Navaratri, a nine-day Hindu celebration of various manifestations of the Divine Mother, began last Tuesday, triggered by the same new moon that ended Ramadan and began the Jewish New Year. There's no way I can deny that I felt my heart leap when I first discovered that this holiday is meant to honor the goddesses.
I grew up with a Father God. This Father God has a Son, who lived and walked upon the Earth inside a male body. I have even met Christians who will insist that the Holy Ghost is male, meaning that the entire Trinity can be considered -- apparently -- as just a big all-male three-way, with the unmistakable understanding that THERE IS NOTHING FEMALE ABOUT THE CHRISTIAN GOD. Period.
So, after a month of focus on the Father God of Islam... and his male prophet... and the male-dominated worship spaces at the mosques, the sense of relief and balance that Navaratri might bring felt exciting to me.
Navaratri spends nine days and nights honoring the sacred embodiment of creative and feminine energy -- Shakti.
The holiday is divided into three parts, with three nights apiece devoted to a different goddess, each of whom represents a different facet of Shakti’s divine feminine power. The three first days and nights go to Durga, a fierce warrior goddess, consort of Shiva, and the mother of Ganesha. She rides a tiger and slays demons. The second three go to Lakshmi, consort of Vishnu, and giver of physical wealth. She is also closely associated with the upcoming holiday of Diwali. The final three nights belong to Saraswati, consort of Brahma, supreme goddess of wisdom and the arts. She is often depicted as a river, or as connected to rivers or water.
When I set about finding a Navaratri celebration in my area, I quickly learned that all of the Hindu temples are in the suburbs. I found two temples from which to choose, as well as one Hindu organization planning Navaratri celebrations for various school and university auditoriums in Maryland and Virginia. I was leaning toward a Saturday night celebration at a university, when I discovered an afternoon concert planned for 1PM at the Sri Siva Vishnu Temple in suburban Maryland.
The flyer I found announced that Vijayalakshmy Subramaniam would be providing vocals, with Avaneeswaram Vinu on violin and Shertalai Ananthakrishnanan on mridangam, a type of South Indian drum.
Perfect, I thought. If gay men know how to do anything worshipful, it's how to revere female vocalists as the incarnation of goddesses. So, I will go listen to Vijayalakshmy Subramaniam sing. It will be a good excuse for me to show up at the Hindu temple for the first time, and it will connect to the theme of the holiday. Perhaps I will consider attendance at the concert to be my worship of Saraswati, and her connection to music and the arts.
Instead of biking, I chose to rent a Zipcar for the 17-mile trip.
The Sri Siva Vishnu Temple is located on a winding two-lane road accessed from a much larger suburban artery lined with strip malls, fast food, and gas stations. It is tucked away on this largely residential street behind some trees, much less obvious from the road than the houses behind their flat lawns. A sign in the full parking lot directed overflow traffic to park at the nearby Greek Orthodox church.
I did this, and then walked back to the temple on the shoulder of the road.
The temple is all white, with red doors. The basement of the temple isn't visible at the first approach, but can be accessed via a descent to the parking lot behind the building. From the front, a pedestrian can walk directly on top of this basement, onto a wide walkway with stone railings that encircles the main floor. On top of this, five tall, white, tapered peaks, inlaid with figures and carvings, set the building apart as a special kind of gathering place.
As I walked up to the walkway by the temple, I saw a sign that stated: "NO smoking, NO alcohol, and NO non-veg on premises. This includes parking lot."
The main entrance to the temple was in the rear, up a set of tall stairs from the parking lot, with the already elevated walkway around the temple leading directly to the main door. Outdoor cubbies clearly meant for shoes lined the walkway, so I shed my shoes and socks before going inside, though I missed the foot-washing station just inside the door.
The lobby just inside the front vestibule spanned the width of the temple. To the right, the walls were lined with shrines. In front of me, archways opened into the primary worship space. To the left was a small store with books and DVDs and incense, and next to the racks of retail goods stood a man behind a counter with a money box. I asked if I should buy concert tickets through him, and he directed me down a staircase to the basement.
