Eid is Fun!

The ‘eid mela’ was already under way by the time I arrived. I drove up in a twelve-year-old minivan with a dented side and six empty seats, a hand-me-down from my parents, who had no need for it since half the family had moved out. I parked my van amidst corporate spoils such as Lexuses and Benzes, the owners apparent victors of the stock options game. Luxury was, however, a distant second to desi sensibility. Hordes of family imports covered the concrete lot, half the world’s Accords and Camrys that day parked at the Santa Clara County Fairgrounds. A swift two minutes from where I grew up, the Fairgrounds bordered south and east San Jose, an area predominately Hispanic, Vietnamese, and for this one day of the ‘eid mela,’ Pakistani.

The curtain had dropped the day before, and the final act of ‘Ramadan’ was fading from our collective memory. The first of ‘Shawwal’ had arrived, bringing along ‘Eid-ul-Fitr.’ The first of ‘Shawwal’ also brought food - plenty of it - ‘samosas,’ ‘pakoras,’ ‘jalaibiyan,’ chocolate for the children, and once, doughnuts for me. Best doughnuts I had ever eaten. It brought clothes, vibrant excess for the ladies, starched seriousness for the men. It told us to visit close friends and distant ones. It came laden with gifts, and white envelopes holding money, and family pictures snapped at morning-time, and excuses for missing a day of school or work.

And it brought me to an ‘eid mela.’ As I ambled towards the hall, I spotted a makeshift booth, a minivan with an open back parked outside the front door. Olive green shirts and black shirts hung from the suspended door, with more in boxes inside the van. ‘IslamGear.’ I recognized the two young men selling the revolution-through-a-shirt-logo clothing.

“What up?”

“Not much – just selling these shirts out here.”

“Yeah? How much they cost?”

“$12.”

“Cool. I’ll take one - the black one.”

“The black one... here you go. Size large, right?”

“Yeah.”

I still don’t know why I bought one - I had no genuine interest in proclaiming the splendor of Islam through a logo on my chest. But the image of a rebel had been an image I wished to cultivate. Forget the cause – if it draws attention – well then!

I entered the hall. People were everywhere, the immigrant enigma nearly tangible in a place like this. I saw aunties adorned in gold, their jewelry reflecting the florescent lights high above. I saw thugged-out wannabes with more jewelry than their mothers. I saw girls I knew, but they seemed different. I could hardly identify them in their elaborate outfits, hair worn high and stylish. I saw men striving towards absolute austerity, lacking only a ‘Quran,’ but possessing the fistful of beard, the ‘kufi,’ the disapproving glances at the uncovered majority. I saw engineers recently arrived, perhaps sharply dressed by motherland standards, but a few indefinable degrees out of focus here. No matter how hard they tried, the natives knew.

I glanced at the booths lining the wall. At a sparsely populated one, I saw half-bearded students attempting to explain their theories to anyone polite enough to listen. “Only a ‘khalifat’ is capable of handling the world,” they might have said. I saw women sitting alone, in between racks of clothes, waiting for wives of professionals to buy a colorful piece of ready-made clothing. They reminded me of my aunt, of how my brother and I would spend all day with our cousins at the flea-market every Saturday, while my aunt attempted to sell denim jeans to newly arrived Mexicans and desis.

I saw children, this loud bright occasion the perfect opportunity to run around in circles. I saw bored men, bored teenagers, almost no bored children. I saw all these peoples’ fathers and mothers, waiting for their children and grandchildren to stop socializing in English, and come speak to them in Urdu, or perhaps Punjabi.

I saw people I recognized. I saw people who could relate, who had been raised conservative. We recognized each others’ parents, recognized the mother who took us to the flea market to buy six shirts for $10, recognized that we sometimes needed to catch a beating, recognized it wasn’t bizarre we weren’t allowed to watch tv. We had parents who believed they were parents first, and friends maybe never. I saw these kind of parents, and I saw liberal parents.

