I’m always ready for Eid

Every year, as the crescent moon is spotted and Eid is declared, a very specific kind of excitement takes over the UAE — the kind that’s equal parts heartfelt joy, WhatsApp confusion, and frantic wardrobe planning. As a Catholic living here, I don’t celebrate Eid in the traditional sense, but let me tell you — I celebrate Eid. Loudly. Colourfully. And always with the secret hope of a biryani invite.

Let’s start with the greetings. Do I say Eid Mubarak? Happy Eid? Is there a cooler, shorter version I should be using by now? Should I text it first or wait for someone else to say it and just copy-paste? The anxiety is real. One year, I absentmindedly blurted out, “Happy holidays!” to someone clearly in a festive Eid mood. Close enough... but also, not really.

But the confusion doesn’t last long because the festive energy in the UAE is contagious. Suddenly, everyone’s got henna-stained hands, glittering outfits, and enough dessert to cause a national sugar shortage. My Muslim friends start sending mysterious messages like, “Big lunch at my place, come hungry,” and I immediately start clearing my schedule, hydrating, and wearing stretchy pants. Because yes, it’s biryani time, and I take that very seriously.

Biryani, in my humble and very experienced opinion, is a gift from the culinary gods. Watching it being prepared is a sacred ritual. There’s the layering, the aroma, the ceremonial unveiling of the pot — steam rising dramatically, like a Bollywood hero making his entrance. I’ve attended Eid lunches where I had to fight the urge to slow clap as the lid was lifted. That fragrant swirl of rice and spice? My love language.

Illusion of being fabulous

Of course, getting the invite is a whole game. I start dropping hints weeks in advance: “Wow, Eid’s coming up. Hope you’re not cooking too much biryani this year...” or “Just reorganised my spice rack. Totally unrelated but made me think of you.” Sometimes it works. Sometimes I end up at home watching biryani reels on Instagram, dressed like I’m attending a royal Eid celebration.

Because yes — I dress up for Eid. Even if I’m not going anywhere. There’s something about this festival that demands sequins, embroidery, kohl, and the illusion of being fabulous, even if I’m just eating leftovers and watching reruns. The malls help, of course. The sales are dangerous. I go in to buy sunscreen and come out with a new outfit, matching earrings, and a salwar kameez I have no business wearing in this weather, but hey — it’s Eid, and I like to be prepared. Just in case.

And can we talk about the holidays? That beautiful moment when the UAE officially declares Eid and the entire country collectively exhales with joy as the long-awaited announcement finally drops. I’ve never hit refresh on my inbox more eagerly than in the hours leading up to that official HR email. It’s the adult equivalent of waiting for your school to declare a rain holiday.

That’s what I love most. Eid in the UAE doesn’t belong to just one community — it spills over, wraps you up in its warmth, and invites you to be part of the celebration, even if you’re just there for the ma’amoul.

So no, I didn’t fast (I tried this year but ended up with a viral fever and a dramatic tummy infection — my body clearly wasn’t on board), I didn’t wake up at dawn for prayers, and I still triple-check the spelling of Eid Al Adha versus Eid Al Fitr every year. But I do show up. Dressed, hungry, grateful — and always ready to say, with full heart (and hopefully fuller plate): Eid Mubarak.