The smell of curry grew stronger as I descended, and downstairs I found a tableau not that different from the basement of the church I grew up in. A lower-level lobby sat beneath the upstairs lobby, with doors opening into classrooms, restrooms, and a fellowship area connected via a serving window to a kitchen. Here, families sat together eating lunch from styrofoam plates.
Next to the fellowship area, doors opened into an auditorium filled with plastic blue chairs facing a stage draped with rust- and saffron-colored cloths. A chest-high goddess statue with four arms and a raised leg stood to the side of the stage.
It was here that I paid my $15 for the concert and took a seat.
When the musicians entered, they took their places on a low platform at the center of the stage set with three microphones. Vijayalakshmy Subramaniam sat cross-legged at the central microphone and faced the audience. She wore an orange and green sari, a large, bright red bindi, and a gold necklace, with her hair pulled into a loose knot behind her neck. Her male accompanists, both in kurtas, one grey, and one rust-colored, sat on either side of her and faced each other.
Without comment to the audience, Vijayalakshmy Subramaniam then proceeded to sing ragas for three hours without a break. She acknowledged applause with a namaste, but otherwise did not appear to respond to the crowd. Often, I found myself with my eyes closed, transported by the music to a place where blanking out my mind was easy. Sometimes, the more upbeat songs made me want to dance, though I noticed the audience remained mostly motionless, and I noticed that Vijayalakshmy Subramaniam herself limited her movements to keeping the beat with one hand slapping against her thigh. Less often, but frequently enough to notice it, I grew bored, with the unfamiliar words to the songs blending together and starting to sound "all the same" to my ignorant ears. At the two-and-a-half hour mark, I had to step out to phone the car company to extend my reservation.
At 4PM, a barefoot, bald man in a blue shirt and grey slacks took to the stage to announce that the concert must end, because some women needed to prepare the basement auditorium for another use later in the evening.
The man heaped praise upon Vijayalakshmy Subramaniam, three times calling her voice "melifluous." He was right. She was beautiful and entrancing. (If we have art, why do we need religion?)
"I hope you noticed how our musician today chose her ragas based on our season of Navaratri," the man said, though his thick accent and frequent use of long proper names made his speech difficult for me to follow. "Especially, I noticed her focus on Lakshmi, since today is one of her days."
The man took a few moments to praise the three goddesses of Navaratri for their gifts, and reminded us all that the primary Trinity of Hinduism -- Brahma, Shiva, and Vishnu -- are nothing without their female consorts. He focused especially on the relationship between Vishnu and Lakshmi, since it was Lakshmi's day, and gave an example pulled from contemporary headlines.
"Just look at what's happening in our country now, with the economy melting down to nothing," the man said. "But what can the Protector do… what can Vishnu do to protect us without money? And where do we turn when the problem is with money? To Lakshmi."
Then a male priest in traditional dress with a grey topknot of hair and a red bindi entered the stage with a giant silver platter of fruits. The man in the blue shirt explained that the priest would now offer a traditional blessing to the musicians to thank them for their appearance today.
The priest offered his blessing, while each of the musicians touched a finger to a substance apparently pooled on the platter and rubbed the finger along their skin, around their necks and behind their ears. Then, each member of the musical Trinity selected a fruit, and took a bite.
The audience was leaving, so I went upstairs to check out the main worship space, before the reservation on my car ran out.
Showing posts with label vegetarian. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vegetarian. Show all posts
Monday, October 6, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Ramadan, part seven (iftar)
By the middle of the afternoon on Sunday, I was feeling recovered from the Equinox party, though hungry for dinner.
I'd planned to make a vegetable side dish for the self-described progressive iftar in the suburbs, but there were enough dates and tabouli leftover from the night before that I decided to take them instead. Around 5:30, I slung the same bag over my shoulder that I'd carried to the Shabbat potluck, with the same big, blue Tupperware bowl inside, and headed for the Metro.
