FOREVER AT THE FEET OF MY MASTER“Our Islam is overcooked.”
I was seven when I had jotted that down in my notebook. And I was not far from the truth. I had seen my family’s religious fervour burn brightest in the kitchen. Every Id, Milad (prophet’s birthday), birth, and death anniversaries of saints were observed religiously, necessitating a ‘fateha’ (prayer of thanksgiving), which, in turn, necessitated a lavish spread. On those gastronomical excesses, my family all of a sudden turned religious! It said its prayers, read the Quran, and, of course, gorged. The real essence of Islam went up in smoke. Literally. Holy smoke that emanated from the red-bricked chimney of our kitchen.