“Bismillahi-rahman-ni-rahim.”
The Imam began his recitation of the Qur’an, in front of the waves of worshippers who had gathered there to pray. Wafts of saffron, sandalwood and amber blended into a sweet and musky concoction that whirled around the colourful panjabis and salwar kameez draping the congregation.
Donning my own sleek little Bangladeshi panjabi, I stood next to my dad, peering up at him through my peripherals as I enthusiastically attempted to mimic his every movement.
As the Imam uttered the final syllables of prayer, the sacred silence that had just possessed the room gave way to eruptions of elation. Jubilant exclamations of “Eid Mubarak” could be heard ringing around the room, as every man turned to hug those around him in celebration of the end of Ramadan.
Nayeem and his dad, aged 4, dressed for Eid. Source: Supplied
For my dad and I, it was customary for us to embrace each other first, before parting ways to greet our endless number of uncles and cousins. We would then reunite outside of the gates of the local primary school that was hired as a makeshift prayer space, to indulge in freshly piped, deep-fried circles of sweet gold: jilapi.
As an adult I had disengaged from religion, a process accelerated by moving out of home last year. However, not having my family by my side during this time has shifted my perspective of post-Ramadan Eid ul-Fitr celebration, from viewing it solely through a religious lens, to recognising its importance in connecting me to my culture and family.
This year, observing my first Ramadan away from home has been difficult. The reality has often involved dragging myself out of bed for the pre-dawn meal, only to eat a bowl of plain porridge alone. As I continue struggling to maintain the customs that I grew up with, I now more greatly appreciate my parents for their ability to keep alive and pass down their traditions after having migrated to a different country.
Nayeem's dad on Eid in 2003. Source: Supplied
The Eid prayer service was more than just an expression of faith, but one of the few limited bonding experiences I shared with my dad while growing up.
As dad had spent most of his time in my formative years working hard to develop the small business that supported our family, and many of our extended family in Bangladesh, Eid was one of the only days throughout the year where he would take time off. While other Australian dads bonded with their sons by taking them to the local oval to watch their favourite footy team play, Eid prayer was my dad’s way of showing his son how he perceived the world, and what he was passionate about.
Eid is not practised homogenously amongst Muslims, and so for me, every custom and curry, provides a little more insight into the centuries-old culture of Bengali Muslims. Growing up in Australia, this occasion has always represented one of the only times where I have had the opportunity to proudly celebrate our Bengali heritage and traditions.
Nayeem Halim. Source: Supplied
Nayeem with his mum, dad and sister on Eid in 2005. . Source: Supplied
For Eid, my mum would wake up in the cold hours of dawn, to prepare a feast that could quite literally feed an entire village. As I stepped foot into the kitchen, the smell of polau lightly fried basmati rice, infused with a mouth-watering combination of ghee, roasted garlic, ginger, garam masala and the subtle yet sweet hint of rose water, seeped out of a gigantic metal pot larger than my small head, and beckoned me closer.
“Not yet,” my mum said with a gentle smile. She wore an elegant blue salwar kameez, embroidered with silver jewels and complex patterns, and accompanied it with blue bangles on her wrists, and a dark, round bindi on her forehead.
Behind her, the countertop next to the pilau appeared to overflow with platefuls of curries and side dishes. Chicken tikka, fresh and steaming hot from the oven, sizzling lamb curry, marinated with special spices, sour yoghurt, and aloo bukhara, large pink prawns, soaked in a sweet coconut milk-based curry, beef, chicken, fish, vegetables - every type of curry that I could imagine, and more, was squeezed on the counter top. Now all that was left to do was wait for the arrival of our extended family, so that the banquet could commence.
While for me, Ramadan may not have revealed many spiritual insights, I feel privileged to be able to return home and celebrate Eid this year to stand by my dad. I look forward to the occasion with an eager anticipation to deepen connections to my family and culture, and also admittedly, with a revived hankering for fresh, warm jilapi.
Eid feast - lamb curry, a fish curry, prawn curry, fried kebabs made out of beef and potato, polau, chicken and salad. Source: Supplied
Nayeem Halim and his mum. Source: Supplied
Nayeem Halim is an emerging writer who is passionate about increased representation of the South Asian diaspora within contemporary discourse. You can follow Nayeem on Twitter
