Ramadhan always brings a different kind of feeling. It’s not just about the emptiness in the stomach, but also in the mind and heart. The month carries a certain calmness, yet at the same time, a quiet sadness lingers.
This year marks the third Ramadhan without Abah. Time moves forward, yet some things remain unchanged—the longing, the absence, the way I still expect to hear his voice calling me during sahur, only to remember that he’s no longer here.
I try to recall our Ramadhan memories, but strangely, nothing feels distinct. Not because we never shared any, but maybe because I spent so many years away from him. Our interactions during Ramadhan were scattered, unremarkable, yet now, in his absence, I ache for even the smallest moments.
But one memory stands out, even if it’s a faint one. When I was a child, Abah would ask me to go to the mosque to collect “air halia” (ginger water). It was a small thing, really—something many mosques prepared during iftar for people to take home. Our house was nearby, so he’d send me, reminding me not to spill a drop.
I would go, feeling like I was on an important mission. I remember the warm glass container, the way the ginger-scented steam rose in the air. I’d carefully carry it home, and Abah would pour himself a cup before breaking fast. He never said much about it, just drank quietly, as if it was part of his own ritual.
And now, I wonder—did he send me because he liked it, or was it his way of including me in his Ramadhan in the only way he knew how? I will never know.
When I grew up and moved to KL, Ramadhan was no longer much of a family affair. I was busy with my own life—going to the mosque, working, and continuing my daily routine. Sometimes, over the weekend, I would go back to my hometown. And there, Abah would cook his special dish. Either Nasi Arab, Nasi Daging, or Nasi Briyani—he always knew those were my favorites.
As always, he was a man of few words. He would cook and serve, watching us dig into the rice he had prepared with care. The rice was always rich, flavorful, perfect—and yet, we rarely spoke much. Conversations were brief, mostly about work. There were no long exchanges, just shared meals and quiet understanding. That was his way of showing love.
And if there’s one thing I remember the most about Ramadhan, it’s towards the end, when we were getting ready for Raya. Abah would prepare lemang and rendang, his signature dishes. We would help him prepare the bamboo, cutting and cleaning, ready for the fire. It was a tradition that marked the closing of Ramadhan, the beginning of Eid celebrations.
But now, that tradition is gone. No more lemang by the fire, no more rendang slowly simmering in the pot, no more quiet moments over plates of Nasi Briyani. And when Ramadhan comes, I feel the emptiness again.
Time moves forward, but some things stay within us. Some absences only grow deeper.
This year, maybe I’ll cook something special, even if no one asks me to. Maybe, in these small ways, I can keep a part of him alive in my Ramadhan.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.