I didn’t realize it at the time, but Ramadan also gave me my first entry into the secret lives of women. Menstruating aunties who weren’t fasting would pull me aside to “feed me” so they could sneak in a meal. Even if I had no interest in eating, they’d loudly announce, “Come eat this mishti,” and bite into sweets delivered by neighbors and relatives in pastel pink boxes tied with thin plastic ribbons. “Don’t tell anyone,” they’d tell me, swallowing morsels of kalojam, rasgulla, zulafi, and nimki. I’d keep their secrets, thrilled to be in on them, sneaking in bites and surreptitiously licking sweet syrup off my fingers, palm, wrist.
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