I am, for all practical purposes, an atheist. Yet I happen to live in a Muslim household, which in some ways works in my favor. There are only a couple of major celebrations in the year, so the social obligations remain limited and manageable.
Eid, however, has never been something I naturally gravitate towards. It brings with it an intensity of social interaction that I find difficult to engage with. Large gatherings, extended conversations, and the expectation of effortless participation do not come easily to me. There is also a certain discomfort in the moment when I state, plainly, that I am non-religious. It tends to create a subtle but noticeable shift in how I am perceived, one that I have never quite learned to navigate gracefully.
But I love one thing about it. It's the evening before Eid. It's when my mum pulls out the big guns and starts preparing Sheer Khurma. It's the only time when I'm allowed in the kitchen; otherwise, I would annoy her by asking a million questions. It's the time when you see the color shift, from the white, glowy coconut milk to the rich yellow, fully spiced golden drink. I don't even like it that much, but I like the transformation.
There is something deeply satisfying about watching things change in a way that makes sense. Heat is applied, structure breaks, new structure forms. Cause and effect remain loyal to each other. The world, at least in that vessel, behaves. I don't have to guess what it is trying to be.
So the process goes like this: you have to first filter out the water which has been subjected to spices. Then you have to mix it up, boil it up, and then stir it until it's all mixed together. It sounds too simple but it's not, absolutely not. My mum makes a rather difficult version of Sheer Khurma, and you can taste her efforts. I'm not blinded by love. It takes entirely 6-8 hours to boil it properly, but the pre-processing goes on for days before that.
I've helped her do these things since I was a child. As a kid, I used to like the color change; as an adult kid, I like to see thermodynamics play its role, spices in the water subtly shifting boiling points, interactions happening that are invisible but undeniable (it's exciting!). But recently, as I've been wandering into what feels like another dimension of experience, the emotional one, this same process has started to mean something else too. I missed this a few years in the middle when I was not home, in a hostel, detached from these small repetitions.
So these moments become a kind of bridge, not in the sense that anything fundamentally changes between us, but in the sense that the usual friction that exists in most of our interactions temporarily stops interfering. I help her do these things, she smiles, I try to keep my mouth shut and just observe, she gets amused, and in between all of this I keep things clean, that's just me, and I can literally see the satisfaction in her eyes, not in any exaggerated or emotional way, but as something small and precise that registers without needing to be explained, like when I hand her something before she asks for it, or when I don't interrupt at the wrong moment.
What is actually happening here, if I look at it properly, is that the interaction is anchored to something concrete, something external to both of us, which removes the need for constant interpretation. There is no pressure to say the right thing, no risk of slightly miscommunicating and then correcting for it, because the feedback loop is immediate and visible. If something is done properly, it is evident, like stirring at the right pace or not rushing a step that needs time. If something is off, that too is evident, like adding something too early or breaking the sequence. There is very little space for ambiguity to accumulate.
Which is not how it usually works.
Because in most other situations, there is always an additional layer, a kind of invisible negotiation where meaning has to be inferred, adjusted, sometimes even guessed, and that's where things start to drift, like when a simple question turns into something else because the tone was slightly off or the timing was wrong. Here, that layer reduces significantly, not because we suddenly understand each other better, but because understanding is no longer the primary requirement.
So instead of trying to fully make sense of each other, which rarely works cleanly, we end up aligning around a shared process, and that alignment, even if temporary and limited, is enough to reduce the usual mismatch, like two people following the same rhythm without needing to discuss it.
Nothing really resolves in these moments, there is no sudden clarity or deeper understanding that emerges out of it. The gaps remain exactly where they are. But there is a quiet acknowledgment, not stated but visible, that both of us are trying within our own limits, and that effort becomes legible in these small, contained interactions (I am usually late to these things, but here I can actually see it happen).
In some sense, it comes down to patience. With Sheer Khurma, you keep stirring for a long time and it still looks the same, same pale color, same thin texture, nothing on the surface suggesting that anything meaningful is happening. But underneath, the milk is slowly reducing, the vermicelli is softening, the spices are opening up, and the aroma starts building quietly before you even notice it consciously. And then at some point, not suddenly but unmistakably, it all comes together, the color deepens, the texture thickens, and what felt like repetition turns out to have been progress all along.
I'm not romanticising relationships; I still love the color change more than anything else. It is cleaner, more honest, less ambiguous. But I am an atheist, and I like Eid because that's the only day I get to be a child of a mother, without needing to fully understand what that really means. Something that I am learning to just feel and not just question.