Dawn: When my mother first announced that we would be going to the mosque for taraweeh, I was scandalised, to say the least. I must have been around 12 or 13 years old. It was Ramazan and there was a flurry of activity in the house right after iftaar.

Her head covered in a black chaadar, my mother quickly scooped up somepakoras.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Pack your things quickly. Do you want to take your book along?

“But where are we going?” I whined.

“To the mosque,” she replied. “For taraweeh.”

I did a double take. To the mosque? For taraweeh?

I glanced outside the window of my room where my aunts were laying out their prayer-mats for taraweeh.

“But all the women are offering them at home. Why are we going to the mosque?” I demanded to know.

“Because prayers offered in mosques are better; it reaps more sawaab. All my friends will be there as well. Let’s go.”

I grumbled. What a flaky yet rebellious thing to do. But as I packed my favourite books and helped my younger brother get ready, I realised there was something to look forward to. My mother was packing her famous aloo pakoras, and she assured she would give them to us between breaks.

We went to a large mosque near our house. I saw many women, a lot of them my mother’s friends, flock together as the calls for prayers rang. The ceiling fans spun diligently as worshippers offered the hour-long prayers.

My brother and I chased each other when we could. When he wasn’t running around, I gave him some of my books to play with. Later, we settled down to eat pakoras.

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