I'd found this group of progressive Muslims online, and I'd been invited to the iftar by a woman I'll call Tish. I arrived early to the apartment building in Fairfax where the iftar was to be held in the community room, so I sat on a bench and scribbled in my journal for a few minutes while the sun was sinking. A few minutes before 7, I walked into the building, and found the room I was looking for labeled with a small sign by the door, just past the front-desk of the building. The doors into the community room were glass, with glass panels on either side, so I could see into the room, and saw that maybe 30 to 40 people had congregated.
Entering, I approached a waist-high bar by the small kitchenette, where the others had deposited their potluck offerings. I placed my food amongst the rest of the bowls, and introduced myself to the Arab woman behind the bar, and to the white woman standing by my side. After a short conversation with the white woman, who was busy getting things ready, I surveyed the room. A long dining table with seating for 25 or so sat to one side of the room, with sofas and padded chairs, in a sort of generic hotel or airport style, sitting in a circle off to the side with a low, blocky table in the center. The group appeared to be mostly Arab or black or multi-racial; only one or two other obviously white people joined the group. Of the 15 to 20 women in the room, perhaps four of them wore headscarves.
One man sat on the padded furniture apart from the sparsely populated table, while others stood in groups around he room. I joined the man and introduced myself and we began to chat about the fast. His wife joined a few moments later and greeted me in Arabic, which confounded me. I felt silly having to ask her to repeat herself, and then stumbled over my apology for not understanding. She instructed me on the appropriate Arabic response to her greeting, which I repeated to her and promptly forgot, and soon others joined our small group. The conversation spun away from me and my ignorance, moving on to topics like the upcoming progressive Muslim paintball outing, and who had lost or gained weight during Ramadan.
When the sun was down, someone announced with little fanfare that we should all get something to eat, and a woman in a headscarf circulated with a tray of dates as we queued up with our small paper plates. I lingered toward the back of the room, not wanting to be one of the first to eat. Making small talk with those around me in line, I asked a man if he could point out Tish to me, so I could thank her for inviting me. The man gestured toward a white woman in a flowered skirt, who was holding a child with bright eyes and bronze skin, and talking to a darker-looking woman in a black blouse and black pants. The woman in black was Tish.
After filling my plate, I returned to the circle of furniture and sat near where I had before, though the other seats filled in with a different collection of people. My interest here, of course, was religious and theological, but I quickly realized that the focus of the dinner was social, so I felt bad wanting to quiz everyone I met about their beliefs in God, or what they do at prayer time, or how their interpretation of the Koran informs their outlook on life. "What makes you progressive," I wanted to ask everyone, "and what do you find in Islam that conflicts with your values? What do you do when you find conflicts? What makes you want to be Muslim in the first place?"
I overheard the first white woman I had met by the food counter say to someone next to her the phrase "when I converted," and I also overheard that she is a vegetarian. Quickly, I formulated a plan to bond with her over the vegetarianism and then quiz her on her religious conversion, but I wasn't close enough to strike up a conversation. I limited myself to the conversation around me: a discussion about a photography class, for example, and someone confessing to breaking the fast to go on a hike.
Eventually bored, and sitting there sipping water with an empty plate in my lap, I got up to throw my plate away, and when I did, someone moved in to take my seat. I thought I would go find Tish to introduce myself, but she was deep in conversation and surrounded, so I floated back against the wall and observed. Feeling self-conscious, I decided I had to go the bathroom. And I did have to go... just enough to justify stepping out of the room for a moment. "Maybe Tish will be less busy when I get back," I thought. "Or maybe my chair will be free again."
I was in my stall, buckling my pants and about to flush, when the door to the restroom opened, and someone came in to wash his hands. I'm shy about running into people or talking to them in public restrooms, so I decided to linger in the stall a moment longer. Suddenly, the bathroom door opened, and I heard many more footsteps come in, with dozens of voices rising in a mixture of English and Arabic, until I could tell the restroom was full of men, and I realized that ritual washing was happening -- and quickly. There was barely enough time for a rinse of the hands -- nevermind a full cleansing of face and feet -- before the stampede was gone as quickly as it came, and I snuck out of the stall to wash my hands myself.
