Everyone’s favourite festival is back, time to put our blinders on
By the time Eidul Azha actually rolls around, the country has long surrendered to it. Around this time, an empty plot rarely stays that way for long – transforming into a jam-packed mandi. There, you will find people gripping goats by their mouths to inspect their teeth. (For the unaware: the goat’s teeth reveal its age, with the two-toothed ones holding the highest value). On the roads, cars cautiously crawl behind the occasional herd of cows that make their way like they own the place and somehow, they do.
No one bats an eye when a Suzuki drives by overflowing with animals stacked on top of each other, their limbs poking out from every possible gap. Kids run outside with bags of ‘chaara’ leaving a trail behind for their newly adopted goats. And of course, there is always that one cousin trying to one up everyone else, proudly boasting about how much cash they dropped on their cow or camel since a goat is simply too basic.
It is loud, it is chaotic, but it is unmistakably ours.
Because for many of us, this Eid is a direct line to our childhood memories. Trips to the mandi were our first introduction to the coveted phrase ‘munasib lagao’. We all have a Bakra Eid story: the one goat that escaped through the neighborhood chased by a party of screaming uncles or the chachu who got smacked in the face by a panicked cow. Above all, we will never forget the dizzying excitement of waking up on Eid morning to the sound of knives being sharpened, the scent of raw meat in the air and our moms portioning out qurbani meat into plastic bags for our dads to distribute.
Certainly, there is an intimacy to this Eid that has stayed with us long after the meat has been packed away.
Yet, somewhere along the way, its spirit has started to fade away. For all the affection we offer our animals, it cannot be denied that we grossly overlook their comfort. Goats are tied too tightly under the harsh sun with no shade, cows stand for hours on hot concrete, and water is forgotten between rounds of eager children tugging at their ears or climbing on their backs. We decorate them in elaborate garlands and shiny bells, and laugh when they struggle under the weight as if their discomfort is part of a quirky performance. Perhaps our cruelty is not deliberate – we mean well in our excitement but it is increasingly on the edge of negligence.
Qurbani for the algorithm
A large part of what has changed also is that this sacred act has become entirely performative. Qurbani now arrives with a front-facing camera and animals are documented from the moment they arrive. Their pictures and videos are spammed across WhatsApp from every angle imaginable (including things no one wants to see) and posted to Instagram reels none of us can escape.
Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with it. In fact, much of it is, admittedly, hilarious. A goat named Pathan Khan eating biryani off a plate, another balancing between three men on a bike. However, our laughter should not negate the fact that this trend is reducing the animal to a source of entertainment, distorting the lines between sacrifice and spectacle. In doing so, it inevitably makes way for the more disturbing act of filming the Qurbani itself, with people resorting to posting pictures, full videos and even live streaming it. Which leaves us to question, who even watches those and what does that accomplish other than turning an act of worship into a sensationalised broadcast?
And then there is the matter of price. In the weeks leading up to Eid, prices soar to near absurd heights. An animal becomes a status symbol, less about sacrifice and more about wanting to surpass our neighbours – and their uncles and their brothers. Sellers, knowing that people will spend whatever it takes, take full advantage of this demand, because they know one simple truth: you cannot walk away without buying. And so, a ritual that is literally about charity ends up feeling increasingly out of reach, excluding the very people it was meant to uplift.
Blood, smell, and tears
Unfortunately, the challenges do not end here. Most densely populated cities in Pakistan are simply not designed infrastructurally to accommodate the scale, animals or the waste that comes with Eid. And Karachi, more than anywhere else, bears the grunt of it. This part – the aftermath – may be the hardest to joke about. It neither smells or looks good when the remains of the animals are left to rot on the side of the roads, as we jump over them to get to our cars. To make matters worse, there is always the impending doom that the rivers of fresh blood and sewage water will meet halfway to create a pungent sludge of filth and contamination.
And God forbid if it rains, the bloody waste water mixes with rainfall to create an unpleasant and foul mess to say the least. Not to mention, it stretches out already overburdened municipal services and falls on sanitation workers who are rarely paid or treated fairly.
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