It doesn't feel the same

20, 40, 60……I mutter under my breath as I count my salami. My cousin's sitting beside me doing the same.

The notes are crumpled and a little damp from all the running around.

We're sitting beside a pond, legs stretched out, both of us tired and drenched in sweat.

The sun is still a bit harsh, but it's starting to soften.

We had been out since morning. Right after Eid prayers, we didn't waste a second. Changed into our new panjabi's, said quick salams to everyone at home, and then ran out.

We had a plan. Go to every house in our village and collect salami.

And we actually tried to do it.

Every house we entered felt the same in the best way. Smiles, "Eid Mubarak," a quick blessing, and then someone pressing money into our hands. But leaving was never easy.

"Have something before leaving."

And just like that, we were seated again.

In one house, it was biryani; hot, heavy, and way too much for the first stop of the day. In another, a bowl of shemai that we had to finish even when we were already full. Somewhere else, something fried, something sweet, something we couldn't say no to.

We kept going.

By noon, we were walking slower, laughing at how full the other looked, but still refusing to skip any house.

"Let's not go to that one," I would say at some point. "They give more," my cousin would reply immediately.

So we went.

The sun got stronger, the roads hotter. Our clothes stuck to us, and we wiped sweat from our faces with the backs of our hands.

But we didn't stop. There was always one more house, one more salami, one more plate we had to somehow finish.

By the end of it, we could barely walk straight.

That's when we came to the pond.

It was always the same spot. Quiet, a little away from everything. We'd sit there without saying much at first, just catching our breath.

Then one of us would pick up a stone.

We'd start skipping them across the water, arguing over whose went farther. It wasn't serious, but we treated it like it was.

After that came the moment of truth. Counting what we had collected.

20, 40, 60…

We'd compare, joke, sometimes accuse each other of hiding extra notes. Sometimes we combined everything, sometimes we didn't. It didn't really matter. It just felt like a perfect end to the day.

Eid feels different now. Quieter, maybe.

My village isn't really a village anymore.

The small tin-roof houses we used to visit are mostly gone, replaced by buildings. The doors don't stay open the way they used to. People don't insist as much.

The pond is gone too.

The water dried up years ago, and now there are shops where we used to sit. I've tried standing there once or twice, trying to reminiscence, but it doesn't feel like anything.

And my cousin.

We just stopped talking somewhere along the way. No reason, really. Life got busy, I guess. What used to be so easy just slowly faded.

Now on Eid, I mostly stay home or visit a few relatives. I still get salami sometimes, but the count doesn't feel the same anymore.

Sometimes, though, I catch myself remembering that day. The running, the eating, the heat, the pond, the counting.

20, 40, 60…