It is said that humanity has been destined to endure the pain of separation since the dawn of creation. And there is a profound truth in this. If we only knew what was written in our destinies, perhaps we would have fought to rewrite our fate.
And I also would have done exactly the same.
Eid is supposed to be a day of joy, isn’t it? For years, I celebrated this very day with my mother, in our own home, in our own sanctuary. I still remember how she would quietly enter my room after the Fajr prayers. The sweet chirping of the early morning birds would reach my innocent ears, and a gentle, distinct morning breeze would drift to my bed, whispering the realization that the morning of Eid had finally arrived.
The soothing breeze from the ceiling fan would wash over my sleepy, drowsy body, wrapping me in such comfort that my heart would hesitate and make excuses to stay in bed just a little longer, delaying the moment I had to get up for the Eid prayer.
My mother would come into my room again and again, lovingly scolding me, warning me that there were only five minutes left for the prayer, before heading back to the kitchen to prepare the (Doodh Kehwa). And when time was truly running out, she would resort to her familiar “torture” grabbing my legs and forcefully dragging me out of the comfort of my bed.
I would hurriedly shower, perform my Wudhu, and make my way toward the Chowk that led to the Eidgah. The Chowk would be alive with a magical, spiritual aura. I remember the seasonal vendors setting up their stalls with toys, bangles and firecrackers, and the long lines of excited children, all dressed up in their vibrant new Eid clothes, crowding around them. I read somewhere once that Eid truly belongs only to children, and perhaps that is the absolute truth. They were so incredibly happy. They would have already assembled their little gangs, plotting mischievous schemes on how to wreak havoc that day, and calculating exactly how much scolding they were willing to endure from the elders.
The Eid prayer itself was always a bit confusing for me, but I would somehow manage to follow along, copying the movements of the worshippers around me. Returning from the Eidgah and sitting in the kitchen with my mother, sipping that hot (Doodh Kehwa) and eating pastries it felt as though that simple cup of tea was the grand reward for an entire month of Ramadan’s devotion. Then, I would spend the rest of the day roaming the village with my friends, wandering here and there, only returning home when the evening shadows began to fall.
Today, sitting here in Bangalore, “stumbling from one place to another, lost and weary.” burdened by my educational loans, I remember all of this on the morning of Eid, and it breaks my heart. I think about how beautiful Eid used to be, and what it has become now. There is no joy left, no spirituality. All that remains is the cold routine of existence and a cruel mockery of what used to be.
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