Meta-Conversation: Fasting

            “How do I not have a word for discipline?” I ask, and it is Haraa who answers.

            “You do have one, you just didn’t write it down.” She points at metkoj, “body-discipline”, which was made from the word for body, met… and therefore….

            “Right,” I say, and jot down koj. Then I look past my notebook at her: at her, the older head of Household, settled and powerful and yet…. “Why are you the one talking to me, when you’re a generation behind the story that comes next?”

            “When you are ready to write the story that comes next, those Ai-Naidar will talk to you more,” she answers, unperturbed. “Until then, you get me.” She raises her delicately arched brows. “Or am I not welcome? Hoping for more exciting company? I could get Kor.”

            I laugh. “No, that’s fine. Though I miss him.”

            “He was good for you, and the others I see over your shoulder as well. Mishor will be too, once you meet him. Now… what is it that Kijzuni Evrauthendari wanted?”

            “A word for fasting,” I said. “Which I haven’t been able to find….”

            “Because you associate it with religion and self-denial,” Haraa says. “We don’t. We associate it with cleansing.”

            And just like that, the word arrives. “Ah,” I say. “It’s formed off qil, for purity, for cleansed.”

            “Yes. It was probably ‘to cleanse the body’ but lost some of the syllables and became qilem. The noun, a fast, is qilimet. Accordingly, qilith is purification. And if you wish to be delighted, which I suspect you do, then the beverage that you drink while fasting is a qilivit, which you’ll recognize, if you have been diligent, as including the word for essence, -ivit. We attach it to meat, or fish, to make various forms of ‘broth’. While we now also use it metaphorically, originally a qilivit is anything you drink to facilitate cleansing of the body. We do that, mind you, in an attempt to hear, or translate, the needs of our bodies, which is the verb mishmetel: to attempt to hear what your body needs by attending to it fully.”

            “But… don’t you consider fasting difficult?” I ask.

            Do former fathrikedi make indelicate noises? I suppose they do when they have moved on to osulked. “Do you consider it difficult to bathe? Brush your teeth? It is a relief, rather. We use different words for abstinence.” Before I can ask, she says, “Otoq, to abstain. Kojotoq, abstinence. You’ll note the word for discipline shapes that noun form. Koj is the verb. Kojem is the noun, and kojan is the adjective.”

            “You return to Kor,” I say.

            “You do, at least.” She grinned. “We would call him ashkojan, someone who is disciplined as part of who he is. Those of us who must labor at it might hope to call ourselves kojandar, now and then. But an ashqilimet, someone who is habitually clean or pure, is less associated with fasting and more with a cleanliness of purpose… and frankly, with a person who is not entirely tethered to the world.”

            “Are there qilemdar, then?”

            She chuckled. “When we fast, we are fasting people. And most of us are fasting people, though some castes fast more than others. I did frequently as a Decoration, and I do it more than I need to as a Public Servant. Guardians also tend to fast frequently, and priests. But if you’re the sort who seeks frequent cleansing, you are likely to have been placed in one of those castes so, as you would say, it is hard to say which comes first, the chicken or the egg.”

            I think about it. “Are there abstinent people? Ashotoq?”

            “There are, yes. But that is a word we reserve for those who must abstain to fulfill their caste duties. People who must refrain from something given to us, like marrying or having children.”

            “Or food?” I murmur. “I love food.”

            She laughs. “Yes. I admit food can be pleasant. I still prefer exercise.”

            “Can you abstain from exercise?” I wonder.

            “Sometimes. More a matter for priests than me, though. You can ask Kor if he comes by. Or one of the other Shames; I’ve seen their shadows in your eyes.” She taps my notebook. “Attend. You have an entire list here you haven’t filled in.”

            Accordingly, I take dictation, until we get to the word for ‘lame’, which causes me to exclaim, “Seriously? Lame is ‘un/not-walking’? Are you sure that’s not a joke?”

            “Completely. The first person who tried to describe someone who couldn’t walk probably framed it as best they could, as someone who wasn’t walking effectively.”

            Hhapash still feels like a child came up with it. But then, maybe one did. On the other hand, “seizure” is jefledeq: ‘thoughts-stop,’ more or less. I ask, suddenly, “Is the next story really about death?”

            “About making peace with it, maybe,” Haraa says. “But aren’t all stories, at some point, about making peace with mortality?”

            “I don’t know,” I say, startled.

            “Maybe that’s why you need to ask.” She pauses at my expression and grins. “Artist.”

            I sniff at her. “You’ve been living with one too long. It’s not fair. You know all our weaknesses.”

            “Come by more often,” she says. “And bring the rest. We’ve missed them.”