I reach for my water bottle, and then instinctively put it back.

After hearing about the incident in Ghotki, reason dictates I should stop somewhere else. Somewhere I do not fear the possibility of assault for drinking water in front of the rozeydaar.

It is, after all, that time of the year when work schedules shorten and markets shut down earlier; when morning shows increase air time, and evening shows are a strange union of religion-meets-entertainment-meets-consumerism.

Also read: Thou shalt not eat because I fast

On the streets, piety is cloaked in toned-down conversations, less than energetic demeanour, and of course, the standard shut-down of eateries and shops.

Ramazan comes down on non-fasters also as an obligation, for it is the month where we have to be extra cautious about how and where we consume basic necessities like water, lest we face judgemental looks and questioning stares.

In school and college days, the canteen would either be closed, or open without much in stock. I managed my younger days by bringing a snack from home, but university was different. There was no time to prepare food at home, and the Ramazan schedule only allowed a 15 minute break after the first three hours of morning classes.

Street vendors beginning to open and prepare food for iftar and the night in Karachi. —Photo by the author

During this break, KD (another non-faster) and I would trek 10 minutes away to the Staff Canteen, since the canteen five minutes away was closed. Arriving at our destination sweaty and tired, with only minutes left until our next class, we purchased whatever was available: a vegetable pattie (or a chicken one if we were lucky), a day-old mayonnaise sandwich (which we decided to stay away from), or biscuits and chips (which sufficed on most days).

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At the Staff Canteen, we were also flanked by others students. Some were there for a smoke, others had arrived on a hunt similar to ours. That little space and time became a cocoon where you could eat-drink-smoke; it became a protective shield where no questions were asked or judgemental stares imposed, not even from the canteen owner who was fasting himself.

Roadside hotels, pakwans and street vendors begin to open and prepare food for iftar and the night. —Photo by the author

On another day in Ramazan, I went to a filtered drinking water system in my university, to refill my bottle out of habit. I arrived only to discover that the system had been turned off along with the water supply.

'Where is your shame?'

Such instances and inconveniences become commonplace when laws like the Ehtram-i-Ramazan Ordinance are introduced, and basic human actions are forcibly regulated. The 1981 ordinance clearly states that "no person shall eat, drink or smoke at public place during fasting hours."

Where is the consideration given to those who aren’t obliged to fast? Or those who simply cannot?

The acceptance of this unquestioned practice, where one does not eat or drink in public despite their fasting status, has played a major role in hiking the number of deaths caused by Karachi’s heatwave.

Last year, two-thirds of the deaths caused by the heatwave were of homeless people, who fell victim to Ehtram-i- Ramazan's provisions, and could not drink water or obtain food in public.

The ordinance's impact is not limited to public spaces. Over time, its subtle and conditioned imposition has seeped into language and daily interactions.

Non-fasters are embarrassed and ashamed with lines like, “Roza kiun nahi rakha?” [Why haven’t you kept the fast?], or “Tumhay sharam nahi hai, rozaydaaron ke saamne pee rahe ho?” [Where’s your shame, drinking in front of someone who is fasting?]

I have been subjected to these questions in school, at university, and at my office.

Is it possible to protect the freedom of non-fasters in public and private spaces? —Photo by the author

Out of courtesy, and not wanting to offend people’s religious sensitivities, I avoid eating or drinking in front of people who are fasting.

But the ordinance remains, conditioning the Pakistani psyche, and continuing to highlight the inequalities faced by non-fasters and religious minorities in accessing, or even simply being, in public spaces during Ramazan.

Isn’t Ramazan supposed to be about spiritual discipline, and the practice of love and kindness?

—The name of the writer has been changed to maintain privacy. All photos by the author.