My friends are terribly disappointed. It was bad enough the other shop being out of Dairy Milk on Eid of all days, but no murder, now that's bad. Rose shrugs her shoulders and sweeps her shawl round her in a defiant gesture that makes it clear she's done with that DVD shop, like big time. That's it. No murder; you've lost my custom. Honey.
Our driver is a dashing young fellow for whom pleasure and work happily meet if, as I assume, fast cars, pretty girls and good music are his bag. But even he slows his pace to match the mood.
I'm never too sure what's being celebrated at this Eid. All that's ever mentioned is food (green custard featured large this year) and family (which is reason enough for me) but I know what a lot of lads with cars are celebrating: Independence.
Not from the British as such, that's in August, but from the stern laws of one Sir Isaac Newton, particularly that pesky number 3, threatening an equal and opposite reaction to every action. But there'll be no collisions here, we're free of all that! So let's drive towards each other really really fast so we get bigger and bigger and the horn will crescendo. Let's swerve this a-way and that a-way. Let's have a race. Acceleration? Yes please! Constant velocity? Boring! Let's swing our partners round and round, once to the left and then to the right. Dosy-doe!
Since no one seems too concerned about the punishments for breaking these laws, I can only assume they don't apply in this part of the world.
The street is a party.
***************************
These are the things that cease to be pleasant in times of uncertainty.
The evening before, as darkness fell, someone with good eyesight saw the first curve of light in the sky that reminds us that after a dark night, life goes on, although with more regular meals to sustain it this month. This is another reason to celebrate.
I had been invited to welcome in Eid with my headmistress, a woman of great poise. At first, this consisted of hearing her phone far-flung nieces and nephews to wish them a blessed day in four or five different languages. There seems to be some doubt every Eid whether we do, in fact, all share one sky, one moon. "How much of your moon can you see?" people ask.
"Is the moon out where you are?"
"Yes, yes, I see it, it's here - is it there?"
O, it's a capricious world.
Tea was served with hot samosas. As with everything she does or makes, they were of impeccable quality.
All of a sudden, we heard explosions. We both put our cups of tea down with a shudder.
"Fireworks," she said after a moment, managing a nervous smile. "It's Eid, it'll be fireworks," arguing away her doubts.
We regained our equilibrium with the help of tea.
As headmistress, it is her job to pronounce bans on the 'vices of the day'; three before 9:00 is not uncommon: "Children, no dirty fingernails, we'll cut them off; no home language, we are English-medium; no Dodge Ball, not everyone can dodge."
There's another thing that has to be banned and rebanned: bazaari food. Like cigarettes in other climes it comes with a health warning and it's simply not seemly. Good families eat wholesome homemade food. Bazaari food is for those that play fast and loose, those that do a bit of duckin' and a-divin', dodgin' and a-weavin'. That driver, for example, now he would be a bazaari food type. Don't tell anyone but I'm quite partial to a bit of street food myself: liver kebabs, spring-roll surprises and gol-guppe, that comedy element in a person's diet, due to it's amusing flavour and mode of consumption. It should not be found in the lunch boxes of any child.
But I have never heard her ban anything with the vehemence with which she said that night, 'Fireworks should be banned.'
So should bombs, so should guns.
We're sitting round the telly watching the news a week later wishing it was only fireworks. We wish murder was only on the movie channel. But games have exploded into destruction round the country and no one knows the death toll yet. These bombs are worse than the moon; you never know when they'll appear. We're glad the smoke we smell is only someone burning the first of the autumn leaves.
For it is nearly autumn and I have been here a year. The crops I saw being harvested when I first arrived are ripe again. I've had the freshly-prepared festival food whose stale left-overs I tasted in the first week of October last year.
The moon is waxing.
There's a lot you can depend on, yesterday and today and forever.
- toy guns
- deserted streets
- men breaking into a run in public places
- bonfires
- fireworks
The evening before, as darkness fell, someone with good eyesight saw the first curve of light in the sky that reminds us that after a dark night, life goes on, although with more regular meals to sustain it this month. This is another reason to celebrate.
I had been invited to welcome in Eid with my headmistress, a woman of great poise. At first, this consisted of hearing her phone far-flung nieces and nephews to wish them a blessed day in four or five different languages. There seems to be some doubt every Eid whether we do, in fact, all share one sky, one moon. "How much of your moon can you see?" people ask.
"Is the moon out where you are?"
"Yes, yes, I see it, it's here - is it there?"
O, it's a capricious world.
Tea was served with hot samosas. As with everything she does or makes, they were of impeccable quality.
All of a sudden, we heard explosions. We both put our cups of tea down with a shudder.
"Fireworks," she said after a moment, managing a nervous smile. "It's Eid, it'll be fireworks," arguing away her doubts.
We regained our equilibrium with the help of tea.
As headmistress, it is her job to pronounce bans on the 'vices of the day'; three before 9:00 is not uncommon: "Children, no dirty fingernails, we'll cut them off; no home language, we are English-medium; no Dodge Ball, not everyone can dodge."
There's another thing that has to be banned and rebanned: bazaari food. Like cigarettes in other climes it comes with a health warning and it's simply not seemly. Good families eat wholesome homemade food. Bazaari food is for those that play fast and loose, those that do a bit of duckin' and a-divin', dodgin' and a-weavin'. That driver, for example, now he would be a bazaari food type. Don't tell anyone but I'm quite partial to a bit of street food myself: liver kebabs, spring-roll surprises and gol-guppe, that comedy element in a person's diet, due to it's amusing flavour and mode of consumption. It should not be found in the lunch boxes of any child.
But I have never heard her ban anything with the vehemence with which she said that night, 'Fireworks should be banned.'
So should bombs, so should guns.
We're sitting round the telly watching the news a week later wishing it was only fireworks. We wish murder was only on the movie channel. But games have exploded into destruction round the country and no one knows the death toll yet. These bombs are worse than the moon; you never know when they'll appear. We're glad the smoke we smell is only someone burning the first of the autumn leaves.
For it is nearly autumn and I have been here a year. The crops I saw being harvested when I first arrived are ripe again. I've had the freshly-prepared festival food whose stale left-overs I tasted in the first week of October last year.
The moon is waxing.
There's a lot you can depend on, yesterday and today and forever.
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