Peerzada Masrat Shah
Once, Eid-ul-Adha unfolded in quiet reverence — carried on the creaking wheels of old bicycles down dusty village paths, in the crisp dawn air of open Eidgahs, and in the whispered prayers of families bound by simplicity and faith. Today, for many, it arrives amid the whir of drones capturing cinematic aerial shots, viral Instagram reels synced to soul-stirring nasheeds, and fervent discussions dominated by price tags that ripple through dinner tables and WhatsApp groups. What was once a profound act of devotion has, in parts of society, morphed into a spectacle of display, where the sacred meets the performative.
In the labyrinthine old mohallas of Srinagar, where the scent of pine needles and fresh *sheermal* still perfumes the festive air, 68-year-old Abdul Kareem sits on his weathered porch as the azan echoes through the valley. His hands, calloused from decades of honest labour, fold in quiet reflection. “We didn’t chase ‘premium’ breeds or fret over imported animals,” he recalls with a wistful smile. “My father would spend days at the local *mandi*, bargaining for a modest goat that our modest means could afford. The true joy lay not in acquisition, but in distribution. We walked as a family, carrying portions to neighbours, the widow down the lane, and every door that opened in need. No cameras. No comparisons. Only *barakah* in every shared bite.”
Kareem’s nostalgia resonates across Jammu and Kashmir and beyond. In Kashmir’s vibrant bazaars — from Srinagar’s Residency Road to the bustling lanes of Anantnag and Baramulla — preparations once revolved around communal harmony rather than ostentation. Families saved diligently throughout the year. Mothers prepared *sheer khurma* and phirni with love in modest kitchens. Children beamed with delight over even a single *Eidi* note. The festival embodied unity in a region long tested by trials, reminding believers of the story of Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him), who submitted fully to Allah’s command.
Yet, this sincerity feels increasingly overshadowed in the digital era. As Eid-ul-Adha nears, social media platforms turn into virtual livestock exhibitions. Dramatic videos proliferate: hulking bulls paraded like trophies, imported camels from Rajasthan or Gujarat, and goats with glossy coats fetching prices in lakhs. Captions overflow with “MashAllah,” layered over cinematic scores and aesthetic filters. In Delhi’s Chandni Chowk, Hyderabad’s Old City, Lucknow’s narrow galis, and Srinagar’s expanding animal markets, animals have transcended their ritual role, becoming emblems of status, clout, and algorithmic approval. One viral reel from last year showed a family in Mumbai showcasing a ₹15 lakh bull, complete with slow-motion slaughter footage set to emotional music — sparking admiration from some and quiet discomfort from others.
India’s Eid livestock market remains vast, with estimates placing its annual value between ₹40,000 and ₹45,000 crore. Superior breeds command several lakhs, while exceptional specimens — prized for size, pedigree, or rarity — cross the ₹10 lakh threshold. There is no sin in prosperity or spending within one’s capacity; Islam encourages generosity and excellence in worship. The unease emerges when worship transforms into public performance.
The Human Reality Behind the Glossy Posts
On the outskirts of Lucknow, in a modest settlement of winding alleys and simple homes, Shamim Bano, a widow in her late 40s raising three school-going children, speaks with quiet resilience. “Every year, we wait,” she says, her eyes reflecting quiet endurance. “Some years, kind neighbours send meat, and my children enjoy biryani after months. Other years, it never arrives. When I scroll through videos of people boasting about animals worth crores, I ask: Have they forgotten the story of Hazrat Ibrahim (AS)? The knife was raised not for spectacle, but in utter surrender to Allah’s will. The sacrifice was about obedience and sharing with the less fortunate.”
This chasm between digital glamour and lived deprivation troubles many. Elders, imams delivering Friday sermons in Uttar Pradesh, Rajasthan, and Bihar, and scholars on Muslim platforms urge introspection. They recall the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), who emphasised feeding others as a pinnacle of virtue.
A powerful Quranic reminder grounds the essence of Qurbani:
“It is neither their meat nor their blood that reaches Allah, but it is piety from you that reaches Him.”(Quran 22:37).
