EID
The air in Srinagar shimmered with the pulse of anticipation. Eid was only a day away, and the city had turned into a restless, living organism. From dawn till late into the night, the markets throbbed with people — men bargaining over the price of mutton, tailors taking last-minute measurements. Every lane and by-lane carried its own rhythm: the chatter of shopkeepers, the rustle of shopping bags, the laughter of children tugging at their mothers’ shawls, pleading for one more toy, one more packet of sweets.
The market pulsed with a heartbeat of its own — a living mosaic of colour, fragrance, and laughter — and for a moment, it seemed as though the whole city had gathered here for Eid.
Children, their eyes wide with the promise of new clothes and Eidi, darted through the crowds. For them, Eid was not just a festival — it was magic. The new shoes that would squeak when they ran, the cap that would shine in the morning prayers, the sweets that would fill their mouths until they could barely speak — these were the things that mattered.
And yet, amid this clamour of celebration, in a narrow lane that curled through the heart of the old city, stood a small house with a sagging roof and a courtyard no larger than a prayer mat. It belonged to Abdul Qayoom — a daily wage labourer, his palms hardened by years of toil, his back bent under the quiet burden of survival. His wife, Naseema, carried her weariness with grace, moving about the house like a shadow that refused to dim. Together, they lived with their two sons, Javid and Iqbal — boys with eyes bright as morning dew, who had kept every fast through the month of Ramadan with a devotion that outshone their years.
But their Eid was not to be one of joy.
The house, usually filled with the gentle hum of family talk, was hushed that evening. Naseema had washed their only pairs of decent clothes — the ones the boys had worn last Eid — scrubbing them until the water turned murky and the soap ran out. She spread them on the rope to dry, her fingers aching from the scrubbing. Abdul Qayoom sat nearby, silent, his face lit by the dull glow of the lantern. He had gone out that morning, hoping to find some work, but had returned with empty hands. The market was too busy celebrating to hire men like him.
He looked at his sons, who were sitting on the floor, whispering to each other about the next day — about the prayers, the sweets, the laughter they had seen in other homes. He wanted to tell them something comforting, but the words dried in his throat.
Outside, the sounds of Eid echoed through the night — the laughter of neighbours, the distant crackle of fireworks, the songs of children rehearsing for morning. Inside, the small house of Abdul Qayoom held a quieter kind of faith — the kind that endures without reward, that waits without complaint.
On the morning of Eid, they too bathed and wore their freshly washed old clothes. Together, they walked to the Eidgah with the others, offering their prayers beneath the pale blue sky. They had kept every fast through Ramadan with sincerity, but that day, there was no special dish waiting for them at home. Breakfast was the same as any other day — a piece of roti dipped in noon chai — and lunch, a humble meal of lentils and rice. From their doorway, the boys watched the neighbourhood children parade in new dresses, their pockets bulging with Eid money. There was no one to hand them crisp notes or sweets, yet they smiled faintly, as if their patience itself was a kind of celebration.
Having finished their simple lunch, Javid and Iqbal stepped out into the pale warmth of the Eid afternoon. The city still thrummed with celebration — the air filled with the distant echoes of laughter, the faint crackle of fireworks, and the smell of roasted nuts drifting from street stalls. They walked aimlessly, their worn sandals scraping against the cobblestones, until the road opened into Pratap Park, where crowds of children ran in bright new clothes, their joy unburdened and loud.
Stalls lined the pathways, their tables heaped with tin toys, paper windmills, and gaudy trinkets that glittered in the sunlight. Vendors called out over the noise, their voices rising above the hum of the crowd — one selling balloons in bright reds and yellows, another scooping candy floss that swirled like small pink clouds. The park pulsed with life. Children darted through the grass in every direction, their laughter trailing behind them like kites in the wind, while mothers sat in small circles, watching with tired but contented smiles.
Near the entrance, Erina’s icecream shop drew a long line; the soft churn of its machines promising sweetness. Children clutched their cones carefully, licking at the melting edges, their laughter ringing like bells in the sun.
Javid and Iqbal stood watching, their hands tucked into their pockets. They had no money for ice cream, yet they lingered, as though the sweetness in the air could be tasted through longing alone. After a while, the novelty of the park faded, and silence settled between them.
