A Lesson in Gratitude
I sat in the car, looking outside as the raindrops fell one by one all around me. The narrow broken road that my driver had parked the car on was bustling with life, and the rain did nothing to damper people’s enthusiasm. It seemed like there was room for only one car on that street. Yet, every time another vehicle came from the opposite direction, my driver would get back in his seat and maneuver the car towards the wall, giving enough space for the other vehicle to drive by. There were numerous horse and donkey carts filled with fruits and vegetables on both sides of the road. 100 % of the cart owners were men, dressed in traditional outfits; some wiped their wet faces with a small piece of cloth that sat on their shoulder. The produce and the animals that pulled the now-stalled carts stood naked and drenched from the water that fell from above. Behind the carts were small stores; one had pots and pans hanging from the roof, while other shops sold plastic jewelry, scarfs, toys, and spices.
I was visiting Lahore, Pakistan. It was my ancestors’ land and where my parents had retired after living in California for over 30 years.
The women walked in and out of the stores dragging their bored kids with them, while a crippled beggar who moved on the street using his hands continued to raise his palm to people calling out to them to give him some money “In the name of God.” Some walked by and hopped over him while others handed him a few coins and then continued along with whatever they were doing.
I sat in the car feeling miserable and annoyed that my mother couldn’t shop at a fancy indoor grocery store, and instead, she chose to come to this bleak outdoor farmers market to buy her weekly produce. She walked confidently from cart to cart, buying peaches and apples from one cart and onions and eggplants from another. The rain hit her umbrella and continued to splash on the ground as she walked through the mud and balanced herself on the cracked crevices of the street. My mother always got excited when any one of her children visited from California; she went crazy cooking, which is her way of showing love.
That day it was the 23rd day of Ramadan. Ramadan is a holy month for Muslims where they fast from sunrise to sunset. Eating is restricted during this time, but people celebrate, cook, and eat until midnight once the sun sets. I don’t fast during Ramadan because of personal reasons, but my mother does. Some days the fasts are 10–12 hours, and at 70+, she fasts every single day of Ramadan.
As I sat in the car on that rainy day, the sun started to set, and the priest called out the end of fast. My mother by this time wasn’t even in sight, and I just sat back and began to look at my phone, wondering when we would get home, and I would be able to eat(even though I had a huge lunch a couple of hours earlier)I heard a tapping sound on my window, and when I looked out, I saw no one. I then looked back at my phone, assuming it was some random noise from outside. Once again, I heard the tapping sound. I looked at my window and saw a plate of rice with another plate on top of it and a hand holding it up. I got up a little and followed the hand to see the crippled beggar on the street. I rolled down my window, and he said,
“I saw you sitting in your car; it’s time to eat the fast is over. I thought you might be hungry after not eating all day, so I wanted to share my food with you.”
“But what will you eat?”
“Oh, sister, God’s people are very kind; someone else will feed me.”
I thanked him and told him that I wasn’t fasting and he could enjoy his meal. I also gave him $5 worth of cash that I had in my purse. He happily moved back to his corner, a smile on his face and a plate full of rice.
At that moment, my mother came back in the car and apologized for taking so long. I hid the tears that had started to well up in my eyes as I watched the beggar enjoy his rice while my mom continued to chat about the wonderful grapes she got at a bargain price.
