Saimi Sattar dons rose-tinted glasses to embark on a trip down memory lane on Eid

The silver kiran which bordered what masqueraded as a dupatta (or a dupatiya, as my grandmother would call it since it was a miniscule version of what the older people wore) fascinated me. There was still more than a fortnight to go for Eid and I was barely seven... and excited as only one who has not reached double digits would be about a festival. Sauntering around in my frocks, every day, I would peek a glance at the pale blue salwar suit with its matching dupatta, silver hair clips, a finger ring and jootis, only to be admonished by my mother about my trip in excessive vanity. The excitement, as they say, was palpable days in advance. The festival and the first step into donning a garment which, till that time, was the preserve of the older women in the family was exhilarating, to say the least.

While I was caught up in my daydreams of dressing up, my mother had already embarked on a mission to clean up the already immaculate house. Her penchant for finding dirt in the corner, even now at 70 plus, is nothing short of an urban legend in the family.

But this was just the build-up. On the 29th day of Ramzan, my mother ensured that my father, rather than the retainer whose job it was on other ordinary days, would set out in the morning, armed with a long list of the ingredients for an array of dishes all of which were slow-cooked. Shami kebabs, biryani, pasande, qorma, kofte, besides the vegetarian fare for those who did not eat meat, at least two types of sewaiyan... as well as snacks including dahi bade, namkeen, dry fruits, sweets, the list just went on. All these were to be eaten with sheermal, the slightly sweet, soft roti that is typical of the Lucknow-Kanpur belt and poles apart from the Delhi version. But make no mistake, the denizens of both cities will take serious offense if you pronounce the version from the other to be tastier. The Kanpuriyas will deride the Lucknow version as bland and bereft of sweetness that they believe offers just the right balance for the spicy food. The Lucknow walas gentle sensibilities — steeped in the Awadhi tehzeeb — on the other hand, get assailed by the overt sweetness of the one from their industrial neighbour. But then, I am meandering because as a true-blue Kanpuriya (never mind that for more than half my life I’ve lived in Delhi), I don’t have to elaborate upon which one I hold in disdain and which I can write paeans about. Interestingly, chicken, which has become a staple nowadays, did not figure high on the list and was cooked occasionally, if at all. There was also a lineup of beverages to go with the food or the snacks. Nimbu pani made with the choicest, plump lemons which were freshly-squeezed, orange squash, courtesy the distribution network that we ran or even coffee that was beaten into stiff peaks (yes, darling new age millennials, dalgona, it is).

I was more than happy to ride pillion on my fathers scooter during the day on his expeditions to the different markets to pick the ingredients. The first stop, the vegetable mandi, followed by the dry fruits shop, and then the final one at the khoya mandi to pick the essential which gave the sewaiyan its rich flavour and creamy texture. I did not have the stomach to visit a butchers shop, which was in another direction, so my father conveniently dropped me back home before heading out.

By the time I reached home, a transformation was well underway. The cotton, slightly-old curtains had been changed and replaced by satin ones that our dhobi had ensured were in pristine condition. Occasional-use China was being taken out, washed and laid on the large takht in the kitchen to dry. So, it was time for the alarm to sound out for a seven-year-old to scoot off and not bound about for even a minor accident would have disastrous consequences (first for the crockery, followed by the person). Certainly not in keeping with the happy occasion. So, it was best to stay clear and head over to the other section where the remaining extended family lived (and still does) in the house that was built by my grandfather and added upon by his sons as and when required. And being the youngest among all cousins helped in diverting oodles of pampering in the right direction (that, being mine, of course).

Before we knew it, it was evening and as the muezzin called out to the faithful to indulge in iftar, the youngsters in the family bounded to the top of the terrace to spot the elusive sliver in the sky which would announce Eid. As many of us know, Eid-ul-Fitr or meethi Eid, as many people call it, falls at the end of the month of Ramzan, the length of which is either 29 or 30 days depending on the moon sighting. Everyone competed to spot it and often floating bits of cloud could be mistaken for the satellite, inviting hilarity and ridicule directed towards the one who did. Even after searching for some time, if you hadn’t seen it, a confirmation would come by way of two short, sharp bursts of cracker. But the exhilaration in being the first one... priceless.

