There are many days, but for me, there’s one day in the whole year that feels like it’s been dipped in honey, dusted in cinnamon and sprinkled with stars. A day when the sky stretches a little taller, the breeze smells like rosewater and roasted dreams and the streets, oh, the streets! They shimmer like stories waiting to be told.

That day is Eidul Azha.

Mama says it’s called the day of sacrifice. It began thousands of years ago when Prophet Ibrahim had a dream; a dream sent by Allah. In it, Prophet Ibrahim saw himself sacrificing his beloved son, Ismail, in the name of Allah, as a test of faith. When he obeyed, Allah replaced Ismail with a ram, sending a message for all time; true faith means loving Allah above all else, even the things dearest to our hearts.

That’s why, each year, we offer a sacrifice, not out of sadness, but out of love, remembrance and obedience. It’s not just about meat, (as we all know), it’s a symbolic act, representing a Muslim’s commitment to God and an act of charity.

But to me, a girl with ribboned braids and too many questions, Eidul Azha is also the day the world comes alive in a different language. A language of giving, of laughter and of blessings you can feel in your toes.

Our world came alive when Captain Barkat arrived. He was our sacrificial goat — tall, somber-eyed, with a patch of black fur shaped like a crooked heart and ears that flopped like sleepy fans. I gave him a name worthy of legends, because he wasn’t just a goat. He was a visitor from somewhere special. He carried a silence that made you want to speak softly around him. And when I whispered stories into his ears, about flying carpets, invisible ice cream shops, and rain that sang lullabies, he’d blink slowly, as if filing them away in a secret compartment of his brain.

The night before Eid was a hush of magic. Mama’s bangles clicked like gentle chimes as she stirred the kheer, her face lit by the stove’s glow and something softer, maybe a prayer. My new outfit was on the chair by my bed, like a sleeping starfish — turquoise and gold, stitched with the kind of care only a mother knows. I fell asleep dreaming that the moon might peek through the curtains and smile.

And then, like a trumpet made of sunshine, the morning arrived.

Daddy was already dressed, smelling of sandalwood and joy. He lifted me up and wished me “Eid Mubarak” and suddenly, the world feels wrapped in velvet. Outside, the call to prayer floated through the air like a silver ribbon. We dressed, we prayed and then we gathered around for the qurbani.

It’s quiet. Gentle. Sacred.

Daddy said the prayer. Captain Barkat looked calm, almost proud. I held my little brother’s hand. There’s no fear, just a stillness full of love and respect. And when it was done, we stand in silence; not because we were sad, but because something big just happened. Something that felt like both an ending and a beginning.

A few hours later, the house turned into a festival of delicacies — biryani, korma, kebabs and the warm, spiced joy of something shared. Mama hummed, while Naani told stories of old days like this one, with twinkly eyes. We packed meat for neighbours and for people who did not get to offer a sacrifice. I delivered some myself and every time I saw someone smile, it felt like a ribbon wrapping itself around my heart.

The streets were a parade of celebration. Children clacked in shiny shoes, aunties floated by like glittering clouds, and uncles laughed from deep in their bellies. The whole world looked like it just came out of the washing machine; clean, fragrant and smiling.

After the last bite was eaten and the last story was told, I sat by the window with my diary. I wrote it all down; every shimmer, every flavour, every feeling Eidul Azha isn’t just about a goat, or food, or new clothes. It’s about faith; the kind that whispers quietly and stands tall. It’s about giving; until your hands are empty but your heart is full. And it’s about remembrance; of a sacrifice so deep, it still echoes in every prayer, every bite, every hug.

And maybe... just maybe...Captain Barkat knew all of this.

Because when I looked at his picture on the wall, I felt his eyes still twinkled; like he knew it was Eid long before we did.

Published in Dawn, Young World, June 6th, 2025