By the time I got back to the community room, prayers had begun. I couldn't see who was leading, and the first thing I noticed was that not everybody was praying. A group of men who were not praying had stepped out onto the patio. A group of women who were not praying sat chatting (chatting!) on the padded furniture. One man sat silently next to them. Those who were praying were arranged in rows, on mats, facing east. The men had all lined up in the front, and the women lined up behind them -- all now wearing headscarves. A pile of shoes sat by the door.
I slipped in and sat next to the only man in the room. He did not speak to me, and despite the example set by the women, I felt uncomfortable speaking during the prayers, so I kept silent as well. When the prayers were over, Tish pulled off her lavender headscarf and wrapped it around her neck. The iftar was winding down, and I slipped over to introduce myself. In addition to Sunday's iftar, she has invited me to her own home for study of the Koran as well as an iftar in one week, so we chatted briefly about the logistics of how to get there, and then I grabbed the rest of my tabouli and headed back to the Metro.
I'd planned to make a vegetable side dish for the self-described progressive iftar in the suburbs, but there were enough dates and tabouli leftover from the night before that I decided to take them instead. Around 5:30, I slung the same bag over my shoulder that I'd carried to the Shabbat potluck, with the same big, blue Tupperware bowl inside, and headed for the Metro.
I'd found this group of progressive Muslims online, and I'd been invited to the iftar by a woman I'll call Tish. I arrived early to the apartment building in Fairfax where the iftar was to be held in the community room, so I sat on a bench and scribbled in my journal for a few minutes while the sun was sinking. A few minutes before 7, I walked into the building, and found the room I was looking for labeled with a small sign by the door, just past the front-desk of the building. The doors into the community room were glass, with glass panels on either side, so I could see into the room, and saw that maybe 30 to 40 people had congregated.
Entering, I approached a waist-high bar by the small kitchenette, where the others had deposited their potluck offerings. I placed my food amongst the rest of the bowls, and introduced myself to the Arab woman behind the bar, and to the white woman standing by my side. After a short conversation with the white woman, who was busy getting things ready, I surveyed the room. A long dining table with seating for 25 or so sat to one side of the room, with sofas and padded chairs, in a sort of generic hotel or airport style, sitting in a circle off to the side with a low, blocky table in the center. The group appeared to be mostly Arab or black or multi-racial; only one or two other obviously white people joined the group. Of the 15 to 20 women in the room, perhaps four of them wore headscarves.
One man sat on the padded furniture apart from the sparsely populated table, while others stood in groups around he room. I joined the man and introduced myself and we began to chat about the fast. His wife joined a few moments later and greeted me in Arabic, which confounded me. I felt silly having to ask her to repeat herself, and then stumbled over my apology for not understanding. She instructed me on the appropriate Arabic response to her greeting, which I repeated to her and promptly forgot, and soon others joined our small group. The conversation spun away from me and my ignorance, moving on to topics like the upcoming progressive Muslim paintball outing, and who had lost or gained weight during Ramadan.
When the sun was down, someone announced with little fanfare that we should all get something to eat, and a woman in a headscarf circulated with a tray of dates as we queued up with our small paper plates. I lingered toward the back of the room, not wanting to be one of the first to eat. Making small talk with those around me in line, I asked a man if he could point out Tish to me, so I could thank her for inviting me. The man gestured toward a white woman in a flowered skirt, who was holding a child with bright eyes and bronze skin, and talking to a darker-looking woman in a black blouse and black pants. The woman in black was Tish.
After filling my plate, I returned to the circle of furniture and sat near where I had before, though the other seats filled in with a different collection of people. My interest here, of course, was religious and theological, but I quickly realized that the focus of the dinner was social, so I felt bad wanting to quiz everyone I met about their beliefs in God, or what they do at prayer time, or how their interpretation of the Koran informs their outlook on life. "What makes you progressive," I wanted to ask everyone, "and what do you find in Islam that conflicts with your values? What do you do when you find conflicts? What makes you want to be Muslim in the first place?"
I overheard the first white woman I had met by the food counter say to someone next to her the phrase "when I converted," and I also overheard that she is a vegetarian. Quickly, I formulated a plan to bond with her over the vegetarianism and then quiz her on her religious conversion, but I wasn't close enough to strike up a conversation. I limited myself to the conversation around me: a discussion about a photography class, for example, and someone confessing to breaking the fast to go on a hike.
