The Month of Ramadan and the Story of Muntaha -Maisha Amin

In a small town beside the green rivers of northern Bangladesh, where the morning fog floated like soft white cotton over the paddy fields, lived a girl named Muntaha. She was seventeen, tall for her age, with thoughtful eyes that always seemed to be searching for something beyond the visible world. Her friends loved video games, and late–night movies, but Muntaha had a different kind of excitement growing inside her every year, the excitement of Ramadan.

For many teenagers, Ramadan meant waking up early for sehri, feeling sleepy at school, and counting the hours until iftar. But for Muntaha, Ramadan was not just a month on the calendar; it was a season of the heart. He used to say, “Ramadan is like a special guest who visits once a year. If we don’t treat the guest well, maybe the guest won’t come again.”

Her mother would smile whenever she said that.

This particular year, Ramadan arrived with a soft drizzle of rain. The first sehri morning was quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock and the distant call of a rooster. Muntaha woke up before her alarm. She didn’t feel forced; she felt honored. While the rest of the world slept, she sat at the dining table with her parents, eating rice and eggs. But what filled her most was not the food; it was the intention in her heart.

“I am fasting only for the pleasure of Almighty Allah,” she whispered silently before taking her last sip of water.

School during Ramadan was always challenging. The sun seemed hotter, the classrooms more crowded, and the hours longer. Her friends often complained.

“Why are you smiling? Aren’t you thirsty?” her best friend Maha asked one afternoon.

“I am thirsty,” Muntaha replied gently, “but it’s a good thirst. It reminds me that I am doing this for Allah. If it were easy, it wouldn’t be special.”

Maha shook her head, half–confused and half–admiring.

One day, during the second week of Ramadan, something happened that made Muntaha understand the true meaning of her fasting. On his way back from school, she noticed an old rickshaw puller sitting under a banyan tree. The man looked exhausted, his shirt soaked in sweat. Beside him was a small plastic bag with only a few bananas, probably his iftar.

Muntaha felt a tug in her chest. She had saved some money to buy a new pair of headphones. For months she had dreamed about them. But at that moment, the dream felt strangely small.

She walked to a nearby shop, bought rice, lentils, dates, and some fruits, and returned to the old man. Without saying much, he handed over the bag.

The rickshaw puller looked up, surprised. “Maa, why are you giving me this?”

Muntaha hesitated, then smiled. “Because today I am fasting. And I want Allah to be happy with me.”

The old man’s eyes filled with tears. He raised his hands and made a silent prayer. Muntaha walked away quickly, her heart beating fast, not from embarrassment, but from a joy she had never felt before. It was different from playing video games or getting good grades. This joy was quieter, deeper, and warmer.

That evening at iftar, the azan echoed from the mosque, blending with the clinking of plates and the laughter of neighbors. Muntaha broke her fast with a date and a sip of water. She closed her eyes for a second. The sweetness of the date felt like a reward straight from the sky.

Her younger sister asked, “Why do you always close your eyes when you eat the first date?”

She replied, “Because I want to thank Allah before the world distracts me again.”

As the days passed, Ramadan changed Muntaha in small but powerful ways. She spoke less harshly, listened more carefully, and forgave more easily. She started waking up for Tahajjud prayers, standing alone in the dim light of her room while the rest of the house slept. Those moments felt magical to her as if the world had paused just so she could speak to her Creator without interruption.

One night, during the last ten days of Ramadan, there was a power outage. The entire neighborhood went dark. No fans, no lights, no phone chargers, only the moonlight and the sound of distant recitation from the mosque. Instead of feeling annoyed, Muntaha went to the rooftop. The sky was filled with stars she had never noticed before.

She sat there, thinking about her life, her dreams, her fears, her mistakes. She realized that fasting was not only about staying hungry; it was about cleaning the inside of the heart. Hunger was just the key that opened the door.

Tears rolled down her cheeks without warning. She raised her hands and whispered, “Allah, I don’t know if my fasting is perfect. But I am trying. Please accept it.”

In that silent rooftop moment, she felt lighter than ever before.

When Eid finally arrived, the town burst into color. New clothes, sweet desserts, cheerful greetings, everything felt festive. Yet, deep inside, Muntaha felt a soft sadness. Ramadan, her beloved guest, was leaving.

While hugging his friends and exchanging smiles, she made a quiet promise to himself: I will carry Ramadan inside me, even when the month is gone.

Years later, people would remember Muntaha not for her grades or achievements, but for her kindness, patience, and sincerity. They would say, “There is something peaceful about her.”

What they didn’t know was that the peace began every year in Ramadan with a thirsty afternoon, a whispered intention, a small act of charity, and a girl who fasted not for praise, not for habit, but purely for the pleasure of Almighty Allah.