Thursday, November 04, 2004
Eid Mubarak
Once again, that bane of my existence, Eid, comes along. I suppose it's supposed to be one of those holidays where ideally one should be happy, but it's hard to do when you'd rather just stay at home and relax with a good book or watch a movie than dress up and go meet old people who live far away who you're quilted into visiting because you mostly ignore them the rest of the year. Then they give you Eidee, which is usually about five rupees, which is kind of sweet but odd at the same time. Firstly, a holiday in which you have to lure your kids into by promising them money in exchange for meeting relatives doesn't really strike me as the best way to go. Secondly, there's the comparison. Ramzan is to 'kitnay rozay rakhay' as Eid is to 'kitni Eidee mili', both of which are really annoying questions.
But the most annoying part about Eid are the preparations. It's all well for those who enjoy shopping for clothes and shoes and making appointments at the beauticians to look good for a big day of extortion, but as anyone who knows me would know, I'm not a big fan of 'fashion-shopping'.
Yet, this year, like every year, my mum will drag us all to the houses of relatives who live on opposing corners of Karachi and force us to answer the same annual questions: Which one are you? Where are you studying now? What are you studying now? What do you plan to do after you're done studying? Why didn't your father come along with you to visit us? Where are you headed after us? Where did you go before coming here? I should just prepare an annual statement and hand them out at every house we go to. Then maybe we could have some actual conversation and get to know each other rather than updating the basic file on each other every year.
The worst bit is yet to come, though. When you're talking to a bunch of adults (I still don't count myself as an adult and shall not until I'm good at talking down to kids), they ask you the perfunctory questions, you give the perfunctorily answers, they crack their little jokes, you give a fake laugh, they turn off and talk to the other adults and you speak when they ask you a direct question. However, it's double the fun when you're banished to 'the kids rooms', where other distant relatives closer to your age are hanging out. Now these people are more or less strangers who meet once a year. The burden of making conversation in a silent room of adolescents staring at the lamps falls upon you. You give it a try for a bit, then admit defeat and return to collectively staring at the lamps and the fascinating (you would think) shadow formations they form with various objects in the room. Eventually, like coats or luggage, your parents come to collect you and make that relief inducing gesture with their eyebrows that indicated that you're leaving at last. With an internal sigh of relief, you collect your things and get up and say you goodbyes to complete strangers and leave. Can we go home now? No, we have five more houses to go to and the last one has invited everyone to lunch. Oh great, so I can't even spend my money on some good food instead of being at the mercy of old people's taste in food? Such are the joys of Eid.
Misha
at Thursday, November 04, 2004
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