The cafeteria buzzed with the hum of students breaking their fast, eating, and laughing. The
scent of samosas, hot rice, and spicy curries filled the air. It was Ramadan, and after
Maghrib prayer, students sat in groups, sharing stories and meals.
Hadi sat at a corner table, carefully opening a parcel. His excitement was obvious as he
checked the contents: crunchy kozhiada - crispy pockets filled with spiced chicken, golden
brown neyappam - deep-fried rice fritters with jaggery and cardamom, and a glass jar of
uppilitta manga, small mangoes pickled in brine.
Ahmed set his tray on the table and smiled at Hadi. "What's that?" he asked, adjusting his
glasses. Hadi grinned. "My grandmother sent these from Kerala. Here, have some." He
pushed the jar towards Ahmed. "This is uppilitta manga. It's sour, salty and tangy!"
Ahmed hesitated, then bit into one. The sharp tang of salt and mango hit his tongue and
suddenly, memories flooded his mind. His cosy home. His grandmother's kitchen. Warm
Ramadan nights. Savoury fatayer, special qatayef and her famous makdous.
He could almost hear her voice calling him to the table while she was in a hurry -
busy setting down plates of dates, soup, and hot bread. He could picture his parents,
siblings...
And then, reality struck like a piercing cold wind. That home was no longer standing. His
family was living in tents. A constricted feeling arose.
Hadi noticed the change in Ahmed's expression. "Something's wrong?" Hadi asked, his
voice softer now. Ahmed sighed, setting the mango piece down. "It is just... It reminds me
of home. My grandmother used to make her special treats for Ifthar. She always insisted I
eat more." He looked away for a moment. "I miss them. And I can't visit them now."
Silence settled between them, heavy with understanding. Hadi thought, then pulled out his
phone. "Wait here," he said, dialling. A crackly voice answered. "Hadi, mone?"
"Ummamma!" Hadi beamed. "There's someone I want you to meet." He turned the screen
toward Ahmed. An elderly woman with kind eyes smiled through the video. "This is my
friend, Ahmed," Hadi said in Malayalam. "He misses his grandmother today."
Ahmed didn't understand the words, but he felt the warmth in her eyes, the gentle nod of
empathy. Then, in a soft yet firm voice, she spoke, her Malayalam thick with aSection.
"Moneee, ellam sheriyakum. Allahuvundu koode." Ahmed blinked. He didn't know the
language, but somehow, the words wrapped around him like a comforting embrace. Hadi
translated with a small smile. "She said, ‘Everything will be alright. Allah is with us. She
called you Son, by the way. "
Something in Ahmed's chest eased. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Shukran,
Grandmother," he whispered.
Ummamma smiled a toothless smile. Ahmed didn't need a translation for that. As the call
ended, he looked at Hadi. "Thank you."
Hadi shrugged, pushing the treats towards him again. "Eat. My grandmother would want
you to."