The Feast of Goats

"What with all that's going on in this country, this might be our last dance," the doting husband at the Eid party says, tipsy. It's his way of getting his wife to give him another dance. It's going to take more than the threat of the apocalypse to get her - sober, blushing, head-covered - to dance. It was easier to drag her to her feet when others were up and there was clapping and laughing.
We have had a jolly time tonight. It started sedate with a bowl of nuts and talk of early British exploration, the only hint of what was to come on the Neil Diamond tape.
We moved onto ABBA. The fire was stoked and something for the gents was passed round in a soft-drink bottle. Huge plates of meat and rice (for it is the festival of sacrifice) were brought through. For the kids there was some Bollywood pop and now it's the serious stuff, bhangra for grown-ups. You can't tell dancer from laugher.

In the advent of Eid, goats have been in festive mode. Brought down from remote passes ready for the big day, they are dazzled by the bright city litter, offering new flavours they nibble at, a guilty pleasure enjoyed with cheeky smiles. They hang out in groups trying to look local, in a mood to shop on Oxford street, down a few beers and hit the nightlife, should the opportunity arise. On TV, I've seen goats and cows this week have been dressing up in other cities here, in natty coats and hats - pompoms are In in a big way this season - worn with femme fatale eye make-up and high-heel hooves. Ah - has no one told them it's Bakri Eid not in the sense 'for goats' but 'of goats'? 'Of' not 'for', dears; of not for.

Speaking of fashion, here's a tip: avoid, ladies, the tailors before Eid. Two sisters are stamping their little feet and tossing their indignant heads at the tailor's protestations that he cannot, cannot promise to complete 2 more fancy suits before Eid. At his head is the reason, piles of cloth in bundles on shelves, all to be sewed up before Monday evening. He tells her, "make them yourself."
"Who has time, yaar?" she replies. Not these brothers.
"The electricity went of at 3:00 am last night," the 'ladies' department', as the other brother calls himself, tells me quietly, while the argument rages, "so we did get some sleep." They're grateful for small blessings. This sleep deprivation may account for why the nice coat I ordered is a lumpen salwaar-kameez of grey wool and the sample is screwed up in a ball in the corner. They're working on auto-pilot: "must make salwaar-kameez, must make salwaar kameez." The new garment is warm for the house and we are grateful for small blessings, afterall. He pushes a magenta trim under the needle and it's one down, who knows how many to go.

For many, Eid has been a washout. It never rains here but it did today. No one felt like going out so visits were off. The holiday has been a chance just to hibernate with full-fat foods. We hardly wanted to change out of our pajamas (or grey wool affair, in my case). Spangled nylon suits and high-heeled slippers didn't fool anyone with their insulating properties. My neighbours' sewing machine was broken so new clothes weren't even an option for them. The family I had lunch with talked of taking me to see the snow but by the time the baby had been changed after he wet himself on dad's new suit, no one felt much like it.

Outside something more dramatic has been taking place while we've been watching lacklustre Eid special talent shows spluttering on and off with the intermittent power supply. While it has rained here the clouds have finally transformed the bullwark rock that looms over me, blocks out our sunlight every afternoon and walls us in. The curtains have lifted, the moon shines down and tonight it glows bright with snow. No one was dreaming of a white Eid.