It’s Eid today, and it’s a strange one. No family around, no friends around, no shalwar-kameez to wear, no deciding which jamaat to go to, no fighting over parking at the mosque, no embarrassment over going into ruku while everyone else is still raising hands, no oily samosas and halwa puri to buy after namaaz and no going to the bank to get five dollar bills for Eidi, no rush to get back home.
I’ve had the good fortune of celebrating Eid in Singapore, in Washington and in Toronto, in Miami and in Bombay, but the fondest memories are those from my childhood in Poona. Wearing freshly washed and starched kurta pajamas, bundling out of a rickshaw as it lurched to a stop at Saifee Street, desperately holding on to my pajamas as the naadas slipped out of their knots, slip sliding in stiff Kohlapuri chappals as we ran to join the jamaat at the Jama Masjid, halfway through the first rakat. Sitting through what seemed like never ending and mind numbing khutbas by the Imam, and when he finally finished, jumping up and embracing my father thrice, thumping my puny chest against his generous belly alternating from one side to the other, then repeating the hugging ritual with my brother and then my uncle and cousin, and other friends and family, who we might happen to bump into. Then we’d walk down to Shivaji market to pick up fruits and vegetables, a chicken or two from the butcher’s market, suttarfeni from Regal Sweets, spicy potato chips from Budhani’s and Shrewsbury biscuits from Kayani Bakery.
But the real treat was when we got home and my mother served us a steaming bowl of Sheer Khurma. Sheer in Persian is milk and Khurma in Arabic is dates and for any Muslim who grew up in the subcontinent this treat is synonymous with Eid. For all the politics surrounding the legacy of the Mughals, the one undeniable fact is their absolutely scrumptious influence on the Indian cuisine. This sweet milky desert sprinkled with generous helpings of slivered almonds and pistachios and dates, infused with roasted vermicelli and saffron, is no exception.
As with all my mom’s recipes, this one too has no measurements that she can recall. “How much milk mom?” I ask. “Two cups, maybe three, yeah that should be enough.” Enough, is my mom’s favorite and turns out only measurement, so I’ll try do my best here, but if your attempt at reproducing this recipe ends up with cake or caramel, you know who to blame.
Buy slivered almonds or if you buy them whole, dunk them in boiling water and then peel the skin off. Then cut them and the pistachios into slivers and fry them in some ghee till they let off a nutty aroma. My mom called this mixture choba for which I could find no reference on Google so this is most probably a made up word or a badly massacred version of some actual Persian word. Heat the milk in a pan, about two cups, and when it starts to boil add about a third cup of sugar, more if you want it sweeter. Then smash some dried dates into bitable chunks and dunk them in the milk, followed by the choba mixture and a handful of roasted vermicelli. Lower the heat, let it simmer for a bit and then add a pinch of saffron, and that’s pretty much it.
Tradition, is something I railed against when I was young, something I scoffed at, something I mocked. As I have gotten older though, I have come to realize its essence, its purpose, the need and responsibility to hold on to it until someone, somewhere will be ready and willing to carry it forward. One custom at a time, one prayer at a time, one song at a time, one recipe at a time.
Eid Mubarak everyone.