The earliest memory that I can put a date to occurred right after my fourth birthday party ended. As my parents were cleaning up the outside tables and chairs where we had eaten, I remained on the lawn looking out beyond our fence towards the street. What strikes me the most in the memory is the color of that beautiful late afternoon summer sky — which, after all these years, is a color and circumstance that continues to bring me warm, comforting joy. I stood there, gazing upwards, when over my shoulder I heard my mother say to my father across the lawn that it was probably time for me to begin learning how to pray on my own.

Thus began my relationship with Allah. My father took pictures of himself going through every step of the namaz — South Asians’ name for prayer — and made a custom booklet using Photoshop with captions and differing visuals accompanying the pictures. He had three copies printed and bound, and I learned each step going through the laminated pages with him. I didn’t think much of namaz at the time — small children can rarely produce a reason to be exceptionally religious or spiritual. Indeed, although it’s become more consistent recently, for many years, my adherence to prayer was patchy at best, and negligible at worst. 

While my relationship with prayer has been murky for a long time, fasting for Ramadan has always clicked for me. Undoubtedly, the cultural context of the month contributed to this connection. Ramadan is quintessentially Muslim — it’s Islam’s biggest holiday, a source of immense communal value, and one of the big-ticket items that sets Islam apart from other religions. Judaism shares our distrust of pigs, and plenty of religions have rules forbidding substances, but while other religions might have some measure of fasting, Ramadan is a host unto itself. Thirty days of fasting, dawn to dusk, suhoor and iftar, going to masjid; it’s great. After a few years of slowly acclimating to the full month of fasting, I took to Ramadan with an eager doggedness. I imagine some facet of this was spiritual insecurity. As I was not consistent with my prayers, fasting during Ramadan was a way of proving to myself that I was, in fact, a  Muslim. That I had not abandoned Allah.

Insecurity alone, though, cannot explain my commitment. To commit to fasting requires a raison d’être beyond a simple shame for a slacking spirituality. To ignore one’s thirst and hunger, from a superficial view, is deeply irrational. Hunger aside, the side effects are not insignificant. The mouth is dry throughout the day, and around 4 p.m., the body begins to slip into a subtle lethargy. A slight chill permeates throughout my interior, the urge to nap is intense, and from the middle of the afternoon onward, my mind is functionally useless for any significant productive task. Yet somehow, once dusk and maghrib prayers bring the relief of dates and water, all the hardship is worth it. Iftar renews the body, but the mind is what truly benefits. 

This mental benefit, both a spiritual sense and a feeling of accomplishment, is what I suspect keeps me coming back every year, freshly excited. Moreover, I do not think this renewal is locked behind a barrier of belief, available only to those who say the shahada. Renewal is intrinsic to the act of fasting itself, and while Ramadan is — in my humbly biased opinion — one of the best ways to practice fasting, the month has no exclusive claim over it.

Fasting is fundamentally a choice to deprive oneself of one of life’s pleasures. The world is bountiful with gifts of all sizes, and while there is much suffering in this world, the grandeur and joy that can be found here is undeniable. The choice to fast, then, is both a recognition and a reckoning. One realizes, by denying the most basic pleasure afforded to us — the satisfaction of eating — all else that is good on this Earth. The value of water as the spring of all life becomes clear as the mountain glaciers from which so much of it descends, and one gains a new and larger appreciation for everything else that we enjoy because we can drink it. A person cannot help but to think deeply after this realization, to consider how better to live their life admiring the simple majesty that comes from simple living. This reckoning toward a better life that fasting urges is open to all, regardless of circumstance or belief. 

I live a privileged life in a rich country, and like many of my peers, I have become accustomed to convenience. I can tap a couple buttons and an Uber driver will deliver me food, I can consume a dizzying amount of information in a short amount of time spent online, and I can get a cold and know that I am probably going to be okay. In this world of unprecedented convenience, deliberately intending to divest one’s self from a gluttonous ease, to decline our everyday feast of pleasures, is a beautiful gift. This choice to struggle reaps new understandings not just of the world around us, but ourselves as well. When I fast, I am forced to recall my own inner strength, to remember that I have it in me to withstand hardship. I can weather the storm and come out newly clean and empowered.

These new understandings elucidate the necessity of gratitude. As I have begun to return to the faith passed down to me, I have interrogated myself about the rationale of my newfound religiosity. It is suddenly essential to figure out a rationale to prostrate to Allah, to find a reason to ignore my body’s desire for food. Pondering, I paced my room, when I came upon a most pertinent, if not precise answer.

“Well,” I realized, “I’ve seen a rainbow.” Subhanallah, I have seen a rainbow. I have witnessed the dizzying heights of the granite cliffs of Yosemite, seen great skyscrapers loom over me, peered into the miniature infinities of a tide pool, and held another human being in my arms. And if you believe, as I believe, that there is a force behind all of this, and that that force is called Allah, then to dedicate a mere month a year in gratitude to them is the least one can do. Even if you do not believe the universe has any causational force, spending some time in thanks to the wonder itself is not only the least you can do, but an extraordinarily gratifying exercise in itself. 

I know a number of people who are planning to fast for Ramadan in solidarity with their Muslim friends. This is a commendable act of friendship, and if you have a Muslim friend, I implore you to consider making such a step. Speaking from experience, they will thoroughly appreciate it. I would also ask, however, that you consider fasting for no one’s benefit other than your own. My own relationship with fasting stems from religiosity, but fasting’s benefits are universal. Gratitude and inner strength are always admirable qualities, regardless of creed. So lean into Ramadan with your friends, or see if there’s something you’d like to give up for Lent, or ask your Jewish friend if there’s anything you can do with them on Yom Kippur. Or pick any day to fast, doing whatever works best for you. Choose less. Deprive yourself of some earthly pleasures, even if it’s only for a short time. From a vantage place of simplicity, a new loving embrace of the vastness that surrounds us becomes possible.