A Year of Eids

A Year of Eids

Moments, Memories, and the Space Between

When the crescent moon lit the sky in April, it marked the beginning of something special. Eid al-Fitr arrived with the scent of rosewater, the rustle of new clothes, and the hush of heartfelt prayers. For twelve-year-old Zayan, Eid was more than just a festival it was the one day of the year when the world felt whole.

That morning, the house was alive before dawn. Ammi had already filled the kitchen with the sweet smell of sheer khurma and cardamom. Baba was ironing his kurta in the next room, humming a tune he always sang during Eid. Zayan’s little sister, Noor, ran around with mehndi-stained hands, begging everyone to look at her palms.

Zayan smiled to himself as he put on his new shalwar kameez. He glanced at his reflection and wondered if he looked older this year. Baba had told him that fasting builds strength, and Zayan had completed all 30 fasts his first full Ramadan. That strength, however, felt more emotional than physical.

Later, when they returned from Eid prayers, the courtyard echoed with laughter, greetings, and the clinking of bangles and tea cups. Cousins from across town arrived. Gifts exchanged hands. Ammi’s eyes sparkled every time she caught sight of her children playing, and Baba sat on the veranda, quietly observing it all with a serene smile.

But beneath the joy, there was something else. A tension Zayan couldn’t quite name.

That night, after the last guests had gone, Ammi sat in the corner of the room, fingering her tasbih with a worried expression. Zayan overheard hushed voices between her and Baba—words like "layoffs," "rising costs," and "uncertain times." He didn’t fully understand, but he understood enough.

That Eid was joyful. But it was the last one that felt truly complete.

The Months That Followed

Summer came quickly, and with it, change. Baba lost his job at the textile factory. At first, he reassured everyone that it was temporary. He had friends, connections. He would find something else.

But weeks passed, then months. The fridge grew emptier. The air cooler. One day, the TV was gone. The next, Ammi began selling embroidered shawls to neighbors. Noor, once so full of mischief, stopped asking for new things. She played with her broken doll, cradling it like it was whole.

Zayan started noticing the little things: how Baba now lingered in the mosque after prayers, or how Ammi cried softly after phone calls. School fees became harder to manage, and Zayan stopped asking for snacks from the school canteen. He didn’t complain. He wanted to be strong—for them.

Still, the silence grew heavier.

Autumn: A Festival Missed

When the fall festival came—the one their neighborhood celebrated every year with lights and sweets—Zayan stayed home. His best friend, Sameer, called to ask why he wasn’t outside.

“We’re... just staying in this time,” Zayan replied.

The truth was, Ammi didn’t want to be seen. She hadn’t bought new clothes in months. Noor’s shoes had a tear in them. Even Baba, once so full of life, now spoke with his shoulders more than his voice.

Zayan began tutoring younger kids after school to earn a little. He spent his weekends helping Ammi package shawls. Noor, surprisingly, became the family’s joy again—drawing silly faces and dancing around the living room with her doll wrapped in a scarf like a baby.

They found a rhythm in hardship. A way to breathe through the weight.

That afternoon, after the Eid prayers and breakfast, Zayan walked out into the narrow lane outside their home. The sun was warm but gentle, and the scent of cardamom still clung to his sleeves. Children in bright clothes dashed past him, laughter echoing down the alley. The same alley that had once felt quiet, even cold, now felt full of life again.

He stood there for a moment, letting it all sink in. The year had been a long one. Not just by days or months—but by the weight it had carried. A year where he had learned that strength wasn’t in never falling, but in getting up again and again. That joy wasn’t in the size of the celebration, but in the hands you held while celebrating.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Baba approaching, holding two small cones of ice cream.

“Eid Mubarak,” Baba said, handing him one.

Zayan smiled. “Eid Mubarak, Baba.”

They stood there, side by side, watching Noor try to teach her doll how to dance. In that moment, Zayan understood something he hadn't a year ago:

Sometimes, the space between Eids teaches you more than the festivals themselves.

It teaches you how to hold on. How to grow.

How to love quietly and live fully.