Moonsighting also meant that the speed at which dishes were being prepped up received a renewed impetus. Onions were to be evenly and finely chopped before being fried in copious quantities of oil to ensure it was perfectly caramelised golden brown for the gravy to turn out just right. Almonds and pistachios were soaked overnight to be peeled and slivered in the morning. Sewaiyans, which were probably 1/10th thickness of the commercially packaged and branded vermicelli that we get now, were fried in desi ghee on a slow fire to ensure the raw smell did not make its way to the dessert nor did it give off an acrid whiff of having been cooked on a high flame.

But I had more important matters to attend to than the kitchen which, in any case, was in the completely reliable hands of my mother as the maid was cast only in an assistants role. However, since the food was still in the prep stage, I, with the selfishness that only the young can muster, pestered my older cousins to take me out so that I could have some intricate mehndi patterns made on my palms. Though never a part of the celebration, this is a ritual that has become an unwritten essential for women of the subcontinent.

At the marketplace, which has existed since British times, the verandahs were (and still are) lined with men sitting on low plastic stools in garish colours. While nowadays, they show you patterns on their smartphones, earlier there were scraggly drawings on paper that were practically falling apart, which were replaced by faded photographs as I grew older. One other thing that has changed is the length of the serpentine queues of women awaiting their turn. After a long wait, I finally did have something on my tiny hands. Though it was far from satisfactory, I returned elated. By this time I was too exhausted and promptly dropped off to sleep but not before noticing that my clothes, shoes and accessories had been laid out in preparation for the next day. Pro hint: No internet, 24x7 cable TV, Netflix or social media to keep us, the 80s kids, up till midnight or even 10 pm.

The sense of elation that you woke up with on the day of the festival when you are young is something that can never be replicated as an adult. Once you are a grown-up, you might just have to satisfy yourself with the poor and really, really distant cousin of that feeling. All the men in the extended family, dressed in crisp white chikan kurtas and wearing itr, trooped off to the Eidgah for the ceremonial prayers. On their way back, they would visit relatives. My father would make sure to come back with fresh flowers to be placed all over the house.

In the meantime, we showered and dressed while a table, practically creaking under the weight of the food, was set up. And it was time for two of my favourite things — sampling the fare in all three households of the extended family and accumulating Eidi. That is a gift, usually money, that people gave to those who are younger than them. Happy with the princely sum of Rs 2 or Rs 5 from each, at the end of the day there was always a competition of sorts to count who had the largest haul (Yes, I am judging you, iPhone and iPad demanding GenZers). Of course, the system was skewed in favour of the youngest, who received Eidi from the maximum number of people, but the calculations could go a little awry if you knew that people gave a larger sum to their immediate kin as well as to those who were recently married or in a somewhat older age bracket.

Soon the guests would start arriving and this needed an intricate balancing act. Some of them had sewaiyan, others were partial to snacks, still others dug into just non-vegetarian fare while others partook just vegetarian. My mother knew the preference of each of the never-ending stream of visitors and ensured that everything went off without a hitch. Of course, for children, more visitors translated into a rising graph for Eidi and thus, were eagerly awaited, never mind the endless running to and fro from the kitchen to the dining area to replenish snacks (never food, which we could drop, mind you).

At dinner, the married daughters of the house along with their brood usually trooped in. And so, yes, more moolah found its way into our pockets.

Fast forward to 2021, my six-year-old niece is probably looking forward to Eid as much as I did in our ancestral home. But the world has changed and how. The festivities would be low-key. Her baba would not be heading out for the congregational prayers, nor would she be riding with him to the market to pick stuff. Eidi is bound to witness a severe dip, a second time around, as visitors are not coming in for sure. Yes, one of her aunts would certainly indulge her and decorate her hands with henna and she will wear new clothes. The firewall that my sister-in-law creates has ensured some protection for the young one from the pall of gloom that has descended all around us but Eid would certainly not be the same. As someone pointed out, “When more shrouds are being sold than new clothes in the city, do you think we can celebrate Eid?”