'The calls she cannot skip': The Elephant that never skips sehri

March 17, 2025 by News Desk

Representational Image

Anusha Imtiyaz

There is a shift in the air of Kashmir a day before Ramadan starts. With roads fully occupied by people rushing to stock up on bakery items, children are seen half-drooling, thinking of Rooh Afza. The great quest of securing every household’s beloved babre-byol is conducted successfully as everyone prepares to gear up.

Suddenly, everyone becomes a professional ‘moon-sighter.’ Uncles are heard marching around, saying, “Khabar, zoon aaya aeth?” (Wonder if the crescent is out yet?) until the official sighting declares Ramadan to commence.

The streets echo with “Ramadan Mubarak”—a phrase of shared love and harmony among all communities in Kashmir. People exchange the phrase online with their loved ones as everyone prepares to immerse themselves in the month of worship and forgiveness.

Children get excited to wake up at Sehri, most of them still with their eyes red and drowsy. Their innocent commitment to fasting is followed by a mother’s wink as she quietly prepares taape-sahar, even before their first bite at Sehri.

Competitions of “who can chug a liter of water?” are welcomed with shared laughter, even if it means getting a ‘tummy-water balloon.’

They say that the blessings of this month are unparalleled to any other. I wonder then, how much grace do we truly bestow upon our women—who create, sustain, and provide throughout?

In Ramadan, I find myself unable to focus on praying. My ears ring from the sound of clattering dishes—a labor of ‘love’ reserved for women. Women across families wake up before anyone else in the house; for me, they are the real Saharkhans.

The women curate meals of brilliance, the food glistening from the love and sweat that often go unnoticed. I wonder where the lines between love and obligation meet.

I know of women, most of whom fulfill this labor of love with one hand gripping their waist, exhausted from the pain in their bodies. They wake up every single day with a smile that could cure maladies of posterity. Each day of the month, they stand firm in their obligations to provide for their families—often overlooking the blood of life that flows between their legs.

I remember a girl who told me how she would take pain medications like candy during her menstruation. A while back, she mentioned how her mother helped her sneak food into her room during Ramadan. “Make sure your father and brother don’t get to know,” her mother had advised. When her younger brother caught her eating, shame consumed her. For the next five days, she fasted like everyone else.

Saba was twelve when she first menstruated. Unable to comprehend the sudden change in her physiology, she stood confused trying to understand why her pants were soaked red. Rushing to her mother, consolations and preparations took over the house. For the first time in the house, and possibly the last, menstruation was explained to the little girl.

Layers of normalization were collected on the topic of menstruation for Saba. Months later, Ramadan arrived and she bled twice that month. Her body was still adjusting to regularise her cycle, and it confused Saba even more. Beyond the confusion, improper nutrition and constant fasting made her weak. Cramps in her body would have her slouching in pain, yet she uttered nothing.

The silence was sowed in her mind through lessons of modesty and secrecy, jumbled with the expectation of waking up ‘normal’ and happy at the Sehri table.

“You are a woman now, handle and behave yourself accordingly. This is the fate of every woman, crying won’t help you change facts,” said the twelve-year-old’s mother.

Through years of learning and unlearning, women tread these changes in their bodies, often alone or in conversations of secrecy. With little to no compassion, the introduction of young women to menstruation then is harsh.

For many young girls, experiencing menstruation is thus, often a site of alienation. With the weight of responsibilities growing with time, when young girls are taught to neglect their needs, it transpires well into their adulthood. Women deprioritizing themselves then becomes natural and gets mixed up with the ‘virtues’ of self-sacrifice.

What is it that keeps women in servitude? Why is it that even when they menstruate, even when they are ordained to rest—and rightfully so—they still feel the pressure of waking up and masking this one truth of life? Masking the cramps, while carrying the expectation to host elaborate iftar meals, serve, clean, nurse, and manage other unacknowledged duties. The list of obligations never seems to end for women and, if anything, only increases during Ramadan.

“…Many women find it challenging to balance what Moser (1993) describes as their ‘triple roles’ of productive, reproductive, and community work alongside the increased worship requirements of Ramadan, which affects their sense of belonging during this time…”

Often perceived as a social stigma in many cultures, women are expected to conceal conversations about menstruation from men. Discouraged from even mentioning it, the culture of silence around menstruation grows, further leading to apathy, negligence, and shame.

Approaching this month of worship through shared housework and compassion toward menstruation is thus important. The need to destigmatize menstruation by encouraging dialogue becomes, as a result, necessary.

For any society that aims for a more just life, addressing this elephant in the room that creeps up every Ramadan—the elephant that is ever-present at Sehri, one that begs for acknowledgment—needs to be voiced.

Starting as a dinner table chit-chat, uncomfortable topics like menstruation and house labor require these small yet meaningful exchanges. Only then can conversations lead to instrumental change on a greater scale. After all, we are aware of how political the personal is, and how it always has been.

For the women who work tirelessly, who nourish our society with their unending commitments of care and labor—I hear you, and I see you.