rom the time we were little, Eid meant one thing above all else: eidi. It was the shimmering highlight of the year — those crisp, new notes handed to us by smiling elders, folded neatly into colourful envelopes or pressed directly into eager palms. Each Eid morning was electric with anticipation, a grand treasure hunt where every salaam held the promise of riches, sweets and joy.

Fast forward a couple of decades, and the tables seem to have turned. Suddenly, I’m no longer at the receiving end; I’m the one handing out those crisp notes, smiling warmly at eager little faces that mirror exactly who I used to be. It’s a funny feeling, this shift — from the child who couldn’t wait to receive eidi, to the adult who genuinely enjoys giving it more than receiving.

The first time I gave someone eidi, it felt surreal. Standing there, watching my niece’s eyes sparkle with excitement as she quickly opened the envelope and did a little dance of joy, transported me straight back to my own childhood. It hit me then: giving eidi isn’t just about handing out cash; it’s about recreating a feeling, sharing a joy that transcends generations. It’s about connection, tradition and a sense of continuity.

Sure, receiving eidi was great — it represented freedom, a chance to indulge, to splurge at the little corner store and to proudly compare your earnings with cousins and siblings. But there’s something deeply fulfilling about being the giver now, about seeing happiness bloom on little faces because of something you’ve done.

It’s also oddly sobering. Being on the giving side marks a subtle but clear passage into adulthood. It comes with responsibilities, yes, but also a warm realisation that you now have the ability — and the privilege — to create special moments for someone else. Your role shifts from the excitement of wondering how much you’ll receive, to thoughtfully considering how much you can give, and how you can make each child’s Eid special.

In a way, giving eidi is a gentle reminder of how life comes full circle. It evokes nostalgia for simpler times while simultaneously grounding me firmly in the present moment, reminding me of the significance of family, traditions and the joyful innocence of youth. It’s a role I never imagined myself cherishing so deeply, but here I am, genuinely loving it more than my younger self ever anticipated.

The true beauty of being an eidi giver isn’t the act itself, but the perspective shift it brings. I’ve come to appreciate my parents, uncles, aunts and grandparents more, realising how effortlessly they created happiness for us, year after year. Their joy, I realise now, was seeing us smile, seeing us excited. Now that I stand in their shoes, the joy has multiplied — it resonates differently, more deeply.

So, while I fondly remember my younger self eagerly counting the eidi bills, nothing compares to the warmth of being the reason behind someone’s smile today. Transitioning from receiving eidi to giving it hasn’t just been about growing older; it’s been about growing wiser, kinder and more appreciative of the joy that comes from giving rather than receiving. And honestly, I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything.

Shaafay Zia is an ex-serviceman and a freelancer. He can be reached at shaafayzia@gmail.com