A Lahori Eid

You can tell you’re in Lahore by the color of the inside lining of your nose: Black.

We’ve come to Lahore to spend Eid (the day of feasting that marks the end of Ramadan, the sacred month of fasting) with our extended family. Traveling south from Islamabad to Lahore on the broad sweep of the Motorway, the wide fields and plains give way to crowded, colorful streets and jostling millions.

Cars compete with chand-garis (motorcycle rickshaws), tongas (horse carriages), brightly-decorated vans and silver buses, donkey- or hand-drawn fruit carts, and the occasional cow for space in traffic lanes. And everyone seems to drive , as Baz once put it, with ‘one hand on the horn, one on the wheel and both feet on the gas.’

My father spent his childhood in Lahore; my parents often tell tale of their honeymoon here while my father completed his MB/BS at King Edward Medical College; and we three sisters each have fond memories of visiting, attending business school, or beginning married life here respectively.

Lahore was once known as the Garden City - some parts like Gulberg, Defence, and Cavalry are still reminiscent of that era. In living memory, this was a beautiful place to visit and reside in with Moghul-era forts and mosques, British colonial parks and broad tree-lined avenues, and a romantic neher (canal) meandering through the city lit with tiny lights at night.

The canal now runs black and sluggish through the city. Instead of a garden, Lahore now most often reminds me of an overgrown village which has exploded across the plains of Punjab: animals and people living cheek and jowl, infrastructure spotty across ever-expanding alphabet extention developments, and palatial homes built next to open sewers and sweepers’ colonies.

But as Lahoris say with a shrug, smile and sub-continental head-waggle when describing their incomparable city ‘Lahore, Lahore hai!’ (‘Lahore is Lahore!’): thousands of years of history, culture, art, zest for life, traditions, and feasting make it a city natives never want to leave, expats long for, and people migrate to in droves every day.

Whenever we’re in Lahore we stay with my widowed, youngest Aunt. She provides a home and round-the-clock care for my paternal Grandmother who was paralyzed by a stroke almost eight years ago.

It may sound like a depressing place to spend a joyous holiday on the surface, but entering the house one is immediately aware of a deep sense of light and peace, of being in a serene oasis in the midst of the hectic sprawl of Lahore.

Here, a bed-ridden mother is not a burden but rather an opportunity to serve God through His creation, and to show gratitude for all that my Grandmother did for her children and grandchildren while she was able to. With this attitude and intentionality of action, my Aunt brings love and light to every life that she touches.

Today is the feast day, Eid, in Pakistan. One of the many aspects that I love about Islam is that even feast days are not limited to self-indulgence but, instead, ideally continue to weave the threads of self, family and community together into a rich, communal tapestry - which the absence of even one thread would mar.

It is only by fuflilling our responsibilities to and serving family, neighbors, community, and those who are ill, financially straitened, orphans or travelers that we come to realize the full meaning of a feast day, of ourselves, and, indeed, of life itself.

Islam teaches us that the rizq (sustenance) of the poor is enfolded into the wealth of the rich. The money that we give to them does not belong to us nor is it charity but, rather, it is simply their just share that we are responsible and answerable to God for delivering to them.

In this way money, food, or goods given as zakat and sadaqah (similar in some ways to the Jewish tzedekah or Christian tithing) throughout the year, and especially during Ramadan, provide one way of fulfilling one’s role as caretaker of one’s brothers and sisters in humanity.

The last week of Ramadan brings a growing crescendo of excitement leading up to chand raat (the new moon sighting signaling the close of Ramadan). People throng the bazaars: women choosing colorful glass choorian (bangles) and having intricate henna designs stamped on, men buying squawking toys for their children, and teenage boys sipping sodas and sighing as they watch butterfly-bright, self-consciously giggling girls walking by.

The excitement of chand raat spills into the next morning as everyone wakes early, bathes and puts on new finery to attend Eid prayers. Before the prayers, household members make sure to give fitrana, a small amount of money to ensure that no one goes hungry on God’s sacred feast day.

Since 7 am, the bell at my Aunt’s gate has been ringing as the community streetcleaners, sweepers, gardeners, mailmen on bicycles, dhol-walas, and women and children from the near-by jugis (huts) come to receive their Eidi (an Eid gift, often monetary).

Simultaneously, a stream of relatives has been arriving to pay their respects to my Grandmother and to taste my Aunt’s special Eid halva (dessert made from wheat, clarified butter, and sugar).

It feels strange to sip water or to eat during the day after a month of fasting. Taqwa (God consciousness) is an ideal that Muslims seek to instil deep in their hearts through regular prayer, charity, fasting and many other means. Right now I feel deeply and humbly how great His baraka (blessings) in my life is – even a sip of cool water is imbued with conscious gratitude after weeks of abstinence during sunlight hours.

Like most holidays, Eid is very special for children. My nephew in his starched white and black cotton and nieces in bright red and gold jamavaar (handwoven silk) shalvaar kameez (the Pakistani dress of long shirts and loose trousers), matching tinkling glass bangles and sandals flit like dewy-fresh, laughing roses around the house. They are thrilled to receive Eidi in the form of rupees or toys and to give it too, to the khidmatgaar’s (household helpers) children who play with and serve them year round.

Under five-years old though they all may be, they are already intrinsically involved in each spiritual act that makes up Ramadan, Eid, and being a Muslim, contextualized for their age and understanding.

I love that about my family, Pakistani cultural values, and Ummah (worldwide community of Muslims): religion and spirituality are, to a large extent, still significant, relevant, and ever-evolving concepts in people’s lives.

Striving to deepen our taqwa; hearing the adhan (call to prayer) which rings melodiously through the air daily until it becomes an intrinsic part of us; appreciating God for the infinite baraka in our lives; and caring for our families, neighbors, the elderly, ill, orphans, and poor around us are all spiritual seeds planted young that hold the possibility of a beautiful flowering of faith and works as we grow older.

Eid mubarik – a blessed Eid to all!