Eid

It was warm. 

Not just the weather, but the ambience of the house as it was, filled with general noise of the entire extended family who would gather at our grandmother’s house during Eid. The chatter of the cousins and the pitter patter of little feet as the young ones gleefully ran around the house, enamoured by the sudden influx of people to play with. 

My grandmother, still strong at 83, even if she was starting to become hunchbacked, walking around the house in her telekung, her face wreathed in smiles as she gazed unto the jolly scene. 

It was the night before Eid. 

We all gathered and listened to the takbir from mosque in front of my grandmother’s house, a haunting call that brought forth a certain nostalgia, a memory of the same gathering that we would have every year. It was a call that reminded us that it was the end of Ramadhan, but a joy to celebrate the incoming Eid. 

My uncle, the storyteller of the family, weaved stories to us, reminders of religion and our responsibilities in his usual humourous fashion as the family gathered around to listen, and remember; the stories of our past, our heritage, our family. He reminded us that many Muslims would mourn the leaving of Ramadhan, because of its numerous blessings, but he also reminded us how Eid was a gift that was given to us, and one that should be spent wisely. 

We would sit and dream in those moments, and laugh with each other. 

This is the scene that I will remember. 

This is the scene that resonates deepest within.