The Eid we lost, the Eid we gained: Embraces in graveyards

There's a time time that I remember,

When I did not know no pain.

When I believed in forever,

And everything would stay the same.

I remember the panic before Eid day.

There would be a mother rushing to wake up at what seemed like the crack of dawn. Your father would be yelling to get ready on time for the Eid prayers.

The cold water, waiting to run down your body for the first cleanse of the day, would be a dreaded affair.

The bathroom would be warm, remnants of steam from a hot shower clinging desperately on to the air for life. I remember the smell of cigarettes my father left behind. 

The unwelcome shower to follow would soon wash away whatever was left of the drowsiness.

After that, for me, it was fresh Eid clothes and then waiting for my uncle to arrive. Then, along with my father, brother, both uncles and all my cousins, we would be off to the mosque.

The prayers would pass, not without some know-it-alls trying to fix the rows behind the Imam. There would be those who would point you to the empty spot in the front row instead of going there themselves.

Once the prayers ended, the Imam would take a generous amount of time seeking God's blessings and forgiveness. People would cry as they mourned for the sins of the ones before them as well.

I always found that a bit funny. Why cry during Eid? Just pray and enjoy, right?

Finally, everyone would rise. As a family, we would all embrace each other thrice. There would be smiles across the mosque. "Eid mubarak" we would say.

Sometimes, money would be offered as Eidi soon after.

Immediately following the Eid break, we would make our way to the graveyard to wish my maternal grandfather, nana, Eid.

I don't remember what it was like when he was alive. It's there somewhere in my head. Faint. Fading.

Next on the itinerary was home, where I would greet my mother, my sister and my paternal grandmother.

Then, as per tradition, my dad would take us to our nani's house.

That's where we would break our fast. Parathas, some beef and the fixture: spiced, sweet and sour potatoes.

It was tradition.

But traditions change. People die.

I don't remember the last Eid with my father.

I didn't know I would have to remember it. Otherwise, I would commit every last second to memory.

I wish I did, but I didn't.

I do, however, remember the Eid after his death. I remember the new sort of panic now infiltrating my pre-Eid day.

I remember waking up to a sort of silence.

I remember walking into a cold bathroom – a lifeless box with not even the faintest trace of what once was. 

But then I remember my uncle, mama, calling. He asked my brother and I to be ready.

We all went to pray again. I remember looking at the hundreds around me. At the moment, I knew what loneliness among the crowd meant.

When the Imam began to pray and he asked to pray for the departed, I remember feeling a single drop of tear creeping up in my eye. I instantly blinked it away and buried my face in my open hands.

Once the prayers ended. The embrace began. I remember thinking my mama's embrace a little longer than usual, perhaps a nod to what I might have been usual.

The visit to the graveyard was harder. I wished I was alone. There was a new person to greet now: my father. I don't remember much of that visit. It's not even a blur. It's almost as if it doesn't exist. I was around 18-years-old at the time. But that's a memory like it didn't happen.

Then it was straight off to my maternal grandmother's house. My dadijaan had passed much earlier, another memory of an Eid I can no longer recollect.

My nani would greet me with a full smile. My khalas and my mami were there. Everyone was there. It was good.

Toast to the ones here today

Toast to the ones we lost on our way

Illustration: Duniya Jahan/ TBS

But as these things go, there would come another Eid when my nani would no longer be with us.

I had one less person to wish. One less person to embrace.

I remember my nani in her final days.

In white, with a head full of white hair, toothless and semi-paralysed, forcing every muscle of her body, willing every sinew, to crack a smile when she would see us.

The meal preparation was taken over by my khala. I do remember the Eids when I missed breakfast with my nani. I wish I hadn't missed those. One last meal, one last dance…but I know that will never happen.

At this point, if one wonders, does it ever get better?

The truth is, it does. While my Eids are a carousel of memories of those that passed, I remember the first Eid with my niece and my nephew.

I remember taking my niece to my nani's house. I remember seeing my nephew in his first tiny little panjabi.

I remember handing out Eidis for the first time. I remember looking forward to seeing them every Eid, at the same time feeling guilty for the times I made my mama wait.

I still wake up to my mother's nagging. Get up, you're going to miss Eid prayers again.

I wish I had never missed a single moment of Eid days long gone by.

But that's what treasuring memories is about. That's what makes Eid such a special occasion, where the whole family comes together, empty spaces filled up by newer faces. It's a celebration, a remembrance, breaking bread while discussing those we miss.

And where the graveyard fills with newer bodies, our homes are blessed with newer members. The circle of life.