“Let’s walk,” Javid said softly.
They wandered toward Lambert Lane, where the crowd thinned, and the noise of the park faded into a distant hum. Halfway down the road, Iqbal noticed something lying on the asphalt — a small leather bag.
“Bhai, look!” he whispered, bending quickly to pick it up. The bag was old but firm, its brass buckle still intact. They glanced around — no one seemed to be looking. With trembling fingers, Javid unfastened the clasp. Inside were a few photographs, a passport, and a bundle of crisp notes that looked impossibly new.
For a moment, neither spoke. The world around them seemed to still — the laughter from the park now far away, the hum of traffic fading into silence. Then, without a word, Javid snapped the bag shut.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
And together, the two brothers hurried back through the winding lanes, the leather bag clutched tightly between them — unaware that this small discovery would carry more weight than they could yet understand.
When they reached home, the small courtyard was quiet, the evening light pooling softly against the walls. Abdul Qayoom sat in the kitchen, cross-legged near the dying flame of the stove. The faint scent of boiled rice lingered in the air. His face, worn but calm, lifted as the boys entered, their steps hurried, their eyes unusually bright.
“Abba,” Javid said, his voice trembling with excitement. “We found this on the road.”
He placed the leather bag before his father. Abdul Qayoom stared at it for a long moment, the brass buckle glinting in the lantern’s glow. Slowly, he opened it. Inside lay a few photographs, a passport, and a neat bundle of crisp notes.
For a fleeting instant, a spark of relief crossed his face. He imagined Naseema buying a little mutton, the boys tasting mutton khurma for once, perhaps even a new pair of shoes. Eid, he thought, might finally arrive for them too.
But the thought faltered as quickly as it came. His gaze lingered on the money — those clean, untouched notes — and a heaviness crept into his chest. He closed the bag gently, his fingers trembling slightly.
He had fasted through the long days of Ramadan, not out of habit, but out of belief — belief that faith meant restraint, that hunger purified the heart. And now, as he sat before his sons, he felt the weight of a question pressing against his conscience.
Was this how his Eid was meant to come? Through another man’s loss?
He looked up at Javid. “Open the passport,” he said quietly. “See whose it is.”
Javid turned the pages carefully until his eyes stopped at the name. “Ramesh Kumar,” he read. “Address — Habba Kadal.”
Abdul Qayoom nodded slowly, a kind of calm settling over him. “Then we must return it,” he said simply.
He took the bag and stepped out into the cool night. The streets were still alive with the remnants of festivity — laughter echoing from courtyards, the distant pop of fireworks, the faint rhythm of drums drifting through the air. He walked through it all silently, the leather bag pressed to his chest.
Habba Kadal lay across the bridge, its narrow lanes dim and uneven. He asked here and there, knocking on a few doors before someone pointed him to a modest house near the old temple.
A middle-aged man opened the door, his face drawn with worry.
“Are you Ramesh Kumar?” Abdul Qayoom asked.
“Yes,” the man replied cautiously.
“This,” said Abdul Qayoom, holding out the bag, “must be yours.”
Ramesh took it with trembling hands, his eyes widening as he saw the familiar scuff on the leather, the passport, the money still untouched. For a moment, words failed him. Then he clasped Abdul Qayoom’s hands with almost reverent gratitude.
“I thought it was lost forever,” he said, his voice breaking. “You don’t know what this means. It’s good to know people like you still live in this city.”
Abdul Qayoom smiled faintly, a quiet dignity in his eyes. “Sometimes life gives us a chance to choose what is right,” he said quietly. “Today, I chose what I could.”
Faith is measured not by what we gain, but by what we’re willing to forsake.
When he returned home, the lantern was still burning. Naseema was serving dinner — a simple meal of rice and lentils. The boys looked up eagerly as he entered, expecting news of some miracle. He said nothing, only sat beside them and began to eat.
Outside, the fireworks still cracked through the night, bright and fleeting. Inside that small, dim kitchen, peace settled like a blessing. Their Eid might not have been filled with feasts or new clothes, but it carried something rarer — the quiet satisfaction of having done what was right.
And in that silence, faith felt fuller than any table ever could.
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