Peerzada Masarat Shah
Eid-ul-Fitr is celebrated across the world with joy, marking the end of the sacred month of fasting. Weeks before the moon is sighted, preparations begin—markets come alive, homes are cleaned, and hearts quietly prepare for a day of gratitude. Children wait eagerly for Eidi, their excitement unmatched, while elders find peace in seeking forgiveness and renewing their faith. It is not just a festival—it is an emotion that binds families, especially the quiet understanding shared between a husband and wife who hold a home together.
This year, however, my Eid feels different.
My husband, Muhammad Badrudduja Jan, could not get enough leave to be home, so we decided to spend Eid in Delhi. After completing thirty days of fasting, I waited for Eid with hope—but when it arrived, something felt missing. The joy was there, but it was quieter, distant… almost incomplete.
This Eid, I find myself celebrating without him by my side. There is an ache in that absence, but also pride. Duty has called him away, and while my heart longs for togetherness, I pray that Allah accepts his efforts and reunites us soon.
In moments like these, I think of those who serve tirelessly—our forces, emergency workers—people who stand guard while the rest of us celebrate. They too have families, children waiting at the door, eyes searching for someone who cannot come home. Festivals, for them, are often a silent sacrifice. And for their loved ones, Eid carries a different kind of heaviness—the kind that hides behind new clothes, forced smiles, and eyes that quietly tell stories of longing.
Back home in Kashmir, Eid is not just celebrated—it is lived.
The entire valley breathes differently. Markets overflow with life, tailors become the most important people in town, and homes buzz with laughter and last-minute preparations. There is a shared excitement in the air—friends discussing what to wear, mothers perfecting dishes, children counting hours until morning.
What you miss in Delhi is what Kashmir gives effortlessly—warmth.
Eid in Kashmir is about belonging. It is about doors that never stay closed, relatives visiting one another without formality, and conversations that stretch for hours over meals filled with love. Elders bless, children laugh, and every home feels like your own.
The day begins with prayers at mosques and Eidgahs, where people stand shoulder to shoulder—equal in faith, united in gratitude. The echoes of “Eid Mubarak” carry across the valley, blending with the serenity of snow-capped mountains and blooming gardens.
And then comes the food—not just meals, but memories served on plates. Rogan Josh, Yakhni, Phirni… each dish prepared with care, each aroma telling a story. Guests are welcomed with saffron Kehwa and traditional bread, not as visitors, but as family.
Eid in Kashmir is peaceful, soulful, and deeply rooted in faith. It is not loud, yet it fills every corner of your heart.
Here in Delhi, Eid exists—but it feels different. The spirit is there, but the intimacy is missing. The familiar sounds, the warmth of close-knit gatherings, the effortless togetherness—they are absent. The food is there, but not the same. The day passes, but it doesn’t linger.
And that is when I realized—Eid is not just about the celebration.
It is about where your heart feels at home.
This Eid has taught me that festivals are not defined by the calendar, but by the people we hold close and the memories we carry within us. Kashmir’s Eid is not just a place—it is a feeling that lives quietly inside me.
And no matter where life takes me, I know one thing for certain—
I will always long for that warmth.
