# My Eid Reverie The morning broke soft and pale, like something half-remembered. In the kitchen, Amina was already up—I heard the clink of vessels, the whisper of water. Eid morning. The house smelled of henna, faint and sweet, clinging to the edges of sleep. I lay in bed a moment longer, watching the light seep through the curtains in pale gold ribbons. Outside, the lane was already stirring. Footsteps. Voices calling greetings. The world was waking to its holiness. When I finally rose, the mirror showed me what I expected: my own face, but somehow different on this day. Perhaps it was the lack of hurry in my eyes. Perhaps it was simply that I had allowed myself, for once, to notice. My mother had bought me new clothes—a kurta the color of pomegranate juice, dupatta with embroidered edges. They lay on the bed like an offering. As I dressed, each fold felt ceremonial, deliberate. This is what it means to prepare oneself. Not for show, but for becoming. By the time I came downstairs, my father was already dressed, sitting with tea, his expression thoughtful. He looked up at me and smiled—the kind of smile that asks no questions, that needs no answers. "You look like your grandmother," he said quietly. "On her Eid mornings." I didn't ask which grandmother, or which Eid. Some things don't need clarification. I simply sat beside him and we drank our tea in that comfortable silence that exists only between people who have loved each other for a long time. The prayer would come. The gathering would come. The sweets and embraces and the necessary chaos of celebration. But this—this moment, this shaft of morning light, this quiet communion—this was the Eid I had been waiting for without knowing it. This was the one I would remember.

# Eid Behind Glass

My house sits a bit high up. Right beside the hills, among the trees and birds, in a sea of green. Stand by the window and you can see the roofs of many houses around. Though I don’t really look at any of it much. My monotonous life slips away staring at the walls of this shuttered room.

This morning I saw Eid prayers being held on several roofs. Twelve, fifteen, twenty people in each group. Gleaming white panjabis on every one. Masks on every face. After prayers they embraced each other, exchanged greetings perhaps. I watched the children receive their blessings. Then each to their own home. In the time of Covid-nineteen, there isn’t much more one can do.

Watching it all, a strange melancholy descended on me. Not for religious reasons—for human ones. I love to see people happy. The way each person finds happiness without harming another, that’s religion to me—the religion of humanity. And this day that people wait for all through the year! Everyone would go out together, there would be feasting, there would be joy. New clothes would stir a riot of color in the breeze. The scent of celebration would intoxicate the air. Children would receive money from their elders. They’d use it to have fun among themselves. Some poor souls would get something good to eat, some financial help. On this day doors would open for people. Ah, how many poor wait for this one day!

Eid prayers are being held in the mosque. The prayer where there is no distinction between rich and poor, where people stand shoulder to shoulder—today the worshippers maintain two and a half feet between each other. Many haven’t gone to the mosque at all; they’re praying on their rooftops, in their courtyards, in front of their homes. Despite their fervent desire, they can’t distribute food and money to the poor as they’d wish. They can’t meet loved ones, can’t embrace them, can’t greet them. How people wait for this single day! It’s the most anticipated day of the year. On that day too, no one should have to hold themselves back so much.

Children would run through the streets; our poor sister would take out her savings for this day, dress up, go out with loved ones; friends would gather and feast; from house to house would pass different kinds of food; mothers and sisters would cook many dishes, set tables laden with hope for guests. On Eid, who feels like cooking if they can’t feed people! Those you haven’t spoken to in long—because of some anger, some hurt, some unease—you could embrace them today, settle all disputes so easily. The parks, the beaches, the entertainment centers wait to witness the joy of people—alas, that waiting has remained just waiting!

No, none of this can happen. There’s simply nothing to do. If we survive, we can spend every day of survival celebrating with the joy of Eid. In place of one Eid, we can gift ourselves a thousand Eids. Every hardship has its own rituals; we must celebrate by honoring them. But there’s something good in this too! We’re giving the whole day to the people at home. We don’t always get the chance to see the happiness in our parents’ eyes, in our siblings’ eyes, in our family’s eyes, do we? When the whole world turns away, it’s home that pulls us close. So let this day be given to that home.

On a day like this, one can sit before the graves of beloved ones and weep a little longer, shedding the weight and impurity from oneself.

When I’m home, I barely leave my room except for meals. I like keeping myself confined. This morning, Mother, with a heavy heart, called me to the roof to watch the Eid congregation from a distance. I watched in silence. It pains me to see people deprived of the joy they have a right to feel. I don’t know why, but today my sorrow ran deep. This melancholy will linger in my heart for a long time. Silently, I found myself praying: let the world heal, let people live in laughter and song and happiness. Let each person be well in their own way, through the act of letting others be well.

Let us be well ourselves, and let others be well.—This alone should be our faith.