now that we are grown up there is no eidi, the extra money that would fatten my pocket money. i spent most of it on customised collections of songs recorded by radio city or off beat. nor are there those family outings on chand raat to get stamps of inky henna on my palms and to buy churiyan. the glittery ones were rough, the glitter from them clinging tenaciously to skin and clothing. the plain glass ones had a blackened joint, a mark of the sear of the flame to close the circle. i remember the crudely made boxes holding an array of multicoloured glitter, matte and plain kinds. they were illuminated by naked light bulbs suspended on a slim wire. gone too are the multiple trips to the darzi to retrieve clothes never stitched on time.