By Irza Waraich
There’s always been a need to make a holiday perfect in my household. Eid was no different. In the lead-up to Eid, I loved the 30 days of Ramadan for the spring rolls my sister and I prepared and the fried foods that ended our 12-hour fast. Yet I grew anxious when Eid approached, as the lessons of tolerance and gratitude that filled Ramadan seemed to wash away in the chaos.
On Eid morning, we awoke to the smell of fried puris, halva, chana salad, and kheer — foods my mom had hurriedly prepared the night before after breaking the final fast of Ramadan.
My family started Eid at 6 a.m., with my dad and brother squabbling at home before attending Eid prayer at the local mosque.
“We could pray at home,” or “just go without me,” my brother would tell my dad. But he wouldn’t listen. How could he be the only father without a child by his side? In front of our relatives?
When they returned, we had breakfast. That’s when the complaints would start. “The food is too bland,” my dad would say while one of us — except for him — would inevitably have to get up mid-meal to fetch some obscure seasoning. It was part of the holiday routine – no objections allowed. We sat around the table, and my dad would unfavorably compare my sister and me to Uncle Sadiq’s daughters, who attended an Islamic school.
But the problem was never religion. It was the expectation that the day’s events had to unfold according to my dad’s wishes. The stress of this production — coupled with his behavior and commentary — soured the holiday itself.
Those days are behind us now.
Over the years, we all set boundaries for the better — my dad unwillingly obliged. My sister and I agreed with our mom that dinner plans should no longer include the five of us. My brother took it even further and moved out three years ago to escape the constant rifts. He decided to visit on some weekends but knew staying in his Brooklyn apartment for Eid was best. We haven’t done many activities or holidays as a family anymore, as it always made room for chaos to ensue.
Thanksgiving, however, feels a lot different—it’s the only other holiday we celebrate. While past Thanksgivings have had their hiccups, this holiday was flexible and free from the constraints of a set routine.
My brother was in Las Vegas with friends this Thanksgiving, and my dad was on a flight back from Pakistan. That left my mom, sister, and I to change tradition and opt for a burdenless, male-free celebration. We didn’t worry about what could go wrong and didn’t take a single moment for granted.
We also welcomed our first outsider: Maha, my cousin on my dad’s side, an international student at Stony Brook University. I’m certain we share no blood relation, yet we’re related in four different ways I can’t quite recall — one of which makes me her aunt.
I first met Maha at her home in Islamabad when I was five. I got to know her better at 15 when she visited us in New York, where we bonded over our love for cheeseburgers and The Metropolitan Museum. We call her a “true American” as she’s already chosen which American holidays she’ll celebrate in the future, regardless of where in the world she ends up.
Maha was beyond excited to celebrate with us, and so were we. The night before, she begged us to watch Chandni, a 1989 Bollywood film. As we watched, she fantasized about the dinner table, the food we’d cook, and how we’d share what we’re thankful for — a Thanksgiving tradition we had never done before.
The cooking started Thanksgiving afternoon, with the movie “Home Alone 1” playing in the background. My mom marinated the chicken and prepared the sweet potatoes and chaat masala corn on the cob. With lackluster cooking skills, I decided to make garlic parmesan fries from scratch and help with the cleaning. Maha initially spectated to see how we celebrate Thanksgiving, and it didn’t take long before she eagerly jumped in to make mashed potatoes. My sister woke up from her nap, got to work on the apple crumble, prepped her famous soupy lasagna, and had us try brussels sprouts for the first time.
The four of us squeezed into the kitchen, which was only big enough for two to work at a time. Chandni stayed in our heads as we sang the lyrics to its main song, “Chandni, O meri Chandni.”
Soon, Maha and my mom began scheming about a speech they’d give at the table to introduce Maha to the “American community” and being blessed by “the American god.” It was incredibly cheesy and nonsensical.
But Maha was in awe of everything — “the vibes” — including that it was just us women cooking for ourselves.
“I wish all Thanksgivings could not have men,” she said.
We couldn’t agree with her more through our silence. These were the few hours when my mom could forget about my dad’s habits and my brother leaving. It was a day that relieved me as I reminded myself that new traditions could still be created. As we zoomed around the kitchen in our messy clothes and the sound of old Bollywood ringed our ears, nothing mattered more than the spontaneity of our actions.
After four hours in the kitchen, it was time to feast. We changed our shirts, stayed in our pajamas, and took out the decades-old plates reserved for guests. But before we ate, my mom delivered the unserious speech Maha wrote for her to fulfill her wish of saying what we’re thankful for.
Maha was the first to share what she’s thankful for.
“I’m thankful for Jesus for putting this food on the table,” she said, laughing and fake-crying. I’m thankful for everything.”