Iam sitting by the window of my room, staring at the henna on my hands. Beautiful flowery patterns twisting and twirling their way around in delicate design, making their way towards the tips of my fingers. But sadly, the colour is already starting to fade and disappear, ready to leave my hands empty, not unlike the world outside. I stare out into the quiet deserted street with the houses silhouetted against a glaring sun.

“No, this is not Eid!” complains my heart. I am locked in a furious battle with myself.

“It is Eid and nothing can change this fact,” a voice in my brain says.

“But where are the colours of Eid, the shades of joy and delight?” questions my heart.

“They have been shadowed by fear in the hearts of people,” the brain answers again.

Never had anyone imagined that there would be an Eid, without any children running here and there, shouting with jubilation, without girls walking around, hand in hand, smiles alight on their faces, without groups of boys laughing and punching each other playfully, or without men hugging each other, without women going to each other’s houses and complimenting each other’s dishes or dresses, etc. and the joyful cry of “Eid Mubarak!” filling the air.

However, this was the reality, staring at me and sneering. And what was responsible for it? Something minute, yet fatal and deadly — the coronavirus snatched away all the happy hues of Eid.

All of a sudden, I stand up, anger surging through me. This tiny virus had tried to steal away our happiness and the spirit of Eid. It will not wing, I am going to prove it wrong by acting normal, meet everyone, bring people back together and bring back the lost joy. I am going to beat it, crush away all that it had done to drive the people apart, crush it like it had crushed our peace. I will not let it stop me from having fun and living my life like I want to.

Almost immediately, sense makes its way to my brain. What I am thinking is not beating the virus, it is aiding it, carving a path for it to make maximum people its prey. The only chance to defeat it is taking all the precautions, thus protecting myself and everyone else. Staying home, staying safe.

At times, you have to sacrifice something in order to gain something bigger and better. You have to lose to win.

Giving up our enjoyment and pleasure on a single Eid would mean we will live to celebrate other Eids, the days ahead would not have a spike in cases and the spread would slow down.

I then realise that my Eid is certainly better than that of the doctors who have put their lives at stake just for us, or of the patients suffering from Covid-19 and the families of both praying spending a restless time worried about the wellbeing of their loved ones. Eid and its festivities are probably the last things on their minds.

I know I have to play my part in ensuring that the fight put up by our daring defenders, the army of doctors, is not in vain. I will not let a single evening of get together over a family barbecue increase our risk and that of those who are putting themselves at risk to save others.

A new sun would rise one day soon, a new day would come when we would be the victorious warriors in the battle against our mortal enemy, the treacherous virus.

There is only one role I have to play, that of being a responsible person, by raising awareness among those who are negligent and helping those in need during these tough times.

My eyes brighten up, my heart lifts up and my mind happily tells me I can make this Eid unique. At once, I put on a mask and gloves, pocket a bottle of senitizer, take all the money I have collected and set off with my father towards the settlement of the poor and deprived near my residential area.

Published in Dawn, Young World, August 8th, 2020