Eid Mubarak!
20 days of US-Israel-Iran-GCC war
Schools will continue with distance learning for two weeks from Monday. I’m confident all the progress we’ve made will be reversed by the time we return to in-person learning. But I’m told that shouldn’t be my concern right now.
Between alerts, sirens, casualties and intercepted missiles, we’ve observed the month of Ramadan and are now celebrating Eid.
This has to be my worst performance ever - I could barely fast, I hardly went to the mosque or prayed at home, didn’t cook anything new or special for iftar.
I’m not prepared for work on Monday.
We don’t talk much about mental health and observing festivals. Thankful for writers like Dr. Samaiya Mushtaq for doing something about it. I’m sorry Dr Samaiya, I did despair about my shortcomings and it did impede my efforts the last few nights.
I offered the community my glass bangles in case someone was yearning for them. Two 16-year-olds arrived and were quite pleased with my collection. In their adorable British accents, the girls said excitedly, “Aunty! This feels like I’m shopping for Eid in Pakistan.” I told them most of my glass bangles are from Patna, with a few plain ones from Mumbai and some gifted by my Pakistani friends.
I hosted henna at my place. Friends who needed to get their mind off the missiles, friends who didn’t fly home for Eid showed up. Little do they know their presence helped me more than they could imagine. For a few hours, my home was filled with toddlers, little girls and women of different nationalities rejoicing over their shared love for henna.
Every time a plane flies overhead, my mother asks me, “Flights toh jaa rahi hain?” I do a quick mental math of her remaining medication even as I wonder what’s the point of her going back when she’s practically alone in Mumbai. Who will take care of her? I make another note to discuss her return with my brothers.
I break down in tears the next night as I have a few moments of silence to myself. I look at my girl sitting across me and I encourage her to just leave when she grows up. “Go as far as you can,” I implore her.
My wise 13yo says, “I plan to do my Uni abroad - not America - if I can.” She’s afraid of ICE. Continuing, she says, “If I return, I return. If not, I will stay.” Surprisingly, I experience no maternal twinge of hurt. In fact, I feel a sense of lightness.
The husband spends the 29th Shab (29th Night of Ramadan) de-cluttering the balcony while I build Lego in the living room. My kids gifted me a set in February, and my 18yo son, like an adorable little toddler, had sarcastically said that evening, “Mamma yaar! You want ME to build this?!”
Overwhelmed at first by the intricate little pieces, I gradually grow smitten with the ingenuity of Lego.
My anxious mother nudges me to “help” my husband; I remind her how she’s not as worried about me receiving any help all day long. “Tumhare liye helper laya hai usne.” (He’s hired a house-help for you). I refrain from getting into the nitty-gritty of us financing the help.
She summons the kids to assist as I bring myself a cup of coffee and enjoy it with gifted Butler’s chocolates.
“Zara nahin hili tum!” my mother refuses to give up. It’s amazing how your own blood can trigger you, despite the years of therapy you’ve had. I take off my reading glasses, look her in the eye, exhale deeply and say: Tajjub ki baat hai. Pata hai Mummy? You all deserve what you got.
Even the richness of the Butler’s chocolates couldn’t dilute the bitter poison in my mouth. I wanted to bury myself 6 feet underground as I saw myself ruining the patience and respect I’d shown the entire month.
My mother stares right back at me as my son, like most hypervigilant kids trying to rescue a volatile situation, steps in. “Amma, maine Mumma se kaha Lego bananey. Sab help kr rahe hain Daddy ko.”
I don’t leave the dining table till I’m done finishing the Lego set. My son cheers me as my niece clicks pictures. I marvel at the plastic flowers and the irony of it - in a region dismissed as “fake” and all bling, will this be all we have left as the real world burns?
The balcony is nice and sorted. Husband promises to be more involved and renews his vows towards his passion for gardening.
The one thing that remained consistent this month was my writing. I continued to write and, I continued to pitch.
Cats, messages from friends, henna and Lego helped.
“Chaand Mubarak!” my mother hugs and greets each one of us as she celebrates and thanks the Almighty for a safe Ramadan.
Eid Mubarak, people!
My henna says in Urdu, Bol. Speak Up. IYKYK. Don’t miss my henna stain. Resistance comes in deep, dark hues.
To the less fortunate - we think of you and we bear witness to your stories. May you see an end to your suffering soon, InshaAllah.
Eid Mubarak, beta, to you and yors. A special hug for your mother. Sano, how beautifully you write. I'm so proud of the person you've grown into. I'm sure better times are rond the corner, Allah willing.
Eid Mubarak to all of you!
You and Mother did so well for this whole month - you can both excuse yourself for that tiny escalation in the end.
I was hoping to see what you built with the Lego :)