Rooh Afza: Reasserting identity on the iftar table

Ramadan's an opportunity to cleanse yourself of shortcomings. It's a giant, reflective pause in a life filled with gluttonous consumption and little thought. So when the holy month kicks in, we scramble to kick old habits out.

But what if this very month ushers in a questionable product that enjoys the limelight for those thirty, glorious days?

Few beverages in Muslim circles enjoy a swell reputation like Rooh Afza. The bright red, sugary syrup is often mixed with chilled water (and less popularly with milk) and served liberally in South Asian homes. To me, Rooh Afza has been the dubious kid who's everyone's favourite but gets away with little scrutiny. What is he actually made of? Why does he always hang around this time of the year? What does he do in the months when nobody's looking?

Why does he manage to become my family's favourite — no questions asked — while it took me 20 years to ask my dad for nominal hike to my pocket money? (I was denied)

Alcohol breaches a red line in faith, Coke can clean your toilet bowl, Nestea would be neutral in a time of war. But Rooh Afza? It's nutritional value has gone unquestioned and its role in our diet not given a second thought. We're all too quick to chide milkshakes for their sugar content. Why does Rooh Afza get away with having enough sugar to support Brazilian cane farmers for a decade?

I think the answer lies less in its taste than in who consumes it. And this dawned upon me a few days ago when I chanced upon a friend in a Vancouver mosque at iftar.

The worshippers there are predominantly Arabs from Gulf countries, he explained. And naturally, the humble iftar menu — from the choice of mains to drinks — catered to tastebuds that preferred their rumpled lamb over a neatly shaped samosa. In this innocuous food diplomacy, the majority implicitly swayed the iftar dish in their favour. An innocent hegemony was in order.

But there was one man in the mosque who could stomach this no further. After watching from the sidelines for many weeks, the kind man — ethnically from Bangladesh — unleashed from his arsenal something that would finally help salvage some cultural territory.

He popped open a Rooh Afza.

He decided to dish out some Rooh Afza-flavoured milk for the packed gathering at iftar the same day I visited. This was his little way, my friend explained, to assert his proud South Asian culinary heritage and "feel at home".

I surveyed the room to look for him. And there he was, serving a pink concoction in measured quantities so there's some for everyone. Nobody should be left out in his celebration of roots, home and memories.

I slurped some from my own glass and was transported to my dinner table during iftars with family. Five individuals patiently waiting to gulp down the only thing more browner than them — Rooh Afza.

It wasn't a thick, sugary dubious substance any more. It was part of a shared experience lodged as a memory.

This little lesson on the value of culture stuck with me for days till I got my chance to have another round of Rooh Afza.

But this time the conditions were different. I was hosted by a dear friend who fluidly oscillates between identities derived from Pakistan and Hong Kong. (Hong Kong, not mainland China, as he's quick to remind.)

At that dinner table, he would go on to capture perfectly what culture means in today's hyper-globalized and cosmopolitan landscape.

While I thanked the family for reuniting me with Rooh Afza, my friend — with grandeur and to the amazement of all — introduced us to a potion of Coca Cola, and, wait for it, "milk."

And as the Coke formed a fizzy foam over the milk, I decided I had to unlearn everything I knew about culture and identity. They're fluid at best and take shape and forms you could never conjure up before.

In many moments, like the one I experienced at the mosque, culture represents familiar terrains in need of protection against unwitting hegemony.

And at other times, culture becomes irrelevant when you embark on a mission to bridge the distance between manicured dairy farmlands and an industrial bottling plant.