'Twas the night before Eid, the Muslim festival that stops the nation for prayer, celebration, and of course, eating. Staying in a small village near Jhelum in Pakistan's Potohar Plateau had already been an incredible experience, and it was the evening before the day of the festival that we decided to take a walk around the surrounding countryside.
Cows mooed and sheep migrated back towards the village as the sun sank low in the sky. The eye of the day set ablaze the sky above us, and the mountainous terrain was bathed in a magical golden light. My friend and I sat for a couple of hours, until night fell, watching nature's magnificent theatre unfold before us.
We walked back into the village, and my friend went home to spend some quality time with his family. Meanwhile I was left to wander around the village with camera in hand. I ambled around the narrow, cobblestone lanes, my ears pricking up at every sound emerging from the darkness; a family catching up with relatives just returned from the big smoke; a mother preparing the Eid feast for the next day; a father teaching his children about the history of the occasion.
I arrived at the main mosque in the village and decided to take five. Sitting in the corner of the courtyard, looking skywards at the vast canopy of stars above, I knew there was nowhere in the world I would rather have been on the night before Eid.