“Helloo, Happy Birthday from the cats and I” — I received this cheery message, followed by emojis of paw prints and party hats, from my friend MH in Lahore on my birthday four days ago. MH and I met on an online novel writing course that we both enrolled in just before the pandemic began. The other participants were based either in the UK or other parts of Europe. MH pinged me to say that since we’re in almost the same time zone, let’s chat some time. I am all for neighbourly camaraderie, inclusion, diversity, and the rest. But when I read MH’s novel pitch, my heart sank to my toes. She revealed she would be deploying the POVs (points of view) of cats and dogs in her novel. While I can just about abide by dogs, I have a debilitating phobia of cats. Not knowing whether MH would still want to be friends with me, I came out clean. “Not to worry. I have a phobia of clocks and chickens,’ said MH. “I will not judge.” Despite our respective and disparate phobias, MH and I became fast virtual friends. We read excerpts from each other’s novels and wrote each other long-winded critiques. Interestingly, both of our ‘works in progress’ include real-life Army Generals fond of a tipple or two. I learned many long-forgotten grammar rules from MH. (She has an innate ability to spot the tiniest error). What MH learned from me; I am not sure. She told me off occasionally for behaving like her mother or teacher. Discussions on novel writing formed only part of our frequent exchanges. Schools in India and Pakistan encourage their pupils to find pen pals across the border. MH and I, while not schoolgirls, deserve awards for unwittingly becoming excellent goodwill ambassadors. When the pandemic disrupted all our lives last year, summer was around the corner in Mumbai while spring lingered on Lahore’s air. Casting sub-climates aside, MH and I were both scrambling for groceries. She stocked up on cat food; I stocked up on human food. I learned chicken is important for both. MH, perhaps a more social person than I, found the isolation unnerving. She said her cats enabled her to get by. Now and then, MH would order in fast food on foodpanda and me on Swiggy and Zomato. MH recommended tons of Netflix shows to me and always knew the latest Bollywood news before I did. MH and I chatted through the torrid Lahore summer and the torrential Bombay rains. Lockdown eased a little in both places. Temperature fluctuations aren’t extreme in Bombay, but MH snuggled up with her cats under blankets through the blistering Lahore winter. Spring broke out in Lahore once more and summer engulfed Mumbai. Unfortunately, here in Mumbai, we are under lockdown once more. MH suggested readers in Pakistan might be interested in what Ramzan in Mumbai is like. So, after the long ramble about MH and my long-distance relationship — here goes. Discussions on novel writing formed only part of our frequent exchanges. Schools in India and Pakistan encourage their pupils to find pen pals across the border. MH and I, while not schoolgirls, deserve awards for unwittingly becoming excellent goodwill ambassadors At dawn’s first silver light, from the living room of my fourteenth-floor apartment, I hear popping crackers that signal sehris end. Mumbai’s Muslims celebrate Ramzan with pomp and fervour, but certain areas are more festive than others. The pandemic is playing spoilsport, but Mumbai’s Mohammed Ali Road has earned the sobriquet of India’s iftar paradise. Throughout the month of Ramzan, the four lanes around Minara Masjid used to be festooned with buntings and fairy lights. At iftar time, street vendors would sit around their bubbling black cauldrons of oil. As far as delectable, deep-fried snacks went; one was spoiled for choice. Tulip-yellow double-egg malpuas, parathas stuffed with orange halwa, mawa jalebis, samosas. It always amazed me how no one cared that the sherbet seller had dipped his entire hand into the enormous transparent jar of white liquid. Perhaps it tasted so good, no one cared. If one kept strolling away from the main road, you’d see shawarma meat on rotisseries, chicken legs dipped in orange-red masala roasting on sizzling black coals along with mutton seekh kebabs. No Mumbai menu is complete without its famed ragda-pattice, served on newspaper. The yellow firni in small clay pots also made a veritable treat for the eyes. Closer to where I live in a bustling suburb of Mumbai, vendors would sell dates, pakoras, Chinese chicken rolls and slices of watermelon and pineapple on carts. Post-iftar, the fasted now having feasted used to take off on cross generational late-night drives, always with their car windows down and sun roofs open. This year, given the ongoing restrictions and evening curfews, we will be observing another low-key Ramadan. Nonetheless, it is important to remember that although we are separated by borders and phobias and different beliefs, scratch the surface a little and you will find we are all just the same. And if you allow yourself, you never know where you can make a fast friend or two. An hour remains for me to break my fast here in Mumbai and I find myself wondering what it would be like to sample the iftar treats in Lahore’s street markets The writer lives in Mumbai, India. She is an aspiring novelist and contributes articles on history, religions, current affairs and, of course, writing. She tweets @zkhan4231