Sunday Short (Ramadan Edition): Last Ramadan
- Faiz Faisal
- Mar 8
- 2 min read
In 2012, the air in the Rahman household smelled of Rendang and the humid heat of a typical Malaysian June. To the family, it was just another Ramadan—a routine cycle of hunger, the rush of Iftar, and the exhaustion of Taraweeh.
The eldest son, Amir, spent his evenings glued to his laptop, rushing deadlines for his corporate job. When his father, Encik Bakar, asked him to join the family for a walk to the local Bazaar Ramadan, Amir would barely look up. "Next time, Bah. I’m busy."
The younger siblings were no different, preoccupied with school projects and the digital world of their phones. Their mother, Puan Salmah, was a whirlwind in the kitchen, her love expressed through the clattering of pots, but her fatigue left little room for conversation. She didn't notice the way Encik Bakar lingered at the dining table after everyone had hurried away, his eyes quietly tracing the faces of his children, hoping for a moment of connection that never came.
They took the presence of the others for granted, assuming the seats around the table were permanently reserved.
By the time the moon heralded the next Ramadan, the table was broken.
Encik Bakar had passed away suddenly from a cardiac arrest just months after Syawal. His quiet strength, the glue they hadn't realized they needed, was gone. Amir had accepted a position in London, driven by ambition and a need to escape the silence of the house. The middle siblings had married or moved into hostels, scattering like seeds in the wind.
The realization hit them like a physical blow when the first Azan of the next Ramadan echoed through their respective cities. Amir, eating a cold sandwich alone in a grey London flat; Puan Salmah, staring at a pot of rice far too large for one person. They realized they had strayed—not just in distance, but in soul.
A collective determination sparked. They promised one another through screens and phone calls: Next year, we go home. We make it right. We will sit at that table again.
But the world changed. The "next year" they promised never arrived. The stability of the world as they knew it fractured—borders closed, lives shifted, and the "normalcy" they assumed was a right was revealed to be a fragile gift. The house in Malaysia stood empty, the kitchen cold, and the reunion they deferred became a ghost of a dream.
They had spent their last Ramadan together complaining about the heat and the chores, never imagining it was the final time they would breathe the same air under one roof.
As you sit for your meal tonight, or plan for the days ahead, look at the faces around you. Listen to the clinking of spoons and the mundane chatter of a family routine.
How certain are you that your "next time" is guaranteed?
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