Sharing is caring - A note from a proud mother, this Eid.

This piece was originally written for MumbaiMom and published on their website.

My son stood staring at a fall of lambs tied to a tree, near our butcher’s shop. A few minutes ago, he had asked me why there were so many live animals at the butcher’s shop. He had never any before. I told him, those are for sale, for people to buy them for Eid offerings. He had been hearing our discussions about the upcoming festival of Id-ul-Adha, of late; and knew a bit about sacrificial lambs.

Sitting back in my car, I realized this would be a good time to induct him to the history and tradition of Bakr-Eid. As I eased the car back on the road from the parking, I started off, “Let me tell you a story. Once Allah visited Hazrat Ibrahim in his dream and ordered him to sacrifice his most precious thing. Hazrat Ibrahim described the dream to his wife. After a lot of discussion, they both decided to sacrifice their only son because their son was most precious to them.”

In the rear view mirror I could see his eyes widen at the horror of the statement. So I quickly continued, “But they first decided to ask their son, Ismail for his consent. Ismail readily agreed to be sacrificed for the sake of Allah.”

He was further horrified and was almost about to interject. “Wait, wait!... The story doesn’t end there. So, Hazrat Ibrahim was all set to sacrifice his son in the name of Allah but the moment he put the knife at his son's throat and closed his eyes, Hazrat Ismail was replaced by a sheep. When he opened his eyes, he realized that Allah was only testing Hazrat Ibrahim's faith. Allah never meant for Hazrat Ibrahim to sacrifice his son. From then on, the festival of Bakrid or Eid-al-Adha came to be celebrated. And in remembrance of that event, people rear a goat for a few days, and then they sacrifice it. The idea behind it is that it is harder to sacrifice something you have come to care for.”

He was nodding blankly, trying his best to follow. The concepts of faith and religious obeisance were obviously too complex for a four year old to understand. So I tried to talk about another aspect of the festival, which I expected - at least hoped – for him to take to more easily.

“And we can’t eat all that meat we get from sacrificing that goat.”

“We can’t?!” Now he was truly concerned; the ardent lover of lamb chops that he is.

“No. We must distribute it to the poor and the needy.”

“What’s that?”

I waved over to my left, where the ramshackle shanties were whizzing by us; of a tiny hamlet near the township where we live. His eyes followed my hand. “You see those houses? Look how small they are?... Some of them have no roofs. Some have broken walls. Inside those houses too, those people have very little stuff… No T.V. or fridge or beds like you have at your house… And look, some of those children don’t even have clothes on them or toys to play with!” I struggled to explain the concept of poverty to my little son, realizing that I had launched into a monologue I hadn’t thought through properly.

“Well…so you see they don’t have money to buy mutton, like you can. Bakr-Eid is the day when you can share some of yours with them. So that they can have lamb chops and biryani too! Now wouldn’t that make them happy?” He smiled and nodded.

“Good! And they already have rice for that.” It took me a moment to realize that he was referring to the fitra (food stuff) we gave to our domestic help on Eid-ul-Fitr.

“Yes they do.” I nodded, pleased, as I undid his seatbelt, and helped him off the car.

“Then we must get a very big goat this time mommy. Because those were a lot of houses, there.” He said, before running inside the house.

My eyes almost teared up a little, proud of the huge heart inside my tiny one’s body. I smiled, and followed him inside.