By Rihaab Mowlana

Sri Lanka rarely slows down. Deadlines stack. Prices shift. Conversations escalate before they settle. And yet, in a few days, Ramadan will begin.

For someone like me, whose life often feels measured in calendar alerts, article drafts, events and unanswered WhatsApp messages, the approach of a month of fasting feels less like a religious obligation and more like an interruption I quietly need.

Fasting has not even started yet, and already the adjustment begins. The mental recalibration. The awareness that mornings will come earlier. That evenings will carry a different kind of significance. That energy will have to be managed, not assumed.

Ramadan does not arrive dramatically in Sri Lanka. It slips in gently. Supermarket aisles rearrange themselves around dates and cordial bottles. Restaurants begin advertising iftar menus. A quiet shift in rhythm hums beneath the ordinary.

Fasting is not simply about abstaining from food. It is about practising restraint in a way that feels almost countercultural. We live in a time that encourages immediacy. If you are hungry, you eat. If you are angry, you respond. If you are bored, you scroll. Fasting asks you to pause before each of those impulses.

As someone who thrives on productivity, on moving quickly from one commitment to the next, this month forces me to ask a question I often avoid: why am I rushing?

The discipline begins before the first day. It begins in intention. Choosing to enter the month consciously. Choosing to reduce noise where possible. Choosing to be less reactive. Choosing to slow conversations instead of escalating them.

Sri Lanka understands strain. We have lived through shortages, uncertainty and economic pressure that were never voluntary. Ramadan’s hunger is different. It is chosen. That distinction changes the experience. It turns discomfort into reflection. It transforms appetite into awareness.

By mid-afternoon during fasting days, concentration will dip. The body will remind me that it has not been fed. And in that reminder is clarity. So much of our daily agitation is tied to constant consumption. Food, information, outrage, comparison. When those are limited, even temporarily, something steadier emerges.
I find myself thinking more carefully about how I spend my energy. About the tone of my responses. About whether every debate deserves my participation. About whether exhaustion is always a badge of honour. Ramadan does not demand perfection. It demands presence.

In a multi-religious country like ours, fasting happens alongside everything else. Offices continue. Schools continue. Traffic continues. Non-Muslim colleagues adjust meeting times or quietly wish you well at sunset. There is something deeply reassuring about that coexistence. The month does not isolate. It integrates.

For me, preparing for a month of fasting is less about planning elaborate meals and more about planning my interior life. How do I want to show up? What habits do I want to loosen? Where do I need more patience?

The discipline of slowing down is not dramatic. It is subtle. It looks like fewer impulsive replies. It feels like intentional silence. It sounds like a calmer tone in rooms that are used to urgency.

In a culture that often equates comfort with progress and speed with success, fasting offers a quieter proposition: that restraint can be stabilising. That saying no can be strengthening. That stepping back can sharpen perspective.

Ramadan has not yet begun. But already, I feel its invitation. To wake earlier. To choose carefully. To move deliberately. To slow down, not because the world has become calm, but because I have decided to meet it differently.