Growing up in Kelantan meant that one should be familiar if not fairly knowledgeable about Ramadan. 95 or 96 percent of the Kelantan’s population is made of Muslim Malays and they take their religion and fasting seriously. But to a young non-Muslim boy who had lived among largely Chinese community, Ramadan was just another religion thing - that was until you got to live among Muslim friends for 5 young and reasonably happy years.
As a recent teenager, I had the good fortune of going to attend school in the big city, the Capital City of the State where the only English medium secondary or high school was situated. I was also fortunate enough to be given a place in the school hostel.
Our school hostel must had been considered large by proportion - the school had about 800 to 900 students while there were about nearly 300 hostelites. These numbers are culled from an old memory somewhat dulled or made hazy by a time span of over 60 years. Luckily there two are old chappies around to corroborate this data.
Life in the hostel were well disciplined - an impressive set of rules made sure of that. Still, we were able to live a sensible and carefree life, mixing school studies with games and sports, not to mention the noisy introductions of the occasional drum beating and Dikir Barat sessions.
When the month of Ramadan came, both the school and the hostel took a turn to be more sombre - sports and the more vigorous activities were cancelled or curtailed! Back in the hostel, the few radios that blurted out popular music and songs would remain silent and some hostelites would doze off to catch up with sleep lost during the night before. Our normal 4 meals: breakfast, lunch, tea- break and dinner would only be served to the 20 or so non-Muslims made up of two to three Indians and the rest Chinese students.
The first Ramadan in school and hostel was a memorable one.
To begin with, it was such a strange feeling to be having breakfast with only so few friends. There was no rush to fight for a good seat at the long table. Then when meal was over and when you were leaving the dining hall, you got called out, “Chino tak Puaso!“ by someone there came quite a jarring experience - when leaving the dining hall you got called out “ Chino tak puaso! This “Chino tak puaso!” phrase even caught on sometime in the afternoon when we were back in the hostel and when we found a need to go into the bathroom. It was a bit unnerving at the beginning but as the days went by you became accustomed to this tease or taunt.
Ramadan in the second year became less stressful. By then we knew the call-out that you did not fast was more a tease rather than a rebuke. Once in a while, as if it was still necessary to take the heat off you, you would chime that familiar phrase as you were going to the dining hall or into the bathroom. The response were amusing; instead of jeers, you received roaring laughter of agreement.
By the time third year came along, we were in the middle rung in the hostelites hierarchy - we would know all our year mates and most of the seniors and a handful of new students who were in junior classes.
When Ramadan came, I plucked up enough courage to ask a few friends if I could join them to fast for a few days to see what sort of experience I might enjoy or endure. It was because of logistics and hostel rules and regulations that I did not get to fast until the second or third day of Ramadan - the friendly Prefect was not able to organise for this extra set of meals to be added in during the first two days. So when the big day came, the very first day of fasting for this non-Muslim novice, it was both fun and full of worries. Fun, because it was first try ever and it felt like an adventure of sort, and worries because I might be laughed or taunted at if I could not make it through the dawn till dusk regime of not eating or drinking anything. When the first breaking of fast with my Muslim friends came, it was an exhilarating event. I felt happy and proud that I have done something very unique in my life. On fasting day, the first few hours went away rather uneventfully. At around 2 pm, not long after our normal lunch hour, I began to feel slightly hungry. An hour later, I felt hunger gnawing at my vitals - a not very comfortable nor pleasant sensation. I remember I became agitated. But when I looked around to see our Muslim friends going about doing their things as if it was just an another ordinary day, I calmed down. I probably started to read a book, and then joined other friends in doing whatever they were doing. I would soon forget hunger pangs. Then our Muslim friends began to clean themselves up to get ready for their iftar. I joined them, cleaning myself up, to be ready to breakfast with them. At that first ever breaking fast, I vaguely remember having drunk so much rose syrup water that I could hardly eat much after that. Breaking fast with a bunch of Muslim friends was an exhilarating affair.
You felt proud and happy that you had the opportunity to experience a special tradition of another religion. And you began to appreciate what your Muslim classmates have done and achieved over the years when they went through this part of their religious journey.
The next day was another tough but happy day. On the third day, disaster struck. In a moment of sheer forgetfulness and also perhaps it was out of habits, I casually joined my other classmates at the school tuck shop. That ended my fasting experiment and experience for the year.
Then came the fourth year.
With the less than happy experience of the year before, I approached the impending Ramadan with a little trepidation.
I opted to fast for only the first week. Things went well. I fasted for a week successfully and happily. Now 60 odd years later, I asked myself: why didn’t I carry on fasting for at least another week - the last week, perhaps. I cannot recall why.
In our final year in the school and in the hostel, I chose to fast during the last week of Ramadan. I cannot remember what it was that I was only able to fast for 4 or 5 days towards the last week of Ramadan.
The excitement of my last few days of fasting was still there but more importantly, I remember the joy of the camaraderie that experience brought. All in all, hostel life was an interesting and enriching phase of a small town boy who grew up to love and enjoy life.
PS: And oh, of the original 4 Kraian boys who set out to that school and that hostel, 3 are still around, living happily in Kuala Lumpur. We the 3 octogenarians met with a couple other octogenarians from another part of Kelantan for tea just before this Ramadan.
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