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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