Eid and the joys of childhood

When I was a small girl, it was our Eid tradition to celebrate ‘roza’ Eid in Dhaka and qurbani Eid with my grandparents in Shibpur, Narsingdi. And my father would always visit his mother on the day after ‘roza’ Eid too, until she fell ill and came to live in Dhaka.

I remember one Eid my grandmother decided to go to her father’s home in Shantanpara, Ghorasal. But who would go with her? Who else but yours truly, her eldest grandchild. Naturally. After having enjoyed parent-free freedom of several summer holidays at my grandmother’s place, who could resist this added Eid fun?

Dadu (as I called my grandmother) and I reached Shantanpara on the night before Eid. It was quite an occasion -- Nur Begum and her granddaughter had come to celebrate Eid! What preparations! Spices being ground throughout the night, women and girls thronging the place to meet us, the air filled with the chatter, laughter and the jingle of their glass bangles.

At nightfall, the little oil lamps and the lanterns emitted an enchanting aura of light. Mother had packed my new Eid clothes for me, but my aunt Lata Phuphu spent the whole night at her sewing machine making me a new frock. Every time I woke in the night, I saw her bent over the sewing machine. I can still hear that relentless whirring of the wheel...

In the early morning when the men had set off to the mosque to offer their Eid prayers, Lata Phuphu was sewing the buttons on my dress. I was in a fix. What do I wear? The dress my mother gave me or this one phuphu had sewn? Of course, it was an easy decision when I saw that look of achievement in my aunt’s eyes after spending the entire night making my dress.

All dressed up and ready, I set off to scour the neighbourhood. Wherever I went I was given such lovingly cooked delicious meals - from hand-made semai to polau cooked in mustard oil. “This is Nur Begum’s granddaughter!” What honour to be treated in such a grand manner! I still remember that Eid so vividly. Lata Phuphu has passed away, but I can still smell the fabric of that new dress.

Much later on, we would live in Lalmatia New Colony at Asad Gate, Dhaka, due to my mother’s workplace. We were super sleuths before Eid, trying to find out who was going to wear what on the special day. We would resort to all sorts of strategies and tactics. Every day my mother would return from work and sit at the sewing machine making our new clothes. She would measure the cloth and maybe hang it on the mosquito net frame and our neighbouring girls Bishakha, Bipasha or Monica would waste no time to peep through the window and get a glimpse of my dress! Then in the afternoon when we would go to play, they would laugh and tease me, “Seen your dress, purple with big flowers!” And tears of frustration would flow down my cheeks. Today’s generation who take selfies with their Eid dresses in the shopping centres and share it with the friends over the social media long before the day, will never know that pain.

Once I was trying so hard to find out what the two sisters Bishakha and Bipasha would be wearing, but all my efforts were futile. It would be so hard to digest such defeat. They were on top alert. But good fortune struck! Their maid was sweeping the house and threw out some rags and snippets of fabric and that gave it all away! It was the greatest clue I could have got! I said nothing, but when we were playing that afternoon, I just had a little piece of the fabric wrapped around my wrist. How they howled and cried! That night their father had to go out and buy them new clothes, the only way to assuage their agony.

Those were the days. We would use calendar pages to cover our school books, like dressing the book in new clothes. The curtains, bedcovers, pillow cases, cushion covers would all be washed and ironed. Ranjana’s mother of Building No. 10 would starch their white table cloths. Then invariably after lunch, Ranjana’s father would wipe his hands with the corner of the tablecloth. And the couple would get into that inevitable squabble over the soiled tablecloth.

Each house has their own special dish and we would go around the neighbourhood, visiting, tasting this and nibbling at that. Some houses were famous for their zarda and firni, some for their shami kebab, some for their roast and some for chatpati. No one would bother to invite anyone, it was open house for all.

We would go and salaam the elders and collect our ‘salaami’ - 2 taka, five taka, 10 taka - and would be overjoyed. At night we would eat at home, hurriedly finishing dinner by nine so we could watch the special programme Anandamela and the Eid play on BTV. Even guests would sit around the TV to watch the Eid specials. It has all changed. I don’t remember the last time when everyone gathered around the TV set together.

Prothom Alo had a feature on Eid clothes for children and it was titled ‘Eid is for the little one.’ How true! Nostalgia takes us back to those days. Now, as an adult, there is joy, but the responsibilities outweigh that carefree happiness. Perhaps this is joy too.

* This piece appeared in Prothom Alo’s special Eid magazine ‘Barnil Eid’ and has been rewritten in English by Ayesha Kabir