by A nostalgic ode to growing up, giving back, and grieving gently.
A Wednesday Whisper | Reflection 12
السلام علیکم ورحمتہ اللہ وبرکاتہ
May this morning arrive at your doorstep like a fragrant breeze carrying with it peace, vitality, joy, and the grace of good health. I pray for your heart to stay light, your body to remain strong, and your mind to find clarity in a world that’s increasingly noisy. May your day be not only happy but happening – full of little surprises, gentle laughter, and the kind of ease that makes you feel like life might just be on your side after all.
Let me tell you something that crept up on me quietly, like old age or bad cholesterol.
The Vanishing Hands Above Our Heads
You know you’ve crossed over to the other side of adulthood when the only message you get on Chaand Raat is from your mobile wallet app offering a Buy One Get One Free deal on samosas, and the only envelope you open on Eid is from your bank politely reminding you that your balance is having a midlife crisis.
That’s when it hits you. The party is over. You are no longer the one collecting Eidi. You are now part of the distribution department.
There was a time, and I swear it wasn’t that long ago, when stepping into Nano’s house in Lahore felt like entering a mini royal court. The furniture was covered in lace, the floor in cousins, and the moment you muttered a shy Eid Mubarak, a crisp green note would appear in your palm as if summoned by a divine transaction. The room would smell of attar, kebabs, and childhood. Somewhere in the chaos, an elder would yell, “Give the kids their Eidi, or I’m not serving the sheer khurma!”
Those hugs weren’t just affectionate. They were official business. You hugged strategically. Some relatives were known to give new notes, some gave old ones folded four times like emotional origami, and some just gave a smile and said, “May God bless you,” which, let’s be honest, was a bit disappointing.
Now, we are those people.
We’re the ones patting little heads while mentally calculating how many children are still hiding behind the curtain. We smile sweetly and say, “God bless you, beta,” but inside, we’re panicking. Is there enough change in the wallet? Do I have time to escape before the second wave arrives? Should I pretend to take a phone call and exit the drawing room like Dada used to?
The elders are slowly leaving us. The hands that once touched our heads with love, wisdom, and that special Zamzam-wali dua are becoming memories. One by one, they’re slipping into silence. And in that silence, something strange happens. You look around and realize you are now the adult in the room. Not ready. Not trained. But promoted anyway.
It creeps up on you. One day you’re hiding your Eidi inside your sock to avoid cousin-level theft, and the next you’re slipping a thousand-rupee note into a child’s hand with a whisper that sounds like state secrets. “This is just between us,” you say, as if you’re smuggling cash across a border.
The child smiles. You smile back. You feel proud until they frown and say, “Only this much?” That’s when you know that your career, your income, your self-worth is being questioned by someone who still needs help wiping ice cream off their face.
But despite the brutal honesty of these tiny financial critics, there’s beauty in all of it. A rhythm. A flow. This is how life moves. The hands that once held us now rest. And we take their place. We sing the same lullabies, tell the same stories, offer the same awkward forehead kisses. Even if no one asked for them.
We’re the ones who remember now. We remember Dadi’s rosewater-scented dupatta. We remember Taya Abu reading the newspaper with the seriousness of someone decoding nuclear codes. We remember those pre-Eid nights in Karachi, the smell of rain on hot roads, the panic in the kitchen, the cousins sleeping like sardines on the floor. Those moments are stitched into us now.
And yes, it hurts.
It hurts to realize that fewer and fewer people remember you as a child. It hurts to know that the generation that prayed for you now needs your prayers. That the lap you once rested your head on is now just a photo in an album someone forgot to label.
But in that ache, there’s also something beautiful. A quiet pride. A sacred responsibility. We are the keepers of memory now. The torchbearers. The ones who must stay up late making sure the kheer doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pot because Nani isn’t there to do it anymore.
And yes, the Eidi we give feels more painful than a root canal. The wallet empties before the guests arrive. The younger generation doesn’t say thank you. Some even ask if you accept digital transfers. But somehow, despite the financial trauma and emotional exhaustion, we carry on.
We sit a little longer at the table. We tell the same old jokes our elders told. We laugh loudly, we cry quietly. We do our best. Even when we’re tired, even when we miss the ones who did it better.
So here’s to us.
To the new hands above the new heads. To the grown-ups who still feel like kids pretending to be adults. To the ones giving Eidi while silently calculating if they can still afford a second helping of biryani.
And if nothing else, let’s at least admit we now understand why Dada used to quietly leave the room whenever someone said, “Give the kids their Eidi.” He wasn’t being stingy. He was being wise. He knew the game. And now, so do we.
We are not ready. But we are here.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
May Allah keep us grounded in humility and elevated in purpose. May our memories remain fragrant and our hearts kind. I pray that our hands continue to rise not just for giving but for praying, and that the generation after us finds comfort in our presence as we once did in theirs. May we grow into our roles with grace and continue to be wrapped in the prayers of those who once raised us.
Have a peaceful and powerful morning. May the day ahead treat you gently and with purpose.
Mani
Wednesday, 30th July 2025