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VIEW: To sacrifice or ... —Navid Shahzad

While I fret and gnaw at my lower lip about the Eid break, my heart does a terrorised somersault at the prospect of what is to follow soon after. Basant. The city will be overrun by hordes vying for the dubious honour of being voted the best under dressed, flashiest, pouting female escorted by the trendiest effete guy this side of Suez

Eid is here. While I am a great traditionalist as far as such festivals are concerned, I feel a trifle discomfited by the fact that some of the people in the rest of the world may not have much to celebrate about. Planning the menu for a family get together therefore carries a distinctly uncomfortable tilt to it. The choice, more than between biryani and pulao and a Caesar or fresh green salad is between sacrificing an animal and distributing the meat to the neighbourhood poor or making a respectable donation to the Tsunami Relief Fund. I confess I find myself at a loss.

Of course there is another alternative — I could do both; except for the fact that it would very likely reduce me to the end of the line in the queue for a hand out at the end of the month — animal prices being what they are!

Yet another option which I have been seriously toying with is the possibility of taking a vacation. A couple of my friends do that every Eid. Rather than spend days tackling relatives, dishing out Eidee to nephews and nieces who appear to be propagating at the speed of rabbits, washing dishes (since the domestic help is away), making beds and brewing their own tea — they choose the ‘less trodden path’ (will Frost ever forgive me?).

Walks along little goat tracks among the pine-filled air in Nathiagali, picnic lunches packed in baskets, a handsome walking stick in hand for effect (what else?) sound idyllic. Ah! but as the Prince of Denmark would remark — ‘there’s the rub’. Hotels without adequate water supplies, plastic littering the hills, animal and human waste lurking at every twist of the path, mangy dogs and cattle roaming freely and denuded wasted trees force a reality check.

Consider yet another scheme (I seem to be at my devious best this week), book into a five star hotel, flush the mobile down the closet, lock the door and swallow the key! Wallow in luxury with housekeeping at its best, room service at its cosiest and cable at its most mundane! A tempting option except that at the end of two days, you may want to kill him (or he you) or better yet; that when you finally emerge after the hibernation, the town may be talking about the clandestine affair that either you or your husband is having in the best watering hole in town!

Of course, if the worst comes to the first, you could put up a For Sale sign on the house, shut the gates and duck around every time someone comes and honks. It will certainly provide the opportunity to flap around in a pair of ancient pyjamas that you thought you had thrown away sixteen years ago, or enjoy a blissful escape from dyeing your hair. However, the happiness may be short lived in the wake of rumours about bankruptcy or other related financial issues.

While I fret and gnaw at my lower lip about the Eid break, my heart does a terrorised somersault at the prospect of what is to follow soon after. Basant. The word is enough to strike terror into the heart of the timid. The city will be overrun by hordes of merry makers out not to fly kites but vying for the dubious honour of being voted the best under dressed, flashiest, pouting female escorted by the trendiest effete guy this side of Suez. Sunday rags will have a field day with glossy pics of poker-haired girls draped on the arms of full-bellied Lahoris (did no one tell them curly hair is in?). Electricity will play constant hide and seek, the streets will be full of reckless screaming children, and the cleaning woman’s nth child will fall from the roof-top.

I certainly do not mean to be a killjoy for all those who enjoy being dragged from one party to the next but I do recommend a saner, far more pleasant pastime. Invite a few friends to the house, offer them basin ki roti, my mother-in-law’s garlic and red chilli chutney (guaranteed to set fire to the house next door, let alone your palate), aloo ka raita, mooli parathas and two bottles of kaoplex each. Fly a few kites by all means, but better yet, drag out the old mattresses, plonk down on them and sun the day away — rising only for a swig of freshly-squeezed orange juice or just plain good old water. Before you know it the sun will be going down, the birds winging home and the day will be done. Which brings me back to the earth shaking options I have to exercise. Sacrifice or tsunami? In each case, the fatted calf is none other than the householder!

The writer is Dean of the School of Liberal Arts at the Beaconhouse National University, Lahore. Her email address is navidshahzad@hotmail.com

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