Naseem Khan: Ramadan and the joy of self-denial

We never fasted at home. My father had a very individualist take on Islam – unshakeable in some aspects and lax on others. Ramadan – which started this week – was one of the latter.

He explained it away under the terms of dispensations, but given that he was not pregnant, sick or on a journey, that never totally held water. But when I happened to be in the old Muslim quarter of Mumbai at the very moment the Ramadan fast ended, the explosion of totally all-enveloping joy – stranger greeting stranger without distinction – made me begin to wonder what I had missed.

And when I moved to East London, a stone's throw from Brick Lane, I remembered that burst of camaraderie and celebration.

Here in East London, reminders of the fast are all around you. The Council newsletter carries a calendar with times of each day's start and finish, together with a verse from the Koran that apparently encourages recycling. The anti-smoking clinic displays another verse, which serves to support an injunction to give up cigarettes. The sweet shop refuses credit cards during Ramadan because of the stigma of interest.

And the atmosphere subtly changes. The lads who have been hanging around during the summer see a fast ahead of them; they get edgy and spoil for a fight. There is a nervy excitement in the air.

There is no denying that it is exciting, but daunting. This year – though I cannot count myself as a practising Muslim – I decided to give it a go. And writing now, in week one, I feel only awe for the many families who are hunkering down for a month of self-discipline.

On day one, I get up obediently at 3.45am in order to eat before the fast begins at 4.27am. It is dark and quiet, no traffic, no sound.

When I look out, I can see occasional windows lighting up in tower blocks, and I know that other people are also taking themselves in hand.

The principle of abstention has to be good. Every major religion has a period of withdrawal and reflection. And Ramadan urges you to reflect, through an act of empathy, on people who are hungry and dispossessed.

It serves to throw depressing light on my own patterns. If I reached out for an apple or a coffee once that first day, then I did so a hundred times – not out of hunger or thirst but out of plain habit. I work from home and without meals I find myself flailing around in a day that has lost its markers – no more, "Well, I can stop in half an hour for lunch..." The days stretch out unmediated. At their best, they are simple, and spacious. But they are also confusing. Getting up to eat at 4am doesn't feel right – as if I am a car trying to fill my tank.

I meditate till 5am and then wonder what to do. Should I go to bed? No, I soldier on and coast through outside meetings, smugly turning down cups of coffee and even glasses of water.

The next day I decide to go back to bed after prayers. A mistake. I am leaden-headed, grumpy and unable to work all day.

I marvel how seasoned Ramadanies pace themselves. "It's just discipline, innit," says a young Bengali friend airily. I like it, but finally have to admit defeat over water. I am a softie, I tell myself. I am not young. And I look at my diary and see that I am due to travel to Brussels on work next week. A genuine dispensation, I can hear my father say. Is that a sense of comradeship?

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