An ode to the routine family chaos of Eid
Now we are adults, there are fewer visits from rude relatives but we still descend into our roles as rowdy children
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Life moves fast and schedules don’t always align, so getting my entire immediate family together under one roof is often tricky. But each Big Eid and Small Eid, as we call them, are the only special days when we’re always able to gather together and reconnect.
The experience of Big Eid as a child and Big Eid as an adult are completely different, yet the core ingredients remain: food, family and some form of passive-aggressive bickering over seating arrangements.
As children, the four of us siblings would embark on a well-trodden tour of Greater Glasgow, visiting endless relatives while sparkling in our best clothes, which got tighter and tighter with every house. We’d smile politely as relatives handed out eidi in the form of crisp banknotes into our small hands, silently hoping that this time we might get to hold on to our riches. On the short walk down the driveway back to the car, we’d giddily imagine all the trips to the ice-cream van our yield would provide.
By the time we squished into the back seat, however, our bounty was seized by our parents with promises of safekeeping. We’d never see our eidi again, a grudge we’d hold against our guardian grinches until we were old enough to understand that our gifted money was being donated to charity. Other children deserved ice-cream too.
In those days, Eid felt as if it was dictated by extended family, duty and routine. People would turn up at the house unannounced, sometimes well into the night, disrupting our food comas and lazy board games.
Many relatives were welcomed with genuine warmth, while others triggered a silent but coordinated evacuation by my siblings and me. We perfected the art of hiding, racing upstairs the second we heard the doorbell blare like a warning siren, sometimes forced to sacrifice a slower sibling to endure an endless monologue about some distant cousin’s wedding plans or the nuance of Pakistani politics.
Now we are adults, the Eid Mubarak tour of extended relatives has been efficiently replaced by phone calls and WhatsApp messages. The daytime is spent calling on our cool cousins and the aunts and uncles we’re actually fond of — the ones who don’t pepper us with loaded questions about marriage or our appearance: “Oh, you’re looking healthy.” There are only so many times you can nod and smile before the urge to drop-kick a nosy aunt surges through your veins.
These days, thankfully, there are fewer visits from rude relatives. But the landline (an otherwise forgotten relic) still rings on and the burden of answering the phone is decided via rock-paper-scissors between me and my siblings. The loser is resigned to an interrogation over marriage status, career accomplishment and complaints by distant relations we’ve never heard of.
After spreading our well wishes and blessed tidings, the evening of Big Eid belongs to us kids, with our parents tapping out when our incessant cross-talk induces a familiar headache.
There is a natural order when we are together, regardless of how long it’s been since we last saw one another. We descend into our roles as rowdy children delivering merciless teasing — an unspoken choreography we fall into without thinking. The youngest sibling still gets the worst seat to watch TV and, as the oldest, the remote is still mine. Lounging in the living room, suffering from a collective carb hangover with the people I love most in the world is my idea of perfection.
Even after all these years, the routine is the same. We begin the day determined to make an effort with new outfits, fresh haircuts and perfectly applied eyeliner, rocking up to our childhood home red carpet ready. Yet, within an hour, we’ve already changed into our eating clothes: loose, comfortable and a little raggedy. (Haldi stains are a bitch to get out.)
The feast made from scratch by our talented mother never fails to have us salivating from the minute we enter the front door. Before we dig in, we help Mum package up fresh food that we deliver to our neighbours. A small but satisfying ritual that has endured over time.
After the meal, we convince ourselves this will be the year we pick something new to watch while digesting, spending an obscene amount of time scrolling different apps until Bad Boys is once again back on the TV screen. We spend the night reminiscing and shouting famous lines from the movie at each other. Our laughter grows louder and more contagious, much like our many petty arguments of the day, yet our bond only grows stronger. Even after roasting each other mercilessly, we never fail to remember how lucky we are.
As adults, once we realised Eid could be experienced on our own terms, the celebration became smaller, but more meaningful. It may sound ungrateful and petulant — perhaps even against the tolerant and peaceful spirit of Eid — but in a culture in which respecting your elders is held above all, regardless of their behaviour, taking back Eid can feel like an act of self-care and respect. Saving your time and energy for those you truly cherish shouldn’t be a compromise at times of celebration.
Now Big Eid belongs to us. We put up decorations and settle into the kind of ridiculous family chaos that makes it feel like we never left home.
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