one singular, all-consuming thought – samosas?
Have I truly changed? Have I quieted the chaos inside me? Or have I just become exceptionally skilled at looking pious while secretly engineering the most elaborate iftar menu imaginable?
One Ramadan, Mulla, with the confidence of a man who had discovered the secrets of the universe, announced to his friends, “This year, I have mastered fasting.”
“How?” they asked, eager to know his secret.
Mulla grinned. “Simple. I sleep all day and wake up just in time for iftar!”
His friends scoffed, shaking their heads. “That’s not fasting, Mulla! You’re supposed to feel the hunger, the thirst, the struggle. It’s part of the purification process.”
Nasruddin, always one to adapt, nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, so difficulty is key?”
“Of course!” they assured him.
And so, the next day, Mulla was found sitting at the iftar table a full two hours before Maghrib, staring intently at the feast before him. When asked what he was doing, he sighed and said, “I’m really feeling the hunger now. Surely that means I’m fasting better than all of you.”
And tell me—who among us hasn’t had that thought? The first few days, hunger is noble. It humbles us, and connects us to something higher. By the second week, patience thins, and hunger becomes personal. By the third week, our conversations are no longer about the soul, but about food—passionate debates over whether samosas reign supreme over pakoras, or whether Rooh Afza is truly a blessing or an acquired taste. By Day 24, I can recognize the sound of my fridge opening from another room. I dream in shades of biryani and kheer.
The Iftar Reckoning
And then, the moment arrives. Maghrib. A single date. A sip of water. Bliss.
But something happens between that first bite and what follows. All that discipline, all that restraint—it vanishes in an instant. The iftar table is no longer a place of moderation but a battlefield where logic surrenders to hunger.
“Just one more plate of biryani.”
“Another kebab won’t hurt.”
“Of course, I have room for dessert.”
And then, regret. My stomach, which had spent all day humbly adjusting to discipline, now glares at me in silent betrayal. This was not the agreement.
I sink into the couch, unable to move, staring at the ceiling, questioning my life choices, promising—falsely—that tomorrow will be different.
Beyond Ramadan: The Myth of Everlasting Transformation
So now, I ask myself: What happens next?
For thirty days, I practice self-restraint. I prove to myself that I can exist without constant indulgence, that I can resist, that I can pause. Yet, the moment Eid arrives, I am like a freed prisoner rushing back to old habits as if Ramadan never happened.
Every year, I whisper to myself, This time, I will carry these lessons beyond Ramadan. I will continue waking up for tahajjud, I will maintain the habit of daily Quran, I will keep my iftars simple and my heart detached from excess. I will remain patient, grateful, and spiritually attuned.
Then reality hits. By Maghrib on Eid day, all self-discipline is but a distant memory. My diet, once mindful and intentional, dissolves into If it exists, I will eat it. My post-Ramadan fitness routine? Nonexistent. And my Quran? It waits patiently, knowing I will return next Ramadan, full of the same promises.
But perhaps this time, I will try something new.
Instead of treating Ramadan as an intensive crash course in spiritual endurance, I will aim for something quieter—sustainability. I will take one lesson, just one, and let it stay with me. Maybe it will be a moment of patience before I speak. Maybe it will be the pause before indulgence. Maybe it will be the realization that I am capable of self-control, not just for one month, but beyond it.
Because isn’t that the real purpose? Ramadan was never meant to be a brief sprint toward piety, only to be forgotten the moment the crescent moon of Shawwal appears. It was meant to be a training ground, a reminder of what we could be if only we chose to carry its lessons forward.
Yet, we fall into the same cycle every year—treating Ramadan like a divine boot camp where we detox our souls, only to binge on old habits as soon as the “program” ends. Imagine if an athlete trained rigorously for a month, only to quit exercising the moment the competition was over. Would any of the strength, endurance, or discipline gained remain?
But here’s the catch – unlike an athlete, we don’t have to sustain peak performance. No one is asking us to be in Ramadan mode year-round, but surely, we can hold onto something. Surely, we can exit Ramadan slightly better than we entered, even if it’s in the smallest of ways.
Maybe that means keeping one good habit – reading a few verses of the Quran daily or even just pausing before speaking when emotions run high. Maybe it’s as simple as eating with a little more gratitude, not out of scarcity but out of awareness. Maybe it’s reminding ourselves that if we can control our tongues, our tempers, and our impulses for 30 days, we are certainly capable of practising restraint in our everyday lives.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s recognizing that Ramadan was never about deprivation—it was about awakening. Awakening to the fact that we are stronger than our cravings, that we are more than our desires, that we are capable of self-discipline far beyond what we give ourselves credit for.
Ramadan strips away our distractions, our indulgences, our comforts—only to show us that our souls were never dependent on them to begin with. And if, for just one month, we can silence the noise, then surely, we can carry at least one of its echoes forward into the months that follow.
So this time, I’ll try to hold onto something. Maybe I won’t maintain every single good habit Ramadan gifted me, but if I can walk away with even one, then perhaps I haven’t just fasted—I have changed.
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