Packing Before Eid

Packing for Eid was never supposed to be this exhausting. But somehow, every year, it felt like we were preparing for a month-long trip overseas despite knowing we'd only stay in our hometown, Kediri for a week at most.

We didn't even bring a suitcase because mom thought it would be a hassle and our car was too small for that big umrah suitcase.

Nope. We brought something worse: those huge plaid bags with zipper teeth that always seem one good yank away from breaking. They don't have wheels or structure, and they crinkle like dried leaves with every move. But they could hold a lot, a dangerously tempting amount of outfits.

And when it came to raya clothes, logic went out the window.

It all started the night before we left. The living room floor had disappeared under a colorful mess of clothes; shirts, scarves, gamis, socks, an army of undergarments, and those random backup T-shirts that somehow always get packed. It looked like a clothing store exploded in the middle of our house. My mom was on her third round of folding. Her expression had morphed into that strange, concentrated frown she always wore when packing. Her eyes narrowed slightly, lips pursed, and hands moving like clockwork. I was supposed to help, but I mostly just stood there, blinking at the mountain of fabric with a lazy look on my face.

"Do you really need these many clothes? Look at these, I already have so much in my hand and it's not even the pants yet." I asked, holding up a brand-new cream-colored blouse my mom just bought for me a week ago.

"It’s Eid," my mom said without looking up. "You're going to sweat from all those walks and we definitely don't want you looking like a mess in front of the guests."

"Do they even care? Besides, I won't even show up much."

"Still. You need choices."

Ah yes. Choices. The great illusion of free will in the face of family expectations.

I looked over to the other pile—my mom's clothes. She had at least six different gamis laid out and two different types of scarves for color matching. I didn’t dare comment.

Then there were the sandals. Eid sandals, travel sandals (or shoes), and cheap rubber slippers.

"We barely leave the house in Kediri," I muttered as I watched all of these things get forcefully squeezed inside one of the large bags we owned, one of those tote bags you can get for 5 thousand rupiahs when shopping in a grocery store.

"True, but you never know." My mom replied defensively.

I sighed and started to doubt that my laptop would fit inside the car. Yes, laptop. As a college student in her 8th semester, I need to bring that piece of metal everywhere I go even on national holidays like this. Look at me, I'm still doing assignments on Eid because tomorrow is the deadline and I certainly don't want to get a C.

On the day of departure, the chaos began at 5 a.m.

The trunk looked deceptively spacious at first glance, that was until we started the game of packing. The bags were dragged out and squished into the car trunk with the same energy people used to solve Tetris. My dad grumbled the whole time, muttering things like, "Why do we need this many clothes for five days?" as he tried to close the car's trunk. My mom clicked her tongue, "I don't want to hear a thing from you, you don't even help us pack up."

Inside the car, the rest of us were just as packed as the bags. There was barely leg room because someone decided the tote bag needed to ride with us "just in case" we needed tissue, wet wipes, and hand lotion. I had to sit with my legs folded half the trip because that was the most comfortable position I could get in. Not to mention the laptop's bag on my lap, I really had to take care of it, or else my laptop would get harmed and I couldn't work on my assignments. Thinking about it makes my body shudder, what a nightmare.

But even through all the grumbling and squeezing, there was that familiar flutter in the chest. We're going home. Sort of.

Not the home we live in every day. But the other one, the one you visit. The one with creaky doors and a front yard that hasn’t changed in ten years. The one where your grandma still scolds you for not eating enough rice.

---

During the drive, my mom kept bringing up our clothes. She was fine earlier, but now, she looks restless.

"Did you remember to pack your sarung?" she asked sharply, breaking the silence like a school teacher catching someone off guard. The question was aimed at the boys which are my dad and my two younger brothers."Yes, I double-checked." The first younger brother replied.

My mom's eyes squinted, "not the ugly one, the nice one we bought a week ago."

"...Mom. I packed it. I swear." He rolled his eyes and leaned back into his seat like he was done with mom's nagging.

Then my mom's head turned to my dad, "And your peci?"

"Also packed. Please stop." My dad said, not even blinking, his eyes glued to the road.

Mom's gaze then turned towards me, "How about you? All packed?"

I may nodded at her question, but it didn't help that I started to doubt myself halfway through. Had I packed the cream-colored blouse or the green one? Or both? What if I didn't bring both?

I panicked for fifteen minutes until I finally gave up and dug into the bags midway ride like a raccoon at a trashcan. My mom looked at me, horrified.

"You're going to mess up all the folding!"

"It's for peace of mind," I said dramatically.

I repacked the bag to the best of my ability, but let's be honest, it never goes back the same way. The once perfect arrangement now bulged awkwardly on one side. I pretended I didn't notice. My mom pretended she wasn't watching. We reached a silent truce.

Then, ten minutes later, my dad spoke up from the driving seat. "...Wait. Did anyone pack the sajadah?"

The silence that followed was heavy.

The overpacking wasn't just vanity—it was tradition. Even if we didn't have grand family gatherings anymore, we still held onto the rituals. Especially the clothes. They were a kind of armor, a statement. They said, "We're still okay and doing just fine."

Even if the only people who would see us were my grandma and maybe a curious neighbor.

So we stuffed the bags.

By the end of it, we had five massive plaid bags for clothes and one smaller bag for food toiletries and emergency medicine.

I tried to lift one of the big bags and nearly dislocated a shoulder.

"Why does this feel like it's filled with bricks?"

My mom shook her head, “you're overreacting,” she said.

We arrived in Kediri in the afternoon, I think it was 11 a.m. My grandma's house stood like it always did—sturdy, sun-washed, and a little too quiet. She opened the door and gave us a beaming smile.

"So many bags ya?" she commented, eyeing the bags like we were smuggling gold.

"Raya clothes," my mom said proudly.

My grandma gave a very audible "hmm."

Inside the house, there wasn't much space, so our bags practically blocked the walkway to the kitchen. I started dragging mine toward the guest room where we usually stayed in.

---

That night, after iftar, I sat in the living room with my phone in my hands.

We didn't need this many clothes. We didn't even change outfits that often when we were at grandma's. Sometimes we spent the whole day in casual clothes. But still... packing all those clothes gave us something to look forward to.

Even if the family wasn't as close anymore, even if the gatherings had shrunk, even if the only people we'd show off our outfits to were ourselves, we still dressed up.

We still showed up.

And maybe that was enough.

On Eid morning, I ended up wearing the cream-colored blouse after all. The green one stayed in the bag. So did two others. My mom wore her maroon-red gamis and matching hijab. We took pictures on the front porch. Just the five of us; my dad, mom, and my two younger brothers. It was quiet, and the clothes weren't for show. They were for ourselves.

For what we used to have. For what we were still trying to keep.

Later, my mom sighed as she folded a gamis she didn't get to wear and put it back inside the bag. "Too many choices," she said.

I grinned. "There's always next year, or maybe later in December. We always come back here for New Year, right?" I assured her.

And maybe next year, we'll bring just one bag.

Maybe.

Probably not.