It’s been over 26 years since I began living in Dubai, UAE. I arrived here at the age of 26, which means I’ve now spent almost half my life in Kolkata and the other half here in Dubai. That in itself feels significant—two homes, two rhythms of life, layered within one body.
Over the years, Ramadan has come and gone, forming part of the atmosphere of this place. This year, though, something shifted. A simple thought arose: so many people from all walks of life fast—maybe I could too. It didn’t feel performative or ideological. It felt quietly curious.
Perhaps this was also influenced by Buddhist practice. Many lay people in the Buddhist community observe the Eight Precepts. I’ve tried before, but doing it alone felt difficult. Hunger crept in at night, and without a shared structure, my resolve softened. I learned then how much support and context matter.
This time felt different. I leaned into the power of collective rhythm and a shared spiritual container. Ramadan offers a clear external framework: a pre-dawn meal, then fasting—no food, no water—until sunset. I allowed that structure to hold me, rather than relying solely on willpower.
Ramadan began on Wednesday the 18th. I had already planned to meet Catarina for her birthday cake, so I allowed myself that moment and began fasting on the 19th. I’ll make up the day another time. That choice felt honest rather than rigid.
So far, the experience has been quietly revealing.
What I’m learning:
It is possible to dry fast from sunrise to sunset. The body is far more resilient than I imagined.
Hunger rises and falls like a wave; it doesn’t keep escalating forever.
Thirst sharpens awareness—I become more attentive, less distracted.
There’s a humbling sense of solidarity in knowing that millions are moving through the same hours with intention. Discipline feels gentler when it’s shared, even silently.
And perhaps most surprisingly, fasting isn’t only about restraint; it brings a subtle clarity and gratitude when the fast is broken.
Gratitude and contentment are two strong themes that have emerged for me. It’s interesting how self-restraint—not giving in to over-indulgence—actually deepens both. I feel full more quickly, and my connection with my body feels clearer, more honest.
I’ve also noticed how empty parts of the day can feel when I cannot eat or drink. Food is definitely a distraction. When I miss my morning coffee, enough water, or a proper Suhoor, the fast feels much harder by sunset. The wisdom of the pre-dawn meal suddenly makes complete sense.
What surprises me most is how much I’m enjoying this.
Life, as it often does, has woven in unexpected synchronicities. These past few days have been difficult, with missiles striking the skies over the UAE. A country that has always felt safe suddenly feels shaken. And yet—there has been steadiness. The government’s response, the way communities have come together, the quiet reassurance in everyday interactions.
I feel a solidarity with the UAE that I don’t think I’ve ever felt this deeply before. This is my home. I’ve spent half my life here.
There is merit in fasting, especially in difficult times. If this fast carries any merit at all, I dedicate it to the safety of this country and to everyone who lives here.
May protection prevail.
May angels bring miracles and peace.
May what feels like crisis metabolise into new possibilities—for care, for change, and for peace.
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