The Essence of Eid “عرق عید”

Salam! You’re probably here from the Instagram stories my fellow bloggers are posting! Arq-e-Eid – the essence of Eid. Yes, I’m aware that particular turn of phrase doesn’t make much sense in Urdu but it’ll make sense once you’ve finished reading. Probably. Hopefully. Pinky promise (?). But I digress.

The name of the game is a blog post about what Eid means for us. We’re doing this collaboration over two days, Thursday and Friday, so be sure to check out the stories on instagram tomorrow! I’ll insert their Instagram handles here, here, here and here (and also, here and here). I’m so excited to learn about everyone’s best Eid memories and quirky traditions that it’s the one constant thing on my mind while making my own Eid preps!

• 

Eid ul Adha is a special Eid, and not only because it lasts three days. The heavier Eid I used to think, i.e. in the the amount of chores required such as sorting the meat which thankfully my mother did. Growing up, Baba always had the qurbani (religious sacrifice) at home. My family home in Lahore, Pakistan had always been the hub of activity every Eid for as long as I can remember. All of my relatives and many friends lived close by so Eid was never a small affair. The neighbors soon stopped asking if we were preparing for a wedding.

I swear I get traumatic flashbacks of the nights before Eid – being completely exhausted from cleaning every inch of the house. The only plus side being that I got a front seat to the heavenly aromas wafting from the kitchen – a result of Mama cooking up a storm all day (JK Mama I love cleaning it was so much fun don’t hate me okay bye).

Since my paternal grandmother, Dado, lived with us it was natural that everyone would visit her (and us) the very first day. We were almost always the hosts, which might explain why I love playing host so much in my own home. Having my loved ones over, cooking good food; chatting over cups of Kashmiri chai – it’s what I saw my mother do. She loved being in the kitchen. The twinkle of love and pride in her eyes at the dinner table as guests playfully fight over the leftovers, is etched forever in my mind. It’s exactly what I strive for when I have people over. I want them to leave happy and feeling cherished, and I believe the best way to show love is through cooking and feeding people good food. A very common love language if you’re Kashmiri.

At the end of the night, we would huddle together, exhausted but happy, teetering on the edge of a food coma. We’d sip at our cups of tea, discuss which recipes could be further perfected; rave about how gorgeous everyone had looked. I’d look over the rim of my cup to a cozy scene: my youngest sisters lying at Mama’s feet, the second eldest leaning against me, and my father lying on the sofa snoring gently with a hot cup of tea, waking up with a startle to a spilled cup and a little scream. This is what I remember. These are my precious memories.

I remember smells of lamb roasting in the kitchen, of sheer khurma made with love. I remember the kunna (meat curry), and nihari (another but different meat curry). I remember my Ammi’s zarda laden with cham cham, ghulab jaman and topped with bruléed barfi. I remember the firni in a huge clay pot and the pulao, the kaleji (liver) my mother would prepare fresh on the day. I remember running away laughing while she yelled at me to take a bite on account of it being Sunnah.

I remember all of this and more. But there’s a reason why I called this Arq-e-Eid. A play on words from Arq-e-Ghulab, my SIL so cleverly suggested as I told her the story. Every single Eid, without fail, right when everyone had absolutely HAD IT with Eid preps. Baba would stroll in after work with people carrying sacks and sacks of rose petals behind him. We would be upstairs, baking cakes and goodies when we would hear, “Ajao tokrian ley ker!” (Come and bring the baskets!) And so we would rush into all the rooms grinning, empty the numerous baskets my mum had collected over the years to take with us.

We would pile the baskets with rose petals and put them around the house, the sweet smell of roses would waft and mix in with the yummy scent of the lamb quietly roasting away, and the vanilla scent wafting down from all the baking above. The smell was so potent and beautiful, that even now whenever I smell a rose, I’m transported back to those shared moments. He would get them from the local flower markets – the best of the best, a smell that would stay in our home for weeks after, serving as a lovely reminder for the happy times we had just had.

He would also insist it wouldn’t be a real Eid without Henna so that became another thing we did without fail. After taking out the last batch of cookies/brownies/cakes or whatever we’d been baking we’d sit down and hastily draw out the designs on our hands. We’d loosely tie plastic bags around our hands so the henna wouldn’t stain anything (anyone else?) and the smell of roses from our bedside tables would gently lull us to sleep in spite of the excitement and anticipation for the next morning.

The mix of Henna and roses was intoxicating. It still gives me the feeling of excitement, like you get the night before your first day of school (some of us were nerds okay). We would be so exhausted but still wouldn’t want to sleep out of sheer happiness and anticipation!

That’s the essence of Eid for me. That’s my Arq-e-Eid. The heady smell of roses and henna in the air. Perhaps the warmth and love of family made us a little delirious. Perhaps the comfort of home is what made the smell so appealing.

Every Eid post marriage, I would get flowers to try to feel closer to home and my loved ones. Even my Baba playfully scolding me over Skype for foregoing the Henna tradition brings a tear to my eye. It’s the love, and the people that embellish our memories that make them larger than life for us. When I think back on Eids past, I remember them with so much love and warmth, my heart feels like it’s going to explode. I try for Eid to be the same for my children and I pray that I am able to give my children memories of Eid that they will cherish forever (a mom can hope). By borrowing traditions from my family and my husband’s, making them our own, and bestowing them on our kids with all of our love.

P.S. Remember the getting into bed with plastic bags tied around our hands? We’d almost always wake up with a pattern of some sort on our faces. Priceless.