“The Clothing Of Past Ramadans: Recalling Specific Clothing Worn During Eid Or During Iftar Gatherings.”
The Clothing of Past Ramadans: Recalling Specific Outfits Worn During Eid and Iftar Gatherings
The scent of cardamom chai filled the air as Amina folded her legs beneath her, adjusting the soft cotton of her kurta. Across from her, Rabia Apa sifted through a box of old photographs, a nostalgic smile playing on her lips.
“I can’t believe Eid is just a few days away,” Amina sighed. “I still haven’t decided what to wear.”
Rabia chuckled, pulling out a faded Polaroid. “That’s because you don’t have to fight over tailor deadlines or last-minute market runs. Back in our day, getting Eid clothes wasn’t as simple as clicking ‘Add to Cart.’”
Amina leaned in, intrigued. “Tell me, Apa. What was it like?”
Rabia placed the photo in Amina’s hand. “See this? This was Eid when I was about your age. Amma stitched that shalwar kameez for me herself.”
Amina studied the photo—a young Rabia stood shyly in a pastel blue outfit, its fabric adorned with delicate hand-embroidered flowers. “Wait, Amma sewed this? I didn’t know she could do embroidery like this!”
Rabia nodded, her eyes softening with memory. “She was so talented. She used to start weeks before Ramadan, picking out fabric from the bazaar, tracing patterns in chalk late at night after we went to bed. And when she finally handed me my Eid outfit, it felt like I was wearing something truly special—because it was made with love.”
Amina ran her fingers over the old photograph, picturing her mother bent over a sewing machine, a single light illuminating her careful stitches. “I can’t imagine waiting that long for an outfit,” she admitted. “Now, we just go to the mall and buy whatever we like.”
Rabia smiled wistfully. “True, but back then, part of the excitement was in the anticipation. We’d have just one outfit for Eid, so we treated it like gold. And the day before Eid? That was chaos! Everyone rushing to get the final stitches done, making sure the dupatta matched just right.”
Iftar Gatherings and the Elegance of Simplicity
Amina set the photograph aside. “What about during Ramadan? Did you all dress up for Iftar like we do now?”
Rabia laughed. “Not like now. These days, people treat Iftar gatherings like mini-weddings! Fancy dresses, heavy makeup… Back then, we kept it simple. Light cotton kurtas, airy dupattas, and always something comfortable enough to move around in. After all, we had to help Amma serve food and clear up afterward!”
Amina smirked. “So no designer joras or matching accessories?”
Rabia raised an eyebrow playfully. “The most ‘designer’ thing we had was when Abba brought back fabric from his business trips. And as for accessories, we made do with whatever Amma let us wear. But one thing remained the same—glass bangles. No Ramadan was complete without the soft jingling of bangles, especially on Chaand Raat.”
Amina’s face lit up. “Oh! Like when we go for mehndi on Eid’s eve?”
“Exactly,” Rabia said. “But back then, instead of fancy salons, we’d go to the local market. Women sat on stools, cones of mehndi in hand, creating the most intricate designs as the smell of fried samosas and fresh garlands filled the air. And after that, we’d buy our bangles—rows and rows of them, in every color imaginable.”
The Memories Woven into Fabric
Amina leaned back, lost in thought. “You know, Apa, I always thought of Eid clothes as just another part of the celebration. But for you, it was different. It was an experience—every thread, every stitch held a story.”
Rabia nodded, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind Amina’s ear. “That’s the beauty of it, Amina. Clothes aren’t just fabric—they hold the warmth of the hands that made them, the laughter of the markets where they were bought, the love of the people who gifted them.”
Amina smiled. “I think this Eid, I’ll wear something Amma gives me instead of just picking out a new dress myself.”
Rabia grinned. “Now that, my dear, is a tradition worth keeping.”
As the night stretched on, the sisters continued to reminisce, their laughter mingling with the clinking of chai cups and the rustling of old photographs—memories woven into the very fabric of their past.