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Every year, the same mistake. Not wanting to be rude to the well-meaning family friend who dispatches a meal for us to break our fast, I tuck in.

I should know better by now. Deep-fried something-or-other infused with chilly seeds and assorted leaves. Some spicy dumpling salad thing. Piles of pakoras. Spicy rice. Some kind of oily curry.

I should know by now that my fasting stomach cannot tolerate these concoctions of burning heat and oil. But no, attempting to be neither impolite nor squanderful, I munch through the deep fried thingiemabob, and assorted others. Seems to do no harm at first.

A momentary reprieve before the eruptions, burning hollow and days of horrible sickness. By now I should have learned to politely decline. To be grateful, but say no thank you. Maybe next time, if this discomfort imprints heavily enough on my memory.

Did I mention I feel absolutely terrible? Not my cup of tea.