eid mornings

I think of Eid mornings in Hyderabad, the sound of the azaan from the eidgah near our childhood home, the smell of sheer khurma wafting from the kitchen, my mother's hands moving deftly as she wraps parathas in foil for the morning prayers. The chaos of getting ready, my father's silences as he ties his turban, the rustle of new clothes, the arguments over who gets to wear what. The walk to the eidgah, the sun already hot, the sound of laughter and chatter, the smell of fresh grass and earth. I don't know how to capture the essence of those mornings, the way the light fell on the faces of the people we met, the way the trees seemed to lean in to listen to our conversations. The eidgah itself, a vast expanse of green, the mihrab a beautiful intricate arch, the imam's voice rising and falling as he leads the prayers. After the prayers, the rush to hug and kiss, the exchange of eid greetings, the smell of perfume and sweat. And then the food, the sheer khurma, the biryani, the kebabs, the falooda. I think of the way the flavors mixed and mingled on my tongue, the way the textures felt in my mouth. The rest of the day, a blur of visits and gifts and food, the sound of laughter and chatter, the smell of perfume and sweat. As the day drew to a close, the sound of the azaan again, the smell of evening prayers, the feel of the sun setting over the city. I don't know how to capture the essence of those days, the way they felt, the way they tasted. All I can do is remember, and hope that someday I can go back and relive those moments.