At my age, I have spent decades celebrating Eid al-Adha in Kolkata. Through all these years, never have I witnessed an Eid so sombre, silent, heavy, and collectively painful.
The change in government after the 4th of May brought with it a series of drastic measures that overwhelmingly affected one particular community. Demolitions of buildings and market stalls, actions around railway stations, calls for “3D”, activation of detention centres, reports of people allegedly being forced out of their homes over documentation issues, restrictions on people offering prayers on roads even when masjids overflowed, and reduction of sound levels. One after another, these developments accumulated and finally converged upon the first major festival Muslims were to observe thereafter, through the renewed implementation of a 76-year-old law.
People entered Eid with anxiety instead of joy.
When Anxiety Replaced Celebration
Families who would traditionally purchase cattle for sacrifice suddenly found themselves unable to do so because such animals were effectively prohibited for slaughter unless they met conditions that Muslims do not religiously consider appropriate for qurbani. Those who had already purchased them before the implementation of these measures had to somehow dispose of them, while in some cases authorities reportedly took them into custody. And those who had notices pasted outside their homes could barely come out of the shock, let alone think of anything else.
For many small rearers and traders, this was devastating. They had invested their savings, borrowed money, and spent months rearing these animals in the hope of earning during Eid. Overnight, uncertainty replaced hope. Debts remained, but livelihoods disappeared.
The Poor Bore the Heaviest Burden
The worst sufferers, as always, were the poor.
For years, one of the most moving sights of Eid in Kolkata was watching people from nearby villages and poorer neighbourhoods come into the city hoping to receive some share of meat. In many villages, people would collectively purchase cattle, making qurbani affordable for ordinary families. The meat would then be shared widely, ensuring that even the poorest homes experienced Eid with dignity and happiness.
This year, that spirit suffered greatly.
With the shift from cattle to goats, demand increased sharply, and prices rose accordingly. A single goat became expensive enough to burden many families. At the same time, the amount of meat available was substantially reduced. Less meat at a higher cost meant there was less to distribute among relatives, neighbours, friends, and especially the poor. In many villages, collective qurbani became practically impossible.
The Eid atmosphere itself reflected this sadness.
The roads were quieter. Crowds were fewer. The familiar scenes of poor people moving from lane to lane, waiting outside homes with hope, were hardly visible. Even the physical arrangements seemed symbolic of the change. Large vats used in previous years were avoided, replaced with smaller bins, almost mirroring the forced transition from cattle to goats.
And then came yet another directive: the shifting of the largest Eid congregation from the historic Red Road to Brigade Parade Ground. For generations, the Red Road congregation had become more than just a prayer venue. It was a symbol of visibility, belonging, continuity, and history. Its removal was felt emotionally by many, irrespective of whatever administrative reasons may have been offered.
Finding the Meaning of Sacrifice Again
Yet, despite all this, Eid was not defeated.
People still gathered for prayers. Families still embraced one another. Children still wore new clothes. Homes still cooked whatever they could afford. Those who had more still tried to share with those who had less. In countless homes, sacrifices were made not only of animals but of comfort, desires, and certainty.
Perhaps this Eid reminded us of something deeper about sacrifice itself.
Qurbani has never merely been about abundance, display, or festivity. At its heart lies submission, patience, resilience, and the willingness to endure hardship while holding firmly to faith and compassion. History shows that communities survive not merely through prosperity but through their ability to remain dignified during adversity.
The mood this Eid may have been unusually heavy, but pain too has a way of strengthening bonds within a people. Difficult times often revive empathy, simplicity, and solidarity. Many who could not do much still tried to help another family. Many who themselves struggled still ensured someone poorer received a share.
And perhaps that is what gives hope.
Festivals come and go. Governments change. Policies change. Restrictions change. But communities rooted in faith, charity, patience, and collective memory endure far longer than moments of hardship.
This Eid in Kolkata, and perhaps in the whole of Bengal, may be remembered as one of the most unusual, difficult, and emotional in recent memory. But, in sha Allah, it may also be remembered as the Eid that reminded people of the true meaning of qurbani: sacrifice.
