Eid Prayers – Then and Now
By S. N. Burney New York

The derivation of a need for religion from the child’s feeling of helplessness and the longing it evokes for a father seems to me incontrovertible, especially since this feeling is not simply carried on from childhood days but is kept alive perpetually by the fear of what the superior power of fate will bring. - Sigmund Freud Back in the days when everyone was either old and wise or young and stupid, Eid fell on a miserably cold December day. Festive days were the occasions when all my uncles, aunts and cousins converged on our house – my father being the eldest.

He, who would forgive his offspring for not offering Fajr prayers in extreme weather, would yank our heads in cold water to ensure that we were up and dressed for Eid prayers. Unable to afford new clothes, we were required putting on freshly laundered shirt and (drawstring) trousers starched razor sharp scratching our bottoms, making the two-mile walk to the Eidgah, even more miserable. Our hair which was already cropped close by an itinerant barber the preceding day was, after a lukewarm bath, soaked in coconut oil stood erect in the cold weather like that of a punk. Our mother stitched tassels on our worn out Turki Topee – then a hallmark of a Muslim.

My father liked us to be presentable under the penetrating gaze of the predominantly Hindu inhabitants of that small town. We were made to believe that walking to and returning from the Eidgah via different routes, would awe the Hindu population by sheer number and strength (It hardly made any difference during communal riots). Surprisingly, I don’t remember having any reasonably warm outer-wears and wonder how we braved that bitter cold marching behind our father who had the youngest of us in the crook of his arm. On our way back, father would indulge in buying – paper goggles for the older brood and balloons for the younger ones. Then partition took place and our lives transformed in different ways and in a fractured time-scheme.

A couple of Eids did fall in winter. But there was no one to yank our heads in cold water forcing us to march to prayers. Eidgahs ceased being of any significance since every mosque (there were actually more than one) within a radius of a few hundred yards functioned as such. So did the prayers and Turki topee. All young heads were covered with long shoulder-length hair. Bell-bottom pants and printed shirts replaced the starched shirt and drawstring trousers. Show of strength confined only to defying government-designated Eid day. Economic disparities replaced the feelings of oneness and community by class-consciousness.

The old blood-warmth and togetherness collapsed and each one of us thought of self in ‘apartness’ splitting the family fabric in the middle. To make matters worse, a storm of so-called ‘socialism’ transformed the ‘land of the pure’ into Tunisia under Bourguiba. Islamic garbs and disposition were looked down upon with suspicion and disdain. And suddenly, mosques, prayers, Eids, Ramadan fell out of fashion. All the ‘past’ and the ‘future’ coalesced into ‘live-for- today’. The key link in the chain of ‘being’ snapped without a whimper. To be on the side of the law, one had to be on the opposite side of the religion. This, however, proved to be ephemeral and State’s obsession with obliterating traces of traditions and social structure lead to the most squalid of confrontation. The phase passed leaving its own scars on people’s psyche.

Then a religious renaissance - of sorts – was experienced. It almost bordered on hypocrisy and every workplace became a mosque. Beards sprouted overnight on the faces of high government officials. Sherwanis replaced western suits and neckties. Minor functionaries attended offices looking like unmade beds in their disheveled salwar kameez and slippers. Public urinals paled in comparison with bathrooms in office buildings. It took unpretentious normalcy a decade to return, albeit again leaving indentations on people’s conscience. It is now the United States of America. And it is bitter, nay cruel, cold outside on Eid day. Déjà vu has taken hold of my senses.

The night before I looked at determined orange streetlights and the gush of rain that passed through the circumscribed territory of shining bulbs. There is no Eidgah, no compulsion on wearing a Turki topee or one at all. Bundled in layers on layers of warm clothes (you can’t afford to have none) my son and I spend an hour to find a place to offer Eid prayers. As we travel down the black roads with puddles in its fringes, bare trees look like people standing solemnly talking to each other. The mosque nearest us presented a deserted look. Not only that it was locked, it had no indication or notice of any kind guiding us to the venue of Eid prayers. We wait.

There is a carload of Muslims – from countries other than mine – who are also on the same mission. No ethnic newspaper gave any clue of the time and place of the congregation. Where to go? Better skip! There is no one to force us to prostrate before the Almighty for His bounties. My son, however, doesn’t give up and instinctively we follow the car of a family dressed for the occasion, and eventually arrive at the makeshift Eidgah.

The makeshift Eidgah turns out to be a club. The only space left is in the enclosure meant to serve liqueur to its members. It’s mighty kind of them to make the place available. The stench permeating the enclosure is nauseating. The full-size mirrors mounted on the four walls stare back whenever I dare to look ahead. Diabolical rattling of cars outside and cruel electric lights inside are piercing my ears and eyes. But, I am making the best of a hopeless situation.

 

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Editor: Akhtar M. Faruqui
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