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was deep and voracious but also inexpert and unexciting. It was not a kiss that was born out of love or lust. It was a kiss born out of starvation and frustration. And yet we knew that fasting was supposed to give us a sense of spiritual fulfilment and purpose that would help us rise above the physical hardship of the feat. So where was it, that restorative feeling of salvation at the end of every blood-draining fast? I waited for it every day and when it didn’t come, I tried to find it through that kiss, an act of defiance, a silent mutiny. I had hoped that by violating the rules of a fast (through engaging in any form of physical union), I could at least guilt my way back to being an unquestioning believer in its worth.
    But, at the end of the long kiss, I was surprised by the rush of relief that swept over of me. It was as if a high fever had broken and, along with it, my delirium. By breaking the divinely ordained rules of fasting, I had unleashed a profound hunger, one that neither food nor flesh could satisfy. I began to understand that it was precisely this kind of hunger – this corroding, corrupting hunger, a hunger that turned us into untamed, untethered creatures – that we were meant to curb and conquer. Through fasting.
     
    Despite the sanctioned celebration of all those fleshy delights – the kebabs and grills and stews for sehri and iftar and countless other occasions, such as the naming ceremony of a newborn or the odd animal sacrifice to ward off a forthcoming misfortune, my mother just couldn’t make me eat enough meat. I wanted white jasmine rice, potatoes in red jackets, the golden soup of slow-cooked lentils, the long green bodies of lady’s fingers and green beans, the fiery red of tomatoes and the purple of eggplants. I could not bear to look at the sinewy masses of flesh floating in Amol’s curries. When I ate meat every bit of me became aware of the distinct textures of bone, muscle and cartilage. The first time I saw the heart of a chicken, I stared at the caricature of the human heart, noticing that the slender pipe-like ventricle that separated the atria connected the chambers in much the same manner as mine. Later, I was served the same heart, its slippery consistency singed into a congealed mass that no longer quivered. In fact, we had intimate knowledge of not only the bird’s unfortunate heart but also of its gizzard, its liver and other bits of the gastrointestinal tract that I do not care to recall.
    ‘Eat,’ my mother said, if we put up the slightest resistance. ‘I don’t have time for any nonsense.’
    ‘Spoiled children,’ my grandmother added. ‘Do you know how many kids in this country starve every day?’
    Hers was a curious logic. Poor kids could not eat so rich kids should eat everything in sight. Nonetheless, on the morning when I witnessed the Great Sacrifice, I did see for myself the desperation in the eyes of those scrawny, hungry children.
    The sounds of preparation woke me early: steel knives sharpening against stone blocks, the clang of pots and pans and the chop chop chop of onions and garlic. Through the gap in my curtains, I saw the woman next door arranging young, green banana leaves on the floor of her balcony. I heard the plaintive bleating of animals held captive by an entire city of devotees. It was the day of Eid-ul-Adha, the day on which Abraham sacrificed his son to prove his love for God. The world changed thereafter, for sheep and cattle anyway, as humankind was led, by example, to perform the supreme sacrifice that kept their sons at home but still managed to please God.
    By the time I showed up in my new Eid dress, the men had neatly divided into two groups of starched white soldiers. My father and uncles were issuing orders and instructions, while the cook and the butchers were bustling around with the tools of their trade. The cows had been brought from the stinking shed in the backyard. One of the young calves nestled against his mother while