Years ago, when I was working in audit in Cincinnati, a well-meaning friend pointed to three slim gold bangles on my right wrist and said

“If you’re looking to date in America (I wasn’t), you should take them off. It just gives away your desi-ness”

As if my desi-ness was a commodity to be exposed – remember those strategic reveals and conceals from a few issues ago? But candidly, I don’t relate to dressing for any reason other than pure joy or instinct. I hate thinking about what to wear but I love wearing things.

During long-haul flights from Dubai to Chicago for uni, I would get embarrassed by the piles of gold bangles in my security tray. Getting through security with efficiency was (probably is, in some circles) a badge of honor: dress for maximum efficiency. Pare down, pare down, pare down. More zips, less buttons – but not too much metal. Slip-ons, not laces. Minimal layers. Don’t set off alarms. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

This year, as the women around me prepped for Ramadan, they changed into fresh, colorful shalwar kameez and sparkly bangles. I stopped wearing anything on my right wrist years ago because it’s my dominant writing and mouse-wielding hand. Bangles and bracelets just get in the way of my work.

But last night, after a long day of mouse-wielding, when my mum left a set of silver bangles outside my room, I put them on. We layered perfume, soft breathable fabric and some more perfume (Ariana Grande Mod – is that spiritual enough for you?) before our first trip to the masjid. The cheerful jingling and chiming contrasted my steady complaints about how tired I already was.

I traded form for function years ago, just as I traded a sometimes-tender, sometimes-panicked domesticity for what I unfairly labelled “work” work. It was more of an active choice than I realized.

But the hands that held mine – my mothers, her mothers– were always glittering with gold bracelets. Did I fall asleep to the soft tinkle of glass bangles as a baby? Did you?

For too long, adornment has been conflated with artifice – frivolity, non-seriousness– a narrative that serves a purpose beyond the scope of this essay. My Naani’s floral gold nose pin served no purpose. But when I close my eyes and think of her, it’s the first thing I see. At four, I would trace the pin with my finger as I snuggled with her. Years later, she marveled at the eight ear piercings I got on a weird whim in high school. They reminded her of the schoolgirls she met when she lived in Calcutta – she wanted a similar row of ear piercings but was never allowed.

Ramadan is a time of quiet meditation as much as it is for laughter over hearty meals. It’s a time for that exhausting delirium that kicks in somewhere before sundown and sunrise. Maybe it’s a time for secret, quiet longing – I won’t tell if you won’t.

We’re as defined by our silence as we are by the noise we make. Our hands are tools for functionality as much as they are noisemakers. I’m not saying we should stop “work” work. I’m saying we should let our bangles clang against the keyboard or jangle when we pack into the mosque like sardines. We should noisily stir the Rooh Afza with that should-be-discarded wooden spoon, let our wrists clang against the counter when we chop fruits and sneak a taste (I won’t tell if you won’t).

We’re leaving an audible – if somewhat transient — trace, not unlike the women that came before us, floral nose pins and all.