Let’s get one thing straight. I’m to Eid, what a cat is to a mouse (for want of a better analogy). I just hate the holiday not because of its essence but because of what it has become for me: an annual get-together of petty blood relations who pick this day out of all the rest from the calendar to bring out their casual advices, unwelcome retorts and of course, cringe-worthy judgements.
No, I don’t really care if Mr X’s son said he wanted to marry a journalist, instead of a doctor. Seriously, is that really news? Why shouldn’t he?
And again, another relative is heard talking about his female boss who is “40 and not yet married” and that’s enough for the people in attendance to assume that she is “batshit” crazy. If it had been a male boss who would have been 40 and unmarried, this wouldn’t have even come into discussion as a negative point.
No, I’m not a feminist. In fact, I don’t really think I fully comprehend what the word implies. It’s just that our society has a knack for steering or packing up crude jokes on the fairer sex and in their defense, even the fairer sex doesn’t seem to mind.
If this wasn’t enough, when told that you’re studying, all you get in return is an unimpressed shrug and a nudge and wink towards your parents with a “too much reading can be damaging to one’s health” thrown in between.
Reading can be damaging? God bless my self-control.
So what Eid every year has established is: There’s absolutely no way to make some people happy. Not even if there’s food on the table.