—Nahian Rahman—

Analyzing the socioeconomics of Ramadan inflation It happens every year like clockwork. Ramadan arrives, and so does a familiar villain: Skyrocketing prices. Lemons, once an afterthought at a roadside tea stall, suddenly becomes tantamount to gold. A kilo of onions starts to feel like an investment, and let’s not even talk about chickpeas. The market transforms into a battleground, where wallets grow lighter, and sighs grow heavier. Ramadan is meant to be a time of discipline, generosity, and gratitude, yet, every trip to the bazaar feels like a test of patience, where the only thing fasting is affordability itself.

Take a stroll through the market a week before Ramadan, and you’ll witness an economic thriller unfolding in real time: Vendors wear knowing smiles, their fingers tapping against calculator screens as if composing a symphony of inflation. The price of lemons doesn’t just climb … it levitates, defying gravity like a magician’s trick. The humble daal, once a poor man’s comfort, suddenly carries an air of aristocracy, its price inflating as if soaked overnight in financial speculation instead of water. Chickpeas — those tiny, beige kernels of modesty — start acting like celebrity guests at an exclusive iftar party, accessible only to the highest bidder.

Before the first roja is even observed, the invisible hand of the market tightens its grip, turning the bazaar into a stage for price gouging. Traders cite supply chain disruptions, import costs, and “seasonal demand” as the culprits, yet history tells another story. Prices don’t just rise, they are orchestrated to rise. From the early days of trade, merchants have long understood that scarcity — real or manufactured — is a gold mine.

The psychology is simple: When people believe something will become expensive, they rush to buy it, making it expensive in the process. And so, what should be a month of humility becomes a masterclass in market manipulation.

The irony is hard to miss. Ramadan, at its core, is a month of restraint, teaching “less is more.” Yet, the pre-iftar chaos in the markets suggests otherwise. People scurry through narrow alleys, stuffing their bags with enough supplies to survive an apocalypse, as if the Maghrib azaan signals not the breaking of fast, but the arrival of a famine. Beneath the flickering neon lights of roadside stalls, iftar essentials are stacked high like towers of indulgence, a stark contrast to the simplicity the month is meant to inspire. And the more we hoard, the higher the prices climb, feeding a cycle where we are both victims and enablers.

But the market is only one side of the equation. If inflation of essentials is the crime, our collective obsession with excess is the accomplice. Scroll through social media, and you’ll find iftar tables groaning under the weight of extravagance — a rainbow of juices, platters fit for royalty, and desserts so elaborate they look like they belong in a museum rather than a dining table. A single date and a sip of water may be the traditional way to break a fast, but in the digital age, that simplicity rarely makes it to the camera roll.

What began as a spiritual reset has somehow transformed into a competitive sport of who can prepare the most visually stunning spread.

And so, the question lingers: Who really profits from Ramadan? The answer is simple: It is not the average household stretching their budget to accommodate rising costs. It’s the traders, the middlemen, and the market manipulators who anticipate our collective panic and cash in on it. It’s the food bloggers and influencers, who turn iftar into a visual spectacle, raising expectations, fueling trends, and indirectly shaping consumer behaviour. The economy of Ramadan has evolved into a marketplace of anticipation, where demand dictates not just supply, but morality itself.

Beyond the market stalls and neighbourhood bazaars, the corporate giants join the feast. Supermarkets roll out “Ramadan Special” discounts — promising savings while quietly adjusting base prices upwards. Big brands flood the airwaves with emotionally charged ads featuring glowing families gathered around extravagant meals, subtly reinforcing the idea that a proper Ramadan is an expensive one. Even fast-food chains, sensing opportunity, launch limited-edition iftar deals, because why break your fast with home-cooked meals when you can do it with deep-fried indulgence? The commercialization of Ramadan is no accident; it is a well-oiled machine that capitalizes on faith and festivity alike.

What if, just for a moment, we flipped the script on the Great Lemon Heist? Not with torches and pitchforks, but with the quiet defiance of restraint. Picture a Ramadan where we didn’t let our wallets weigh heavier than our willpower, where the true act of worship wasn’t stockpiling groceries like war rations, but resisting the siren call of excess. What if we outplayed the price-gougers at their own game?

Instead of feeding the frenzy, we could demand stricter price controls and real market monitoring, cutting off the invisible hands that tighten around our purses each year. Imagine if consumers turned from hoarders into mindful shoppers, planning meals with precision, not panic. If communities leaned into shared iftars and cooperative buying, breaking fast not just with food, but with solidarity. Even social media — so often a stage for indulgence — could be repurposed to champion simplicity over spectacle, reminding us that the most sacred iftar isn’t the most expensive one, but the one that humbles us.

Because at the end of the day, the price of lemons may soar, rice may become a luxury, and dates may cost their weight in gold — but the soul of Ramadan? That remains untouched, unbuyable, and utterly priceless.

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Nahian Rahman is a Research Associate at Bangladesh Institute of Governance and Management.