THE CHRONICLES OF EID MUBARAK

So as Eid Mubarak came to a stop, or more accurately, the holiday for Eid Mubarak ended yesterday, so did all the joy and happiness that accompanied the festival.

What I learned during the holiday was, if you needed to get things done before Eid, especially if you are living in a city where most of its natives are working outside and would flock around during the holidays, please get it done before the throngs of people flooded the city during the holiday. I had a hard time getting to the nearest 7-Eleven to buy stuff due to the heavy jam surrounding the city.

It just showed that there are many people, either natives of married to one from the city in which I’m living in and the evident is clear every time the holiday comes. The streets are jam packed with cars, all with foreign plate numbers.

One more thing that one can commonly observe during Eid Mubarak is the look on the faces of parents, awaiting their children to come back home. For those whose children did come home, their faces are a give-away of how relieved and proud they are of their children who still care and love them more than anything to endure gruelling traffic jams along the way just to sneak a few days off to meet their family and relatives during Eid Mubarak. And in contrast, the children who did not come back home, either intentionally (due to hard ass spouse who refused to turn the steering wheel back to their in-laws’ house) or unintentionally (due to work commitment and any other unforeseeable circumstances), the parents’ faces are a deep shadow of sadness and hopelessness.

I experienced this first hand in my own household. My foster grandma, who only had two children (my mom who is staying with her and another son) always awaits the return of the prodigal son who came back once a year, always less than 24 hours in the house since his wife thinks that she’s the only one with a family to visit during Eid Mubarak. This has become one the major deterrents in my decision to get married. These horror stories of intolerance and inability to put yourself in your significant other’s shoes. My neighbour’s daughter had the same problem with her husband. Although their families live like 5 minutes away, still the husband insisted that the first Eid Mubarak must be spent at his house, despite the fact that he has 10 other siblings that could keep his mom company while the wife’s mother is a widow and this year, her first Eid Mubarak was spent alone when her three children had to follow their spouse back to their family homes and her youngest who is still unmarried had to spent the first Eid Mubarak working.

I wished that when the time comes for me to get married (although my chances are slim), my significant other and I can come to an agreement on which house we should go to first during Eid Mubarak. Other people I know have this rotation which enables them to spend the first Eid Mubarak alternately. Or should I just find someone near my house whose mom is not as stringent as my neighbour’s daughter’s mother in law? Whatever it is, Eid Mubarak, a season of forgiving and forgetting could turn ugly when neither one in a partnership refuse to back down and reach to a compromise.

Another ugly thing about Eid Mubarak is that utter feeling of laziness to get back to work once the holiday ended. We are not yet contemplated basking in the feeling of merriness and joyfulness and then suddenly, we are jolted back to reality when we have to reset our alarm and get back to our daily routine before the holiday starts. What a suck ass thing it is realizing that you have to go back into being your usual grumpy self once the holiday is off and the work is on.

As for students who are studying far away from home, the moment when the realization hits you that the holiday is over and you have to lug your bag all the way back to where you are studying really sucks even greater asses. The comfort offered by your mommy cooking all your favourite dishes back home really hit home when you are back, alone and depressed in your hostel room or your rented house. I remembered when I studied in JB, when I had to board the bus/train and go back to that god forsaken place called hostel, my tears ran free, as free as Niagara Falls. Knowing I had to be alone and eat foods that are made for garbage, suffering in silence and had to console myself with cheap DVDs and study notes, those were the darkest moments of my life. I am not afraid to admit that sometimes I’d still get nightmares where I had to go back to the hostel. Reminiscing the times when I almost took my own life, out of sheer desperation and hopelessness when everybody around me seemed to have failed me.

And now I had to witness it all over again every time we had to send my brother back to his rented house. The heart ache, the tears streaming down our cheeks faster than mat rempits supermanning their motorcycles illegally on the road and the hope that the weekend will come soon so that our family can be whole and beautiful again when everybody is present at home.

The truth hurts and so does goodbye.

P/S: Nothing like Sunday morning blues (for those living outside of Kelantan, the politically correct term would be Monday morning blues) to keep the creative juice flowing.