There are few certainties in life — death, taxes, and Bangladeshi dads waking up their entire family at an ungodly hour for Eid prayers. It's a tradition so deeply embedded in our culture that even the muezzin calling the Fajr azan might as well take a break. Our fathers have already assumed the role of the alarm clock, and trust me, they're better at it.

The good: When dad is a bro

Let's start with the rare unicorn of Bangladeshi fathers — the chill one. The one who casually sips his tea, already dressed in his panjabi, patiently waiting for you to wake up on your own. He gently knocks on your door like a civilised man, instead of using the classic throwing the pillow at your face technique. Maybe he even lets you snooze for another 10 minutes while he contemplates whether waking you up immediately is worth the risk of hearing you groan like a haunted ghost.

This dad understands that Eid mornings are tough. That you might've had a late-night binge on kebabs and shemai, leading to a food coma that rivals an anaesthetic-induced slumber. He knows that waking you up doesn't need to be a violent war crime but instead, a delicate art of persuasion. This dad is a blessing. This dad is an anomaly.

The bad: The army general dad

And then, we have the default setting of most Bangladeshi dads — the military commander who believes Eid prayers are an expedition that requires extreme preparedness. This man wakes up before Fajr, makes it his life mission to get you up too, and absolutely will not rest until every single person in the household is ready — hours before the prayer even starts.

This dad doesn't believe in 'fashionably late.' No sir. He operates with the belief that leaving home any later than the crack of dawn will result in Eidgah entry being revoked by some divine force. He will wake you up with tactics that range from unnecessarily bright tube lights to dramatically pulling the sheets off you like an exorcism. He will remind you of all your past sins and failures in a voice so loud that even the neighbours' rooster wakes up confused.

And when you're finally up and dressed, you realise you have been forced into readiness two whole hours before you need to leave. You're now sitting on the sofa, half-asleep, watching your dad polish his shoes for the fiftieth time while your mum gives him the look that says, Was all of this necessary?

The ugly: When you have the difficult dad

If your father falls into this category, my condolences. Because this dad doesn't just wake you up — he makes sure you suffer for resisting. He's not just waking you up; he's making an example out of you.

This dad has three stages. First, he starts with subtle threats — "If you miss the Eid prayer, don't come asking for Eidi." Second, if you still refuse to budge, he moves on to forceful ejection from the bed. He might drag your panjabi out from the wardrobe, throw it on your face, and instruct you to be ready in five minutes like he's briefing a soldier for battle.

And finally, the last stage — the unthinkable. He leaves without you.

Yes, some dads are so committed to their early departure time that they will leave the house without their own son just to prove a point. At this moment, you are not just late for prayers; you have failed in the grand mission of Eid preparedness. Your only option? Chase him down the street in your paijama while the neighbourhood aunties judge you.

The blessing in disguise

But let's be honest — it's all part of the charm. As much as we complain, as much as we roll our eyes and spurt out angry mutters under our breath, we wouldn't trade it for the world. There's something oddly comforting about watching our dads fuss over timings, iron their panjabis, and take charge of Eid morning like a field marshal.

Because at the end of the day, this is their way of caring. They don't wake you up at 5 AM just to torture you (well, mostly). They do it because, to them, Eid is not just about new clothes or polao-korma. It's about family, about togetherness, and yes, about making sure you reach the prayer ground before the imam finishes his first takbeer.

And when you get older, when your dad isn't there to shake you awake and yell about how you're the reason we can't have nice things, you'll miss it. You'll miss the annoying wake-up calls, the unnecessary morning urgency, and yes, even the half-sarcastic, half-genuine, "Eid Mubarak, Baba" exchange on the way home.

So, this Eid, when your dad storms into your room at an unreasonable hour, just get up, smile, and go along with it. After all, someday, it'll be you waking up your own kids three hours early for no logical reason whatsoever.

Happy Eid Mubarak, and may your father's wake-up tactics be ever so slightly less traumatic this year.