My sister swigged the juice in three gulps and got up to leave. Our mother called after her, “At least break your fast properly!”

It had been a long and sweltering day. After fasting for 16 hours straight, one wants only to immerse in the meal at Iftar and slowly sip sherbet, allowing its chilled sweetness to run over the parched tongue.

That day, however, was different. It was our twenty-ninth fast. It could be chaand raat (the night of the moon) that marked the end of the month of Ramazan, the night before the celebration of Eidul Fitr, at the end of the month of fasting. And nothing could stop the unstoppable force that was my little sister from finding out. She asked me to tag along. I agreed.

I joined her on the roof after I was done with my evening prayer. We looked on into the twilight. The pink sky turned a darker hue as the night came on.

The crescent moon is difficult to observe. It shows up only for about ten minutes before disappearing into the night sky. It is a thin smile which one can easily miss. Cloudy weather can veil it from the naked eye. An added drawback for us was the forlorn tree that had spread out its branches exactly where the moon could be sighted.

We still tried in the hope of catching a glimpse of it, of being the first ones to scream in our family “Chaand mubarak!” before the news channels could break the news.

We could see a couple of our neighbours on their roofs too. Our father also joined us. Suddenly, he spotted the faintly illuminated smile behind the tree. We eagerly exchanged wishes and hugs, and rushed downstairs to break the news.

We went straight to our uncle and aunt, since they are the eldest in the family. We hugged our mother and aunt three times saying, “Chaand Mubarak!” and took blessings from our uncle. This greeting would be repeated over and over again whenever we met someone.

My aunt was delighted. She smiled, laughed and hugged. Then she took out a pen and paper and proceeded to consult my mother about the long list of ingredients they would require for their delicious, mouth-watering and unmatchable sheer khorma — a traditional dessert prepared for Eid with vermicelli, nuts, dry fruits, milk and sugar.

As the discussion took a turn from food to politics — with my uncle’s sardonic remarks inserted in from time to time, followed by grunts by others — we quietly slipped away to prepare for our most important task at hand, literally — to put mehndi (henna) designs on our hands.

This great task was always entrusted to my elder sister and one of our cousins. They had been doing mehndi designs for as long as I could remember. I was a fussy person when it came to my mehndi. It had to be perfectly symmetrical, neat and tidy. They were both meticulous in making intricate shapes of flowers, leaves and circles.

I had also learnt to make mehndi designs over the years. Although I was not as good, the designs were still passable. But before applying the mehndi, we had to purchase it first.

We took a short trip with our father. The bazaar was lit up with lights. Makeshift stalls were placed on the streets, with vendors selling jewellery, scarves, mehndi and bangles in every conceivable colour. The customers, mostly women, had made their last big dash before Eid to buy a matching scarf, or a pair of earrings. We purchased cone mehndi and bangles, and engaged in a little sightseeing before returning home.

My little sister and younger cousin were the first ones to present their hands. The cause of their eagerness was that having henna on their hands would prevent others from ordering them around. If someone asked them for a glass of water, they would simply smile and show their henna-covered hands.

The rest of the night was spent trying not to get henna on our clothes, or worse, on our face, asking our mother to scratch our nose or to feed us a bite every now and then. She smiled every time she did so.

Exhausted from all the excitement, we fell asleep dreaming of waking up with the perfect henna colour on the Eid morning.

Published in Dawn, Young World, April 1st, 2023