Eid Mubarak
The mohalla was quieter than usual.
Not silent, just resting. Afternoon heat still clung to the corners of shaded walls. The scent of ittar wafted through pockets of air. Somewhere, a radio hummed old qawwali. A child’s laughter passed like wind. And I, just walking back from the chemist, loosely holding a packet of paracetamol and a bottle of cold water, wasn’t expecting the day to feel like anything more than ordinary.
But sometimes, beauty walks up without a knock.
I had just crossed the corner where the old neem tree bends toward the streetlight when I heard it.
“Excuse me...”
A soft voice.
Polite, unsure.
Like it didn’t want to disturb, but had to.
I turned.
And there she was.
Light blue dupatta over her head, the kind that shimmered without showing off. Ankles barely dusted with mehendi, a small silver ring on her right hand. There was a delicacy in how she stood, like she wasn’t used to asking for directions or being out alone.
But her eyes?
Steady. Observant. Like she'd already seen more than I could imagine.
For a second, I just… forgot to answer.
Then my heart, like it remembered something older than memory, whispered to my ribs,
“Eid Mubarak.”
She blinked. Once.
A little surprised, a little amused.
“I was just going to ask for the way to the dargah,” she said, voice dipped in softness.
“And I,” I said, trying not to smile like a fool, “ended up saying Eid Mubarak.”
There was no reaction at first. Then, that rare thing, an unguarded laugh. Not loud. But full.
She looked away for a second, brushing her hair back behind her ear. The bangles on her wrist clinked like a small approval.
“Yahan se seedha, phir baayein. Masjid ke peechhe se ek gali jaati hai… wahi dargah,” I added, hoping my directions didn’t sound as breathless as I felt.
Her eyes met mine again. And this time, they held. Not long. Just enough to make time loosen its belt.
Two seconds.
Maybe three.
But something passed like a window opened inside the stillness.
She stepped back, nodded once, then said it,
“Aapko bhi... Eid Mubarak.”
And in that one line, the whole day changed weight.
x
I walked home slower than usual.
Didn’t notice the sun, the dust, or the weight of the packet in my hand.
All I kept thinking was, some stories begin and end in one turn of the street.
Not every love is written on pages.
Some arrive in the form of a voice.
Some leave with the scent of ittar.
And some…
Some stay forever
wrapped in just four words,
“Aapko bhi, Eid Mubarak.”
เคฆेเคเคคे เคนी เคฆिเคฒ เคจे เคเคนा, เคเคฆ เคฎुเคฌाเคฐเค