‘It’s that time of the year again!’ say excited TV anchors, enthusiastic kids, worried adults, overburdened darzis, caps lock tweets, knife-sharpening butchers, and pretty much everyone you encounter this week.
Eid, bakras ... and me
‘It’s that time of the year again!’ say excited TV anchors, enthusiastic kids, worried adults, overburdened darzis, caps lock tweets, knife-sharpening butchers, and pretty much everyone you encounter this week. While all these people use a different sentiment to voice this phrase, I use a groan to punctuate my sentence.
Where there are people joining in the jubilance and festivity, this writer is seen stuffing her bag with face masks before leaving her house. Once out, she keeps a lookout for oncoming traffic of animals to dodge racing cows and yapping goats. While this is possible to some extent, it is harder still to avoid mud and dung as they come together as one, so she must always wear closed chappals to avoid physical/skin contact with anything that is brown and on the ground.
Eid-ul-Azha is right around the corner, Karachi is hosting a daawat in its very own streets, and I accurately play the role of a reluctant guest.
While most Pakistanis are actively partaking in the fun, I prepare myself for two weeks of something I like to call ‘4 cows, 1 me’ - a game I have been playing long before ‘4 pics, 1 word’ hit the playstore. It seems as if bonding with animals is on everyone’s agenda except mine. To declare myself uninterested in taking care of my cow could make me wajibul-qatl in the eyes of fellow citizens! Even if that isn’t the case, I won’t be fortunate enough to be spared the ‘burger’ label and will have to endure the misinterpretation of my lack of enthusiasm as an insult to all things cultural and religious.
However, before anyone reaches that conclusion, I shall indignantly rise from my Charpai of Shame and crush all such misconceptions with my poo-stained chappals. Contrary to popular desi belief, I can respect and love the culture of mandis and street tents from a safe distance. For people my age, the spirit of Eid is usually associated with wandering around the neighbourhood to appreciate animals, exchanging stories about the fiercer ones, taking trips to the cattle market for the heck of it, and mingling in all things animal-like.
I, on the other hand, like to look at things on the other side of the sacrifice. While I might shy away from cattle, I do not hesitate to roll up my sleeves and tackle its meat with my own hands. It might be my lack of emotional attachment with the animal which allows me to sharpen knives and join my mother on the table that groans under the weight of raw meat, waiting to be sorted.
Although my hands are always protected by gloves and my nose pleasantly blocked by my own dupatta, there is no hesitance in my butchering. There is a weird sense of satisfaction that flows through me as I sit Indian-style and furiously slice away, the steaks and botis under my mercy. Meat needs to be divided, sorted, packed, distributed and, one way or another, crammed into the poor refrigerator. And I can proudly say I take the lead in most of these jobs.
Skipping the many gory (and graphic) details regarding Eid morning, I finally forego the attire which makes me resemble a militant and prepare for the much awaited barbecue of ribs and botis. So really, I might bore my way through the pre-sacrifice ordeal, but I believe I’m doing okay in the food department. After all, I can’t be the only one who sees steaks and not skins every time I take an unfortunate peak in the tent. Right?