Eventually bored, and sitting there sipping water with an empty plate in my lap, I got up to throw my plate away, and when I did, someone moved in to take my seat. I thought I would go find Tish to introduce myself, but she was deep in conversation and surrounded, so I floated back against the wall and observed. Feeling self-conscious, I decided I had to go the bathroom. And I did have to go... just enough to justify stepping out of the room for a moment. "Maybe Tish will be less busy when I get back," I thought. "Or maybe my chair will be free again."
I was in my stall, buckling my pants and about to flush, when the door to the restroom opened, and someone came in to wash his hands. I'm shy about running into people or talking to them in public restrooms, so I decided to linger in the stall a moment longer. Suddenly, the bathroom door opened, and I heard many more footsteps come in, with dozens of voices rising in a mixture of English and Arabic, until I could tell the restroom was full of men, and I realized that ritual washing was happening -- and quickly. There was barely enough time for a rinse of the hands -- nevermind a full cleansing of face and feet -- before the stampede was gone as quickly as it came, and I snuck out of the stall to wash my hands myself.
By the time I got back to the community room, prayers had begun. I couldn't see who was leading, and the first thing I noticed was that not everybody was praying. A group of men who were not praying had stepped out onto the patio. A group of women who were not praying sat chatting (chatting!) on the padded furniture. One man sat silently next to them. Those who were praying were arranged in rows, on mats, facing east. The men had all lined up in the front, and the women lined up behind them -- all now wearing headscarves. A pile of shoes sat by the door.
I slipped in and sat next to the only man in the room. He did not speak to me, and despite the example set by the women, I felt uncomfortable speaking during the prayers, so I kept silent as well. When the prayers were over, Tish pulled off her lavender headscarf and wrapped it around her neck. The iftar was winding down, and I slipped over to introduce myself. In addition to Sunday's iftar, she has invited me to her own home for study of the Koran as well as an iftar in one week, so we chatted briefly about the logistics of how to get there, and then I grabbed the rest of my tabouli and headed back to the Metro.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Ramadan, part six (a gay man in a mosque.)
Around four o'clock today, someone from the Ahmadiyya mosque called me back. It turns out I had gone too early for the Dhuhur prayer, which occurs around 1:30PM. The caller invited me to the Mahgrib prayers (around 7:30), but I had evening plans, so I asked when the afternoon prayers -- the Asr prayers -- would be. He said they would be starting in about fifteen minutes, and then asked how far away I was. When I said I could be there in 30 minutes, he said he would wait for me.
I thanked him, and was about to hang up when he referenced something I had said in the voicemail message I had left.
"Why do you have to ask if visitors are allowed at a mosque?" he asked me. "All are welcome here."
I thanked him again and apologized for asking. I quickly finished up some work that was in front of me, and then hoofed it back over to the mosque. When I got there, two men stood in the open doorway, accepting a package from a delivery man. The older of the two men identified himself as the man who spoke to me on the phone. He wore a long yellow tunic and had white hair. I do not remember if he gave his name, but he introduced me to Zaki, the younger of the two men as the imam of the mosque. Another older man sat in a front room (Zaki's cousin from London, I later learned) waiting for the prayers to begin.
Once I had removed my shoes in the foyer and joined the three of them in the front room, the prayers could begin. The room's blinds were still drawn as they had been earlier, so no light entered. The floor was covered in off-white carpet, and the walls were white and lined with chairs. The center of the room was empty, though a podium displaying a paper sign written in Arabic stood next to the opening back into the foyer. Zaki turned his back on us and faced the podium (or, more accurately, he faced east). The three of us faced east also, with the cousin and the white-haired man standing very close together, and me a few paces away. The cousin gestured me to come closer until our arms were touching and the three of us formed a very close straight row directly behind the imam.
As the imam led the prayers, I followed the movements of the other two men: hands clasped across the middle, then bending at the waist with hands on knees, then supplicant on the floor with forehead to ground, then sitting back on heels, then doing it all over again. We repeated the movements several times, with the other two men occasionally joining in to speak. At one point a telephone rang elsewhere in the house, and I heard a woman's voice answer it. A couple of moments later, a cell phone rang in the imam's pocket, and he silenced it mid-prayer.
