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place pitcher after pitcher of ice cold water on the table, which vanished before he had a chance to turn his back. The old ceiling fan blew nothing but hot air and even the mosquitoes were too sluggish to drink our salt-drained blood. In that heat, it was impossible to digest Amol’s flaming curries and sizzling grilled meats, so my mother poured cold milk over our rice and threw in chopped bananas to make a sticky mixture. Sitting in the semi-darkness, with our assortment of sweet milk-and-banana rice, curries, kebabs and ghee-soaked parathas, my family devoutly prepared for the day ahead. As soon as the sun started to appear in the eastern sky, illuminating the shapes of trees and buildings, I’d desperately try to gulp down one last glass of water.
    ‘Hurry,’ my mother often prompted. ‘When the maulana starts the morning prayer call you have to stop eating and drinking.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ my grandmother snapped. ‘It’s not the prayer call that matters. As long as there isn’t enough light to see the hair on your own body, you can keep eating.’
    It made me wonder about those who did not have enough body hair to begin with. My grandmother had practically hairless limbs, making her sip her second cup of tea as calmly as a Buddha, while the rest of us scrambled to finish our meals.
    Something happened to me that year. Something dislodged and broke away somewhere deep inside my cells, leaving a gluttonous, gaping hole. It left me breathless and impatient. It left me standing in the midday sun, throwing stones at the crows that came to scrounge scraps of food from the small veranda next to the kitchen. Sweat stuck to my skin and clothes like honey, leaving me so parched I felt I could drink water out of a toilet bowl. I found myself walking to the kitchen every so often to get a whiff of iftar, the delectable evening meal that Amol prepared for the breaking of fast. My mind kept whirring around the images of spicy red daal marinated and fried to crispiness, black peas curried with onions and tomatoes and the delicious caramely Mecca dates, imported specially for Ramzan. Being Christian, Amol didn’t observe Ramzan, and I hovered around him, finding twisted consolation in watching him eat his meals: breakfast of sugared milk with thickly buttered chapatti; for lunch, generous portions of fried fish, rice and fresh cool salads of coriander, tomatoes and cucumber.
    During Ramzan, my father usually came home early from work. He’d stack his briefcase neatly under his desk, change into a clean white kurta, place a white topi on his head and quietly settle into his favourite chair, prayer beads in hand. I was disconcerted by the serenity he exuded, the stillness in his posture. How could he look so content when all I could do was count the seconds till I dowsed the fire in my belly?
    To make matters worse, the terrible pangs of hunger were followed by terrible pangs of guilt. The whole point of fasting was to conquer the throes of hunger and desire and every time I groaned or complained or thought about food, I fell from God’s grace. So I gritted my teeth and plodded through the day, because, Heaven forbid, if I made my feelings known, I would fall from my father’s grace as well.
    The desperate attempt to distract myself from my all-consuming hunger, led me, one intolerable afternoon, to pick up the phone and call my friend Raqib. Half an hour later, we were sitting on the rooftop, gazing unsurely at the street below. I had always liked him but why had I sought his company just then and why had he complied so easily? Thoughts bubbled up to our lips but starvation left us too exhausted to speak. In truth, words were useless. I clasped his hand in mine, more out of frustration than anything else.
    At the touch, our hunger flowed out of us with volcanic rage, sweeping everything else out of our way. Our bodies were so clammy we could barely slide our hands over each other’s skin but we clung to each other. Our kiss