Lone Sajad
If Ramadan were intended to be about fruit chaat platters, lavish non-vegetarian spreads, complimentary custard-wali firni, and endless “Ramadan-special” recipes, Eid would make little sense. The very idea of Eid carries meaning only because Ramadan demands restraint. When the month of fasting is reduced to a nightly food carnival, something essential is lost.
Ramadan, at its core, is about disciplining the self—the nafs. The Qur’an states clearly: “O you who believe, fasting is prescribed for you as it was prescribed for those before you, that you may attain taqwa (God-consciousness)” (Qur’an 2:183). The objective is not hunger; it is taqwa. Hunger is merely the means.
For nearly 12 hours each day, we control our desires. We resist water when our throats are dry and food when our stomachs protest. We guard our tongues from harsh words and our eyes from what should not be seen. We cultivate a sense of discipline that is both spiritual and personal. But as soon as Maghrib arrives, that discipline often collapses under the weight of excess.
Iftar tables today frequently resemble wedding buffets. Fried food, heavy meats, rich desserts, and “Ramadan-special menus” dominate our conversations. Social media is filled with “30 days, 30 recipes,” and markets thrive on the language of indulgence. Restaurants launch special offers, while families compete—sometimes silently—over the variety they can present on their tables.
There is nothing inherently wrong with good food. Islam does not promote deprivation for its own sake. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) encouraged simplicity. It is narrated that he would break his fast with dates and water, and if dates were not available, water sufficed. His meals were modest. He warned against excess, saying, “The son of Adam fills no vessel worse than his stomach.” He advised that a few morsels are enough to keep one upright.
Yet today, the month designed to train the soul has become a test of culinary creativity.
We manage to restrain ourselves for most of the day, but the moment we break our fast, we often forget why we fasted in the first place. Instead of gratitude, there is indulgence. Instead of reflection, there is consumption. Instead of simplicity, there is display.
The tragedy is not in eating well; the tragedy is in missing the point.
Ramadan was intended to weaken the hold of desire over us. It was designed to teach us what it feels like to go without, so that we understand the pain of those who cannot choose when to eat. It was meant to create empathy for the poor and to encourage charity. Zakat and sadaqah are not side notes in Ramadan; they are central to its spirit.
The Qur’an also says: “And eat and drink, but do not be excessive. Indeed, He does not like those who commit excess” (Qur’an 7:31). The verse does not prohibit enjoyment; it cautions against excess. That line is subtle but critical.
Women, in particular, bear the hidden burden of this transformation. In many homes, they spend most of Ramadan in kitchens—planning, cooking, experimenting, and cleaning—often with little time left for the very worship the month was designed for. Taraweeh prayers are shortened or missed. Personal reflection is postponed. Spiritual growth is sacrificed at the altar of hospitality.
Ramadan recipes trend. Eid outfits are planned weeks in advance. Dessert menus are discussed with more excitement than Qur’an recitation schedules. Somewhere between Sehri and Iftar, the month becomes less about reforming the self and more about managing the menu.
If Ramadan is reduced to a 30-day food festival, what then distinguishes Eid?
Eid is meant to be a celebration—a reward after discipline. It is joy after restraint and sweetness after sacrifice. If every night of Ramadan already feels like Eid, then what new joy does the day of celebration bring? What do we miss for 29 or 30 days that we finally taste on Eid morning?
The answer should have been “indulgence,” but increasingly, that indulgence begins on the very first evening of Ramadan.
The Prophet (peace be upon him) said, “Whoever does not give up false speech and evil actions, Allah is not in need of his leaving his food and drink.” This hadith is a powerful reminder. Fasting is not merely physical abstinence; it is moral discipline and inner reform. The purpose of hunger is to remind us that we are not controlled by appetite. The purpose of thirst is to humble us. The purpose of Ramadan is to recalibrate our priorities—to remind us that life is not built around consumption.
There is beauty in gathering as a family at Iftar. There is joy in sharing food and tradition in preparing certain dishes. But when food becomes the centerpiece and spirituality becomes the afterthought, the balance tilts dangerously.
Ramadan is not about how elaborate our tables are; it is about how disciplined our hearts become.
Perhaps the question we need to ask ourselves is simple: After 30 days of fasting, are we more patient? More generous? More conscious of God? More careful with our words? If the answer is no, then no amount of firni, kebabs, or fruit chaat can fill that emptiness.
Eid exists because Ramadan demands something from us. It demands sacrifice, restraint, and self-control. It promises joy, but only after effort. Ramadan was never meant to be a feast disguised as fasting. It was meant to be a training ground for the soul—and training is never meant to be comfortable.
