AS time passes, traditions change. People begin to celebrate differently. There are modifications in the ways of greeting, dressing and socialising. But the events remain the same, and although there is some alteration, the spirit of celebration is never lacking amongst people.

I was a kid of 10 in 2003. Eid, as celebrated then and as celebrated now, is different, and yet, some features remain constant, such as the oh-so-popular eidi and sivayyan. In the early 2000s, majority of the children didn’t have cell phones or internet. A night before Eid, all the kids in the neighbourhood would take to the streets to spot the moon. In those few minutes after twilight, our excitement would be tangible. Holding our breaths, we would collectively turn our faces towards the sky, willing the moon to peep through the clouds.

Even the adults would join us in our quest, and when the moon appeared. A loud cheer would go up, and almost instantly, a multitude of thoughts would hit us.

Dress, jewellery, shoes, ‘mehndi’ (henna), ‘eidi’ … oh, so much to do, so little time! The girls would scurry away in panic. The boys would be calmer — they didn’t have to worry about ‘mehndi’!

I still remember how we would form a little group, go to our mommies for permission, and return with some money for the ‘mehndi’. Though at that time beauty parlours weren’t in abundance, and it was usually brides and older girls who went there to have mehndi put on them by a trained artist.

All the rest of us usually got mehdni applied by a ‘baji’ in the family or neighbourhood or relied on our mums and aunts to oblige us. Once the henna would be applied, we’d bid goodbye to each other. I still recall how, upon reaching home, I’d apply lemon-juice to my hands so the ‘mehdni’ colour would be dark. I fretted about my clothes endlessly, my bangles must all be set out in the right order and, mum, where is the new lip gloss I bought? My poor mum would be in a complete frenzy. I think half the charm of Eid was in the hectic preparations itself.

On the day of Eid, I would be giddy with joy. Leaping up from bed, the first thing to do was to wash off the ‘mehndi’ and admire the colour it left on my hands. Then the bath where I would scrub endlessly, and then time to put on my new clothes! Oh, the bliss of the moment.

That done, I would go to the dressing table, refusing to look in the mirror. Not yet, not until I was fully ready. Hurriedly slipping on all the jewellery, I would call in mum to do my hair. With a cheerful ‘Eid Mubarak’ and a sweet hug, she’d proceed to braid my hair, sometimes even tucking in a flower. After that came the vital make-up application which mum insisted I keep low-keyed, limited to a dash of lip gloss.

The shoes put on, the glance in the mirror taken and I would rush out, joyously receiving the praises from my parents. But praises don’t substitute for Eidi. After a teasing session, I would successfully manage to get Eidi from my parents and brothers. A bowl of vermicelli was a must, of course.

And after I was finished with all this, instead of taking to the social networking sites, friends would step out of their houses and meet each other. Eid cards, greetings and hugs would be exchanged, shrieks emitted at the glorious beauty of each other. The boys, standing off to the side, would try to act smug and casual — typical manly behaviour.

Gradually, the group dispersed as we had relatives to visit or a daawat to attend. And I remember how at every aunt’s/uncle’s place, the stash of money in my small purse would grow some more. Now I can’t help but laugh at how, if an aunt forgot to say how pretty I looked, I’d flip my hair or jangle my bangles until she’d be forced to notice and gush away — exactly like I wanted.

Hence my Eid day would come to a close, and after counting out the cash, I would happily go to sleep, carrying fond memories of the day just passed.