The Soundscape of Eid

There is a soundscape to Eid in Kashmir that no other festival quite replicates. It begins in the pre-dawn hours, when the muezzin's call floats over sleeping rooftops, gently pulling the faithful from their last night of Ramazan. By morning, the air is thick with the collective hum of prayer, the rustle of new clothes, and the first tentative exchanges of "Eid Mubarak" between neighbours and strangers alike.

But woven into this joyful cacophony is a persistent silence — the silence of those who are no longer here to celebrate, of homes where celebrations have been muted by loss, and of mosques where prayers remain barred.

This year, Eid arrives against a backdrop of war and economic anxiety. The conflict in West Asia has sent fuel prices soaring, pushed up the cost of essentials, and cast a long shadow over festivities. Families that once splurged on new clothes and elaborate feasts are now calculating whether they can afford a simple celebration.

Yet, as always, Kashmir's Eid refuses to be entirely subdued. The children still rush out in their bright outfits, hands outstretched for Eidi. The bakeries still overflow with the smell of freshly baked sheermal and bakerkhani. The graveyards still receive their annual flood of visitors, offering prayers for the departed — a uniquely Kashmiri tradition that binds the living to the dead.

At the heart of Eid lies a paradox that Kashmir knows intimately: the ability to celebrate even in grief, to find joy even amid uncertainty. It is not escapism; it is resilience. It is the quiet insistence that life, with all its fractures, must go on.

As we celebrate this Eid, let us remember that the true measure of a festival lies not in its grandeur but in its capacity to bring people together — across divides of politics, economics and ideology. Eid Mubarak.