Toward the end of the sequence, while we were sitting on our heels, we turned to the right and then to the left, and when the cousin and the white haired man relaxed back onto their bottoms, so did I.
Zaki turned around to face us, and we shifted into sitting in a loose circle.
"So, how was it?" he asked me.
"Good, fine," I said.
"So you are observing Ramadan?"
"Yes."
"How are you fasting?"
The question didn't make sense to me exactly. "Well, I am eating before the sun comes up, and not eating again until the sun goes down. Is that what you mean?"
"Good. Good," said the imam. "You are fasting the Muslim way. Sometimes when Christians say they are fasting, they mean only that they have given up meat or bread."
"I don't eat meat anyway," I said. "And besides just giving up one thing sounds more like a diet than a fast to me."
"So, you have been fasting since the beginning of Ramadan?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Here I explained my interest in better understanding the religions of the world. I told the three of them that about six years ago I observed Lent for the first time, and found it worthwhile, and that about four years ago, I observed Yom Kippur for the first time, and found it worthwhile, and so I wanted to see what else worthwhile I might find in faith traditions aside from the one I was raised in.
They asked me if the fasting was hard for me as a novice, and I replied honestly that it is not. I mentioned that the Yom Kippur fast goes on for longer, though of course it is only one day, rather than a month, and the three of them seemed unfamiliar with the tradition. I explained that a Yom Kippur fast begins before sundown on one day, and ends after sundown on the next day, resulting in a longer-than-24-hour fast.
"And what is Lent?" one of them asked. "What do you do then?"
"You give up something," I said. "But it's different for each person."
"What do you give up?" Zaki asked me.
"Drinking," I said.
"Water?"
"No, alcohol."
Zaki and his cousin exchanged a look.
"That would not be difficult for us," he said. "We do not drink alcohol."
"Oh, I understand." I said. "Some people give up meat for Lent, and that would not be difficult for me, because I do not eat meat."
The imam moved on to a question about my personal life: "So, do you have a wife?" he asked me, glancing at my ring finger. "Or are you single, or what is the deal..." he paused "... with, uh,with that?"
"I am single," I said, pausing in my mind to wonder how I might have responded if I had a boyfriend or husband, settling quickly on the unprovocative: "I do not have a wife."
"I see." said Zaki, "Well, I have a wife and I thought if you had a wife maybe the four of us could get together. Anyway, let me get you a book, and I'll give you my card."
He gave me a book entitled Introduction to the Study of the Holy Qur'an, handed me his card, and asked me for my phone number, and then I left, saying that I will probably return for a prayer or two sometime next week. I took note of how my mind did not wander during the prayers, both because I was listening to something (Zaki's voice) and watching something (the movements of the other two men).
I did not wash at the Asr prayer because none of the others did, and nobody asked me to. Tomorrow, I will be close to home most of the day, food shopping at the farmer's market in the morning, then cleaning house and cooking for the party, so I will make a point of marking each prayer time and washing when I do so. Then, I will be able to tell my friend -- who was once herself the answer to the "Do you have a wife?" question for a Muslim man in Egypt -- that I took her advice, and added washing to my observance of Ramadan.
I thanked him, and was about to hang up when he referenced something I had said in the voicemail message I had left.
"Why do you have to ask if visitors are allowed at a mosque?" he asked me. "All are welcome here."
I thanked him again and apologized for asking. I quickly finished up some work that was in front of me, and then hoofed it back over to the mosque. When I got there, two men stood in the open doorway, accepting a package from a delivery man. The older of the two men identified himself as the man who spoke to me on the phone. He wore a long yellow tunic and had white hair. I do not remember if he gave his name, but he introduced me to Zaki, the younger of the two men as the imam of the mosque. Another older man sat in a front room (Zaki's cousin from London, I later learned) waiting for the prayers to begin.
