Cov-Eid. (Or atleast how it should have been.)
I woke up to the gentle sound of my Mum calling up the stairs. “Shaymaaa….! Shayma…? Wake up, we need to get ready for Eid namaaz .” Her voice a brilliant balance of being quiet enough, acknowledging that people in the house were still asleep and the birds tweeting outside was the only sound you could hear, but also firm enough to ensure that I didn’t just roll over and go back to sleep again. Eid morning always held the same atmosphere; the sound of a random police siren wailing in the far distance, the clanking of a metal spoon against an Indian pot, ladling litres of creamy sev- milk, steam rising and making the windows go cloudy, as my Mum crushed vermicelli and sprinkled it into the potion along with chopped almonds and pistachios. Her magic concoction bubbling away temptingly. The smell of cardamom, cinnamon and sugar swirling around our kitchen, luring my groggy-eyed, Albert-Einstein-haired self into the kitchen and leading me, slowly…slowly… Another loud CLANK! ...
