I remember tugging at my mother’s arm, wanting to stop and play with the goats. Later, as a teenager in Delhi, I wandered through Purani Delhi and Chandni Chowk. I explored the remarkable store of Sardar Mahijit Singh Kaka, who helped bring India’s textile and jewelry history into modern view. Before Eid, goats were tethered outside homes, lovingly cared for. Kaka would gently warn me, “Don’t get too attached.” I understood.
Eid for me is all about the smells. The scent of sewaiyaan frying in ghee. The aroma of qorma wafting through the air. Attar mixed with the monsoon humidity. White kurtas sticking to skin and green bangles sparkling under lights. Urdu greetings echoing in the bustling markets.
Delhi sometimes felt divided. Communities lived close but apart. In contrast, Bombay allowed for more visible interactions. You’d see different neighborhoods—Bohra, Aga Khani, old Muslim areas—each with unique foods and traditions. There, the preparations for Bakr-Eid unfolded in front of your eyes, with bakeries filled and streets transforming for the celebration. And the food was everywhere.
Hassan uncle and Anjum auntie turned their home into a festive haven. Whether in Nagpur or Delhi, our gatherings were filled with laughter. Trays of sewaiyaan, biryani, and egg curry seemed endless. We were Hindu vegetarians, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was sharing and connection.
The adults embodied a grace rooted in Urdu culture—a natural hospitality. Dishes exchanged during Eid would return during Diwali, each carrying a little joy. It felt like a relay race of kindness.
Years later, in New York, my friend Salim shared a simple biryani technique that changed my perspective. Instead of layers, everything cooked together in one pot. When flipped onto a platter, each grain was perfectly flavored, a sign of unity in cooking.
That’s what Eid became for me: not about the spectacle but about integration. Even the sheer khurma, which I call “holy vermicelli pudding” in my cookbook, represents comfort and sanctity.
I think about how food can symbolize family and connection. In films like Faraz Arif Ansari’s, sheer khurma becomes a vessel for love and longing. Food, in its essence, often serves as a bridge in India.
Perhaps that’s why Eid resonates deeply, even for those not raised in the Muslim faith. Its true gift isn’t just the feast; it’s the open doors, the extra plate, and the idea that joy grows when shared.
A recent survey highlights that 73% of people believe shared meals strengthen relationships. This reinforces the notion that festivals like Eid emphasize togetherness over individualism. When we gather around food, we create lasting bonds and cherished memories, making the spirit of Eid endure through generations.
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