Once I had removed my shoes in the foyer and joined the three of them in the front room, the prayers could begin. The room's blinds were still drawn as they had been earlier, so no light entered. The floor was covered in off-white carpet, and the walls were white and lined with chairs. The center of the room was empty, though a podium displaying a paper sign written in Arabic stood next to the opening back into the foyer. Zaki turned his back on us and faced the podium (or, more accurately, he faced east). The three of us faced east also, with the cousin and the white-haired man standing very close together, and me a few paces away. The cousin gestured me to come closer until our arms were touching and the three of us formed a very close straight row directly behind the imam.
As the imam led the prayers, I followed the movements of the other two men: hands clasped across the middle, then bending at the waist with hands on knees, then supplicant on the floor with forehead to ground, then sitting back on heels, then doing it all over again. We repeated the movements several times, with the other two men occasionally joining in to speak. At one point a telephone rang elsewhere in the house, and I heard a woman's voice answer it. A couple of moments later, a cell phone rang in the imam's pocket, and he silenced it mid-prayer.
Toward the end of the sequence, while we were sitting on our heels, we turned to the right and then to the left, and when the cousin and the white haired man relaxed back onto their bottoms, so did I.
Zaki turned around to face us, and we shifted into sitting in a loose circle.
"So, how was it?" he asked me.
"Good, fine," I said.
"So you are observing Ramadan?"
"Yes."
"How are you fasting?"
The question didn't make sense to me exactly. "Well, I am eating before the sun comes up, and not eating again until the sun goes down. Is that what you mean?"
"Good. Good," said the imam. "You are fasting the Muslim way. Sometimes when Christians say they are fasting, they mean only that they have given up meat or bread."
"I don't eat meat anyway," I said. "And besides just giving up one thing sounds more like a diet than a fast to me."
"So, you have been fasting since the beginning of Ramadan?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Here I explained my interest in better understanding the religions of the world. I told the three of them that about six years ago I observed Lent for the first time, and found it worthwhile, and that about four years ago, I observed Yom Kippur for the first time, and found it worthwhile, and so I wanted to see what else worthwhile I might find in faith traditions aside from the one I was raised in.
They asked me if the fasting was hard for me as a novice, and I replied honestly that it is not. I mentioned that the Yom Kippur fast goes on for longer, though of course it is only one day, rather than a month, and the three of them seemed unfamiliar with the tradition. I explained that a Yom Kippur fast begins before sundown on one day, and ends after sundown on the next day, resulting in a longer-than-24-hour fast.
"And what is Lent?" one of them asked. "What do you do then?"
"You give up something," I said. "But it's different for each person."
"What do you give up?" Zaki asked me.
"Drinking," I said.
"Water?"
"No, alcohol."
Zaki and his cousin exchanged a look.
"That would not be difficult for us," he said. "We do not drink alcohol."
"Oh, I understand." I said. "Some people give up meat for Lent, and that would not be difficult for me, because I do not eat meat."
The imam moved on to a question about my personal life: "So, do you have a wife?" he asked me, glancing at my ring finger. "Or are you single, or what is the deal..." he paused "... with, uh,with that?"
"I am single," I said, pausing in my mind to wonder how I might have responded if I had a boyfriend or husband, settling quickly on the unprovocative: "I do not have a wife."
"I see." said Zaki, "Well, I have a wife and I thought if you had a wife maybe the four of us could get together. Anyway, let me get you a book, and I'll give you my card."
He gave me a book entitled Introduction to the Study of the Holy Qur'an, handed me his card, and asked me for my phone number, and then I left, saying that I will probably return for a prayer or two sometime next week. I took note of how my mind did not wander during the prayers, both because I was listening to something (Zaki's voice) and watching something (the movements of the other two men).
I did not wash at the Asr prayer because none of the others did, and nobody asked me to. Tomorrow, I will be close to home most of the day, food shopping at the farmer's market in the morning, then cleaning house and cooking for the party, so I will make a point of marking each prayer time and washing when I do so. Then, I will be able to tell my friend -- who was once herself the answer to the "Do you have a wife?" question for a Muslim man in Egypt -- that I took her advice, and added washing to my observance of Ramadan.
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