It was Eid.

Mahir Amer
Jul 23, 2017 · 3 min read

It was Eid. I’d spent the night before trying to calm down from the excitement. I even posted a picture of the clothes I was going to wear on Facebook. On a comment section filled with compliments, one comment reminded me to take an umbrella on my way to the mosque. The weather had been inclement for days.

I woke up to the dissonant squeaking of a shovel instead of an “Eid Mubarak”. It is, to this day, the most irritating noise I have ever heard. I was disoriented when I turned to see what it was. Mom was collecting water in a bucket from what seemed like a sea to my hazy eyes. It’d rained all night and our ground floor apartment was flooded to the ankle. If you were to walk outside, though, you’d only see small puddles. It was actually a “flood from the inside”.

You see, over the years the buildings around us had raised their floors, also the roads. Floor elevation was too expensive at that time. So, when it rained too badly the water had only one way to balance the pressure, seep in through small holes in poorly cemented floors like ours. It led to a harrowing set of events: water would seep in, we would pick up shovels and buckets, and we would try to clear it out. And as soon the floor seemed to dry, the stubborn water would seep in again. After a sigh of disappointment, we were back at it again. It never seemed to give up. But neither did we. Mom would collect the water in a bucket and I would carry and then dump it. It was a game of will-power and we won every time. Every time.

It wasn’t much different that day except for the timing. It was Eid, after all. No, I didn’t get to put on my new Punjabi on my way to the mosque. All I could put on were old cloths and an overwhelming sense of despondency. The traditional embracing after the prayers did its bit to bring a tender smile to my face. But after I got back home, I had to get back to work. I was dispirited but I couldn’t let it show. By then it was more about restoring hope in the day than it was about getting the floors clean. The vibrant Orange of my un-worn Punjabi seemed to brighten its dark, gloomy surroundings as I carried buckets.

The sheer amount of water that had seeped in gave it sea-like reflections. Those physical reflections soon turned into emotional ones as I gazed into them. Because, even though there was water in our house, we had food in the kitchen, cloths to wear, a TV to watch, and beds to sleep on. What about people that don’t? How must their Eids be?

As reality intervened in my emotional hiatus, I realized that most of it was cleaned up. The sun started to shine through as the aroma of the customary dishes set the tone. Festivity seemed to resume. It finally started to feel like Eid. I eventually wore my Orange Punjabi. But by the time I did, it was something much more than just a Punjabi. I had earned the right to wear it.

The floods passed; the floors dried; but the impact this incident had lives on.

We have moved into a new home since. Coincidentally, the new place is just 2 buildings away from the old one. Every time it rains, I go over to the window to peek at it and wonder how deep the water must have risen. I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel sad for it. What we went through inside that apartment has given it sentimental value.

And that’s the story of how I put on my orange Punjabi and had the best Eid of my life.

Mahir Amer

Written by

Writer, Romantic, Athlete, Curious.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade