The Eid we knew, the Eid we miss !

When I was young the sighting of the Ramadhan Crescent brought an uncontainable surge of joy into our home. As the sliver of the moon emerged from behind the clouds, casting its glow across the night sky, a collective cheer would echo through the air. It was official—Ramadhan had begun, marking the start of our cherished countdown to

Choti Eid. 29 or 30 days! The all-time favourite joke made Eid’s grand appearance— “What if it’s not Eid tomorrow?” Chaos. Pure chaos! The thrill of Eid being announced was as adventurous as it got, a mix of celebration, panic, and an almost immediate urge to start last-minute preparation. The house transformed overnight, a battlefield of clothes, accessories, and someone wailing about a missing Dupatta that was definitely “right here just five minutes ago.”

Eid was more than just a festival. It was an emotion, a heartbeat, a tradition wrapped in the scent of freshly prepared Kahwa, Simmering Yakni, and delicate strands of Saffron dissolving into warm milk. But before Eid, came Arfah : an event in itself. The day that was meant for preparations in reality was a test of patience and dodging parental wrath. The kitchen was a war zone, mothers and aunts ruling with ladles like medieval knights, preparing generations old recipes while the men trying (and mostly failing) to sneak out for the last-minute grocery run. Laughter and spices filled the air, the rhythmic clinking of dishes a steady background score to our bubbling excitement.

But let’s be honest—the highlight of the day? The Bakery trip.

Oh, the Bakery! If there was one place that could turn us into wide-eyed children again, it was that humble shop adorned with golden pastries, delicate cookies, and the flakiest patties one could imagine. The glass displays were nothing short of magical, reflecting eager faces as we deliberated over our choices, pointing at each sugary delight with the careful precision of a treasure hunter. The joy wasn’t just in the eating; it was in the choosing, the bargaining, the triumphant march home with our precious haul in hand. The only real struggle was resisting the temptation to devour it before reaching home. Every family had their go-to bakery, and skipping it felt like the ultimate betrayal. The same unwavering loyalty extended to butcher shops as well.

Then there was the grand saga of the Eid dress. As a child, my Eid dress wasn’t just an outfit—it was my personal red-carpet moment. The moment it was bought, it became my personal obsession. I would twirl in it, parade around the house, and sneak glances at myself in every reflective surface I could find. My sister, ever the practical one, warned me not to wear it out before Eid morning, but how could I resist?

And the fashion show didn’t end there. The first-day dress was merely the beginning. Eid was a trilogy, a three-day spectacle, each day requiring an outfit more spectacular than the last. The first- day dress was the showstopper, the second-day outfit held an understated elegance, and by the

third day, comfort reigned supreme. Planning it all was an unspoken art, a ritual we all took part in with unwavering devotion.

Eid wasn’t just a day; it was a journey, and my best friend was an inseparable part of it. She lived in the next lane, and every Eid followed a sacred pattern—brunch at her house, Evening nun chai at mine. We collected our eidi with the determination of seasoned professionals, strategizing our routes, maximizing profits, and avoiding the “Oh, but you’re all grown up now” speech that came with an empty handshake. We laughed until our stomachs hurt. It was a day of pure, unfiltered joy, of childhood stretching its arms and holding on tight.

And now? A quick phone call suffices. Life moved forward, as it always does. Responsibilities grew heavier, time became a scarce commodity, and distances turned into more than just miles. But nothing feels quite as tragic as hearing the younger generation sigh that Eid is ‘boring.’

How could it be? Eid hasn’t changed—perhaps we have.

Maybe the convenience has replaced the adventure. The pastries still arrive, but they do so in neat delivery boxes, devoid of the thrill, the hunt, the sweet indecisiveness of the bakery visits. The world has made things easier, but in doing so, has it taken away a little of the joy? There was a time when we documented Eid not for the world, but for ourselves. Old cameras captured memories, not angles. Every blurry, overexposed photo held laughter, love, the warmth of a moment frozen in time.

Today, Eid mornings are often lost in the pursuit of the perfect selfie, the perfect caption, the perfect online presence. We chase validation from strangers while the real magic of Eid —family, togetherness, sheer unadulterated happiness waits patiently in the background, wondering if we will ever look up from our screens long enough to notice. A hundred selfies later, we’re still not satisfied with the lighting.

But maybe, just maybe, the magic isn’t gone. Maybe it’s still there, waiting for us to return to it. Waiting for us to wake up to the feeling of new clothes against our skin, to the giddy thrill of taking crisp Eidi notes, to the warmth of a hug from an elder who smells like attar and home. Eid was never about grandeur. It was never about luxury. It was never about how perfect the photos looked or how expensive the outfits were. It was, and always will be, about the people we love, the memories we make, and the simple, indescribable joy of celebrating together.

And so this year, as the Eid Chand is sighted once more, let us not just prepare for Eid. Let us feel it. Let us embrace it, revel in it, and most importantly—live it the way we once did.

Not for the world, but for ourselves.

Nida Noor, BE Mechanical, currently working remotely with an Aus based company.