And the girls! I saw them enveloped in colors, red blending into blue blending into black blending into white blending into green. They stood in flowing ‘shararas’ and ‘ghararas’ and ‘shalwar-kameezes’ that bared slender necks, and bared arms waxed to a mellifluous shine. ‘Mehndi’ could be glimpsed on their hands. They were graceful girls who took jerky steps while walking, due to three-inch heels that arched the back and lifted the butt. Girls that came in shades of bronzed brown, at times chocolate, then coffee, then sandy, then honey. Glossy hair that sometimes cascaded down the back, and sometimes wrapped sophisticatedly around the head. I saw this and conceded: Pakistani girls are beautiful. I ambled about.

I ran into uncles and aunties, friends of my parents. Now that my parents lived in another state, they felt a responsibility perhaps born of my single status, perhaps of knowing me since I was born. A community tether held me close. An uncle noticed me.

“Asslamu alaikum. How are you doing, ‘beta’?”

“I’m fine, Uncle.”

“And your parents?”

“They’re fine.”

“Good, good. ‘Beta,’ you know you should go to school.”

“I know. I plan to.”

“You are the younger generation. It is hard to make it without an education.”

“I know. I plan to.”

“You have to do what’s best for you.”

“Yeah, okay Uncle.”

I did plan to go to school. My paycheck had contained ample money in the beginning, but was falling short lately. A college degree was needed. I understood that my ingenuity and work ethic, being close to none, would get me nowhere in life.

I bumped into a girl I knew somewhat from my days at a local junior college. She was dressed in a white ‘shalwar-kameez,’ and I could picture her parents seeking an established-professional-with-a-good-salary-and-a-good-family-background for her. She was pretty. I spoke to her:

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“HowR 17;re you doing?”

“I’m doing ok. And you?”

“Alright. Just hangin’”

“Yeah, same here. So what college did you transfer to?”

“I kinda didn’t.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Are you still at the jc?”

“No.”

“What do you do then?”

“I drive a truck around. Making deliveries, you know.”

“Oh.”

“So... you went to Berkeley, right?”

“Yeah. I graduated last June. International marketing.”

“Really? So you’re working now?”

“Yeah. For this startup.”

“Oh.”

She had seemed more interested in me when I was in school. Possibilities had been open then. They were closed now.

As I strolled around, I heard news. “He’s working at his dad’s company.” “She got engaged to some doctor.” “He just bought a Beemer coupe.” To which I had to reply, “Yeah, but he lives at home! No rent!”

I walked on. I passed booth after booth. I passed silk hijabs, forgotten Islamic literature, metallic rings inscribed with ‘Allah,’ fragrances with names such as ‘jannat-ul-firdous.’ I passed booths for relief organizations, and booths advocating various forms of revolution. I stopped by one, recognizing one of the brothers behind the table covered with pamphlets and books.

“Asslamu alaikum brother. How is life treating you?”

“Can’t complain. What are you guys up to?”

“Dawah. We’re trying to educate the people.”

“Yeah?”

“Look around you, brother. Free mixing. Women not covering. We’re supposed to be Muslims.”

“But I kinda like hair.”

“We all do, but a woman’s beauty is for her husband only. But seriously, read some of this literature. It will open your eyes.”

“Alright.”

I walked away, seeking a trash can for the literature I had accepted, thinking a woman should be able to decide what to do with her beauty. A few years ago, I would have been a member of a group like that, reading Qutb’s ‘Milestones,’ following the plan outlined in the book. I was blessed by God at the time, given insight into the world’s problems, given the purpose of this life. I was a cliché, wishing to make the world a better place. God has since taken all that away.

I sauntered outside, where a February sun had made its presence known. I stood watching as a lowered import approached on 17” rims, the car a rolling platform for Tupac’s rhymes. The driver stopped in front of me and spoke. I knew him.

“What up, dog?!”

“What up?”

“Just scopin’ the scenery and the greenery. Checking for the honeys.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Already got a couple numbers.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. What about you? What you gonna do later on?”

“Nothing. Hang, you know.”

“Kick it with us. Me and the homies are gonna get f\\*\\*\\*\\*\\* up. Call some of these hos up.”

“I’m cool.”

“Your call.”

“Yeah, my call. I can’t. But do your thing.”

“Yeah. You know I am.”

He drove off, and I decided to leave the ‘mela.’ I turned to the parking lot, looking for my van.