I was woken up by a loud noise. I rubbed my eyes and took a look around the room only to find that everyone was asleep. The noise that I had heard was the one in my head. Every year whenever there’s a festival, I am woken up by the same loud noise. Since I’m a festive person, this works for me.
So I run to my mum (who’s sleeping too) and try to wake her up. “Go back to bed,” she says, checking the alarm clock. “It’s only 5 a.m.” “But you’ve gotta wake up, its festival time.” “Send her to Amma,” says dad with his eyes still closed. Amma is my grandmother. Everyone calls her that. Everyone! Even the people in the colony. The joy that I get from hearing that is phenomenal. So I rush to the main door of my house to swing it open but, how on earth can a tiny, 6 year old girl open a big wooden door? After trying several times, I give up. And so does my mum. She gets up from her bed and opens the door for me.
It’s a 2 minutes’ walk from my place to Amma’s. The door is open and this gives me more happiness than any truck full of chocolates would ever give because an open door indicates that Amma is awake. “Eid Mubarak,” I greet as I let myself in and see Amma in the kitchen. She’s a lovely person. The moment she sees me, she showers me with hugs. She smells good. It’s the attar, I’m sure.
“Eid Mubarak,” Maamu (my maternal uncle) says. He comes in, greets and hugs everyone and hands me a bunch of beautiful red roses. The fresh smell of the roses makes me miss Abba (my grandfather) more. “All set to meet Abba?” asks Maamu. I haven’t met Abba in a year. I nod in a yes and smile at Maamu.
After two hours, all my cousins assemble near Amma’s house. Everyone is excited to meet Abba. Maamu takes the lead and we follow.
After walking for about 7 minutes, we arrive at the place where we meet Abba every year on Eid. We let ourselves in. Another minute’s walk, takes us to that place where he sleeps. There he is! There is Abba. There he lies, in his grave, peacefully. We shower his grave with rose petals and pray. I don’t remember my grandfather’s face. I was 2 years old when he passed away. The only thing I remember is his beard. My mum says I spent every minute of my existence of those two years with Abba. I guess that’s the reason why I miss him so much. Every time I go to his grave, I never feel like leaving. I wanna stay there, near him.
I’m 17 years old now. It’s been 7 years since I met Abba. It’s Eid, today. And I wanna go to him again. But I can’t. My mum says I’ve hit puberty and girls become sensitive to the negative energies around.
Eid will never be the same again. And I will never see Abba again.
