Whenever Eid comes, I remember my father's white panjabi.
That worn-out panjabi—how many years old it was, how many patches on it; with my mother's endless stitches upon stitches, one could even doubt whether it was still a panjabi at all.
I used to ask, "Father, what will you do with so much money? How many buildings have you built?"
Father would smile. With a faint smile, he would hand the panjabi back to my mother and say, "Tomorrow is Eid. There is prayer."
That strangely harsh smile of his made me curious, yet I never understood its meaning.
Today, I remember my father. I have left my torn shirt at the tailor’s shop.
Eid is coming again in a few days. I, too, have a prayer to attend.
