If Eid day is about prayers, new clothes, and hugging your grandma, then the day after Eid is where the true test begins.
The test of stomach capacity, social stamina, and pretending to remember distant relatives and neighbors' names.
We woke up a bit later that morning, still bloated from the previous day's feast but determined, if not particularly enthusiastic, to keep the halalbihalal tradition alive. The kind of tradition where you go house to house, greet people, eat snacks at every stop, and try not to accidentally call someone by the wrong name. It's a cultural marathon, basically.
Kediri’s air was still heavy with celebration. You could hear takbiran recordings faintly echoing from the mosque's speaker, recycled from the night before. Children darted through the streets in packs, waving colorful envelopes and lighting tiny firecrackers with unmatched confidence. Our plan for the day was simple: go around the neighborhood and visit a handful of elders and relatives. Say sorry, shake hands, and eat cookies. Repeat. My mom tried to sell it as a small, quick route.
"We won't go for too long," she said while fixing her hijab in the mirror.
She always says that. It’s never true.
I sighed and double-checked my outfit in the hallway mirror. I had chosen something loose and airy, fully aware I'd be sweating by the third house. My youngest brother already had chocolate on the sleeve of his clothes before we even left. Classic.
We started next door.
Pak Yono and Bu Marni weren't blood relatives, but they'd known our family for decades. The kind of neighbors who knew the names of every kid on the street, what school they went to, and how often they visited. The kind who'd scold you like their own child if they caught you climbing the rambutan tree barefoot.
The moment we stepped inside, Bu Marni's eyes lit up.
"You’ve grown so big now!" she exclaimed, even though we'd just seen each other last year. Her tone made it sound like I'd somehow aged ten years and grown white hair.
She disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying a large tray like it was a ceremonial offering—small cups of iced tea, a jar of nastar, kastengel, and semprit arranged like tiny, edible jewels. I smiled and took one of everything. I told myself I'd pace it out, but nostalgia had hands and it shoved semprit into my mouth faster than I could blink.
We sat and chatted for twenty minutes—mostly polite small talk. The cookies were delicious, especially the semprit that melted like a dream. I almost reached for a second helping, but then I remembered: this is only house number one.
The semprit was dangerously good. It melted like a dream, buttery and light, and it betrayed me into thinking, Just one more. I almost reached for a second round, but then I remembered: we still had a full list of houses to visit, and this was only the appetizer. We smiled, thanked her too many times, and shuffled back into the heat, stomachs a little heavier. My brother leaned over and muttered, "I think I already reached my polite snack limit."
"Same," I whispered.
We headed two houses down to an aunt—the kind you’re told to call "aunt" but can't quite explain how you're actually related.
She welcomed us with the same energy as a news anchor. Her smile was photo-ready, her outfit perfectly color-coordinated, and her living room spotless. The cushions were perfectly aligned, the carpet looked freshly vacuumed, and a vase of artificial roses sat in the center of the table like it had never once been touched by human hands.
"Come on in! You guys have grown so big already. Very handsome, very pretty." she greeted us with that fast, enthusiastic tone that made you smile automatically, even if you weren’t fully awake.
We sat down and were instantly greeted by another tray of cookies—this time with a new lineup: layered cake slices, putri salju, and a suspiciously tall stack of wafer rolls. I barely finished chewing the cookie from the last house, but social contracts demanded I eat more.
My mom and her started chatting right away, in that overly polite, slightly rehearsed rhythm adults fall into when they haven't spoken in a while but feel obligated to act close.
Meanwhile, I tried to quietly sip the syrupy pink drink she poured for us. It was sweet enough to qualify as dessert. My brothers gave me a look from across the room that said, "We're not making it out of this alive."
And again, like a looped scene, we stayed for about twenty minutes. Thanked her too many times. Got handed another small bundle of snacks wrapped in a paper napkin.
By the time we stepped out, I felt like I had already consumed three entire Eid holidays worth of sugar.
Next house was more relaxed. A younger neighbor who just had a baby last month. We sat cross-legged on her floor, the cool tiles a welcome change from stiff living room chairs. She apologized for not having much prepared, though that "not much" still included cassava chips, pilus, and a suspiciously large container of Yupi candy that looked like it had come straight from a wholesale store.
I didn't even like those gummies that much. They were too chewy and tasted like artificial fruit dipped in sugar syrup. But I ate a few anyway, out of politeness, chewing thoughtfully while nodding along to the baby talk around me.
Her baby was adorable, though. A tiny thing wrapped in a pastel blue onesie, with a fuzzy patch of hair on his head and a habit of laughing at nothing. His toothless grin made everything feel a little softer, even the Yupi.
"You want to hold him?" she asked, cradling him in her arms like a pro.
I instinctively shrunk into myself. "Ah, maybe later," I replied, already imagining myself dropping him by accident and causing an Eid tragedy. My mom, on the other hand, was quick to take him and coo in the high-pitched baby voice she rarely used at home.
We only stayed around ten minutes, which felt mercifully short. But as we stepped out, I blinked in the sunlight and realized—I no longer remembered how many houses we had visited. Was that house number three? Four?
My mom, however, moved with purpose. She had the precision of a seasoned general, her hijab slightly askew from movement, but her mission unwavering. She leaned toward us and whispered, "Next, to the old man across the street. It's the last one for today, are you happy?"
Me and my brothers smiled happily, "very much so!" the youngest one exclaimed.
This one was quiet.
An old uncle who lived alone now, ever since his wife passed away a few years ago. He wasn't on the list, not officially—just someone we used to visit, back when the extended family still did things together. But as we walked past his gate, my mom slowed down. Then she turned in. He wasn't expecting us. You could tell by the way he peeked from behind the curtain, confused at first, before recognition kicked in. He opened the door slowly, with a surprised smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Wah, I didn't think anyone would come," he said, rubbing his arm awkwardly.
We stepped inside. The house smelled faintly of old wood and Tiger Balm. There weren't any cookies on the table, no special drinks. Just plain tea, a little too bitter, and a plastic tray with packaged wafer sticks that might've been around since last week.
But we stayed.
We didn't rush the visit. We talked about nothing and everything. Let him ramble about the old days when the house was full of laughter and people, when his wife would yell from the kitchen for someone to stir the opor, when kids ran barefoot in the yard and someone always ended up crying.
My mom smiled and nodded along, she didn't say much. Just let him talk.
And I think in that quiet living room, with lukewarm tea and expired wafers, we were reminded of something simple and heavy. That eid isn’t always about the perfect clothes or the big meals or the Instagram-worthy group photo.
Sometimes, it’s just about showing up.
We got home just before sunset. The sky was already shifting into that soft orange haze, and all of us looked like we'd just run a marathon through a buffet line. The bags under our eyes were darker than our Eid clothes, and no one had the energy to speak louder than a whisper.
"I think I ate 80% sugar today,"I muttered, flopping face-first onto the couch. My stomach felt like it was 60% syrup and 40% regret.
My brothers collapsed nearby, one scrolling through his phone with the energy of a dying phone battery, the other passed out with a kastengel still in his hand.
My mom, somehow still standing, carried a tray of leftover snacks to the kitchen. She looked tired, but satisfied.
"It's not about the food," she said, setting down the tray. "It's about the visit."
I nodded faintly from the couch, the cushions already swallowing me whole.
"I know,"I mumbled. But honestly, I was already halfway into a nap, dreaming of air-conditioned rooms and vegetable soup.
Outside, the faint sound of distant fireworks crackled in the background. Another Eid had come and gone.
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