The sacrifice is not about grandeur but taqwa — God-consciousness and sincerity. Another Hadith reinforces this: The Prophet ﷺ said, “The best of you are those who feed others.” He also taught that actions are judged by intentions (*niyyah*), underscoring that a humble sacrifice offered with pure heart holds greater weight than an extravagant one tainted by ostentation.
In today’s world, many young Muslims can rattle off current rates for Sirohi goats, Barbari breeds, or Murrah buffaloes with ease, yet spiritual lessons of *tawakkul* (trust in Allah), *ikhlas* (sincerity), and compassion often recede. Social media accelerates this shift. Families once gathered for collective Eid prayers and shared feasts now scatter quickly, phones in hand, seeking ideal angles for Qurbani content. Neighbours who once exchanged warm visits now engage through distant “likes,” comparing curated highlights that breed envy rather than empathy. In one Delhi neighbourhood last Eid, a family’s decision to forgo a flashy animal and opt for a modest shared Qurbani drew online criticism — “Why so cheap?” — despite quietly feeding 20 needy households.
Traditions That Endure Amid Change
Thankfully, the old spirit persists in many pockets. In the villages of Jammu & Kashmir’s Kupwara and Doda districts, Rajasthan’s rural expanses, Uttar Pradesh’s heartlands, and Kerala’s coastal communities, countless families preserve simplicity. A father and sons divide meat into three equal shares — for family, relatives, and the needy — without fanfare. Women save small sums from household budgets for collective Qurbani, instilling values of participation over pomp in children. These acts rarely trend, yet they capture the festival’s core.
Recent years have witnessed encouraging pushback. Community organisations promote “shared Qurbani” models, where families pool resources for larger animals, maximising distribution. In Kashmir, despite occasional constraints on large gatherings at sites like Jama Masjid, local mosques and neighbourhoods sustain warmth through door-to-door sharing. In a Hyderabad initiative last year, a group of middle-class families pooled funds for multiple goats, distributing portions to over 50 widows and orphans — an act that went largely unposted but deeply felt.
A respected Indian Muslim scholar captured it well: “The greatest Qurbani is not merely of the animal, but of our ego, selfishness, and hunger for worldly validation. True sacrifice purifies the heart and uplifts society.”
Elders like Abdul Kareem often end with moist eyes: “Woh purani Eid hi kuch aur thi” — That old Eid was something else. Their longing is for an era when hearts felt richer despite lighter pockets, when celebrations forged bonds instead of breeding comparison.
Reclaiming the Essence This Eid
Economically, the festival vitalises rural livestock rearers, including Hindu and Muslim farming communities who collaborate in seasonal markets. Its spiritual and social dividends, however, hinge on intention. When Qurbani becomes a contest — “My bull is bigger” — it risks creating hierarchies of “VIP sacrifices” versus ordinary ones, sidelining the vulnerable further.
This Eid-ul-Adha, amid buzzing markets and capturing phones, we must ask: How many homes did our sacrifice brighten? How pure was our intention? Did we remember the poor not only in distribution but in our choices beforehand?
The Prophet ﷺ exemplified this. He performed Qurbani with humility and ensured wide sharing. In one narration, he emphasised that the sacrifice should bring delight to the heart through its acceptance by Allah, not through public acclaim.
The most beautiful Qurbani seldom goes viral. It is the one offered with a trembling hand and sincere heart — feeding a hungry child without expectation, uniting divided neighbours, and dedicated solely for the One who sees every hidden intention.
Eid was never meant to be loud or performative. Its beauty lies in silent charity, shared laughter around modest meals, unfiltered smiles, and open doors for strangers and kin. In a world obsessed with metrics — likes, views, and price tags — the greatest sacrifice may be choosing humility.
That older, warmer Eid still whispers in our choices this season. Let us strive to rediscover it — before the hashtags fade and another year passes. May Allah accept our efforts and grant us the barakah of true ikhlas.
