Biryani, Broken Traditions, And The Art Of Surviving Eid In A New City

On a regular Tuesday, just as I was about to order lunch from Careem (a popular delivery app), I stumbled upon something that, in true Dubai fashion, surprised me—but not entirely. Two weeks before Eid al-Adha 2025, the Festival of Sacrifice, apps like Careem and Noon added dedicated Qurbani sections, offering instant delivery of local goats, sheep—and, hold your breath—even camels. This might seem shocking—or a bit on the nose—to people in other parts of the world, but in Dubai, where even fuel can be delivered to your doorstep, it’s just another example of convenience reigning supreme.

Eid, Reimagined (Or Not)

That’s the thing about living in Dubai: it allows you to hold space for nostalgia, all while creating new traditions. Eid al-Adha is celebrated on the 10th day of Dhu al-Hijjah, and is essentially rooted in faith, devotion and community. From praying in congregations to the sacrifice, it all teaches you to look inward and give back. My first Eid al-Adha in Dubai felt like the opposite of everything the festival stands for—no family, no friends, no community, and nothing familiar to anchor the day. Due to a lack of planning, I didn’t make any holiday arrangements to fly home, nor could I muster the motivation to explore something new in the city I now called home. After a day spent watching TV and eating my body weight in pizza (I know—practically a crime on a day meant for cultural delicacies), I was ready to call it quits following one too many emotional video calls with friends and family. But then, something happened that changed the trajectory of my day. A colleague, with whom I had barely formed a connection since I was still new to the city, called me to the parking lot of my apartment building to collect a parcel of home-cooked food that included mutton biryani and sheerkhurma. And just like that, even on a day I had resigned myself to a self-inflicted pity party, the kindness of this city and its people found me.

Nostalgic Eid Mornings

As a certified biryani snob who wouldn’t give Jafferbhai’s biryani a second glance compared to my mother’s slow-cooked masterpiece, this humble Tupperware treat had me sobbing on my kitchen floor with gratitude. The delicately sweetened sheerkhurma—raisins and all—felt like a warm hug of familiarity. For a child who grew up in a family that celebrated Eid over three days filled with endless meals, naps, and gatherings, this small dose of hope in isolation made me long for the good old days. Eid mornings for seven-year-old me would begin at 4:00 am, mostly because my grandmother would be up and about tidying a house that was already as clean as a crime scene scrubbed by a forensic team on their best day. After that, the men of the house would make a beeline for the mosque in their crisp white kurtas, while the azan echoing from every nearby minaret jolted the rest of the house out of those precious extra 20 minutes of sleep. I was already up, showered, and dressed in the most glittering outfit imaginable—one that could light up the whole house in a power outage—waiting patiently for everyone to regroup for the all-important Eidi distribution. I would then set my prison-break-style escape plan into motion with the baby goat I had decided to rescue from the sacrifice—only to be caught red-handed at the entrance of the yard. But each year, watching those less privileged leave our home with the largest portions—and hearts full of gratitude and blessings—made the sacrifice easier to understand.

When The Table Got Smaller

In my early 20s, as our once-big family became a smaller unit after my grandmother’s passing, traditions began to shift. Friends who felt like family started to fill the seats at our dining table. My mother stepped into the role of matriarch, but one thing never changed: the spirit of sharing, caring, and giving the largest portion to those in need in our community remained firmly intact. After years of nurturing these new traditions that came to define Eid in my 20s, I found myself at a crossroads as I chose to uproot my life and begin anew in a different country.

Eid 3.0

After a fairly dramatic first Eid, I decided to redefine what the celebration would look like for me and my new life. Yes, I may not wake up at 4 a.m. to scrub every surface until it reflects my image, nor do I create the sprawling, ten-foot table of dishes that my mother did. But I began borrowing from those traditions—and adding my own touches—to shape what Eid means in my new city. For starters, I shed the romanticism of labour that the women in my family wore like a badge of honour. Eid today, for me and my sister, looks quite different. Yes, we still wake at dawn, but instead of watching the men dress up and head to the mosque, we’ve started a new tradition—praying together at the neighbourhood mosque with the community. (Fun fact: many South Asian countries lack this facility for women, but it’s a regular norm here in the Middle East.)

Instead of preparing a gallon of traditional sheerkhurma, which demands the patience of a saint, we carry bags of candy to share with the children at the mosque, hugging and wishing them a joyful Eid. Afterwards, we return to our moderately clean home, whip up our favourite breakfast, and sip on our signature iced coffee as we ease into a slow, gentle morning that we now associate with Eid. Our outfits may no longer blind the room, but the excitement to pair them perfectly with earrings and shoes remains. Evenings are no longer about sprawling tables and large gatherings devouring home-cooked food. Instead, they are filled with game nights, matcha sessions, and gift exchanges with a small circle that may not share the same faith, but shares the same spirit.

And through all these changes and evolving traditions, one thing remains sacred and unshaken—the biryani. It still holds the centre stage of our celebration, a comforting thread of familiarity that ties the past and present together in every fragrant, flavourful bite.

Photo credits: Unsplash + Pexels