The Christmas carollers just left our house. It’s been years since I’ve seen one,
with my parents. The last time I saw, I was about nine years old. At first, it scared the life out of me.
Strangers barging into our yard, singing, yelling, dancing, bursting crackers,
shaking hands, smiling and laughing. And to top it all off, a fake Santa Claus
wearing a mask. Complete chaos! That was not at all what I had expected.
Cartoon Network had shown it to be a pleasant, peaceful spectacle, with cheerful
choir songs, sung with smiles, spreading warmth and happiness in the cold
winter night, and a huge Santa Claus, laughing Ho Ho Ho, with an original smile
on his original face, handing out candy, with children giggling and whispering the
intricate details of their Christmas presents in his ears. As I stood beside my
mother horrified at what was happening, a child about my age stretched out
something in his hand, I took it from him; a toffee. I don’t know how or where
it came from, but a smile sprang up on my lips. Aye, the Christmas spirit was
here. What felt like chaos at first, now had an order, a purpose even. There
was light everywhere, and in the deafening music of the band, all I could see
was the happiness on the faces of these unknown people who had suddenly
appeared in my life.
The earliest memory I have of Christmas is that of writing cards. It was sheer fun,
buying beautiful cards for my cousins. I wanted each card to have something
that symbolised each of their personalities. Writing in them, the personalised
wishes and their names was very hard work, because it had to be in the best handwriting
possible and without mistakes. There were no second chances. But I enjoyed it,
for each word written, had a purpose, to evoke an emotion in the one who read
it. I tried to foresee what they would feel, and it gave me a sense of
satisfaction. The cards were sent away and some others returned. It was even
more amusing, reading what they had written in mine.
We used to buy stars every year. And when father got up on the chair to put it up,
over the porch light, I couldn’t help but beam. My face literally hurt from smiling,
I couldn’t control it. To think there’s an actual star on my wall was beyond my
wildest imagination. Once, there was a red star with holes, then a shiny green
star, again with holes, and so on. Every year the stars got lovelier, but what
remained the same, was the way they all swayed in the night wind to unveil a
play of colourful lights on the walls and garden of my house. To me, there was
nothing more beautiful than my home in the nights of December.
I had always been fascinated by the
idea of a bearded grandpa flying around the world, on a sledge pulled by
reindeers, giving away presents to children who had been good all year round,
and that too for free. I used to look up at the sky on Christmas Eve, at the
brightest star and hoped he would find his way to my home. I could close my
eyes then, and see him flying in the sky, under the starry night, through
clouds, laughing, Ho Ho Ho. I miss being able to believe in such things. There
was not a speck of doubt in my mind that he wasn’t real. Maybe grandpa only
visits places where it snows. Maybe he leaves presents only under beautiful Christmas
trees. Coming from North Pole, maybe it’s too hot for him here. Maybe that’s
why he doesn’t come to our homes. But never did I doubt his existence. No,
somewhere, there was a man in bright red clothes jumping into snow covered
chimneys with a bag of presents.
I’m not saying that all my Christmas’s
were perfect. I’ve had a fair share of unpleasant Christmas experiences. There
once came this Santa Claus in our school. He appeared soon after the prayer.
All the children including myself were excited to see him. After dancing and
singing, and shaking hands of clearly embarrassed teachers, he started throwing
toffees at the children. The children were scurrying to catch them and pick up the
ones that had fallen on the ground. A toffee hit my head and bounced off into
my friend’s hand. After all the chaos, most of my friends had at least two
toffees each and I had a bump on my head.
Worst Santa Claus ever! I hope he remembers me, the tiny dark kid with
crossed arms and an angry stare.
The plum cake was not one of my
favourites. I did not like it at all. It was only when I was in college that
everything changed. Once in my first year, a friend brought a plum cake from
his home. We all know what happens to a cake, when opened inside a hostel room
full of hungry engineers, right? It simultaneously disappears. I participated
in the procedure. That’s when I learned the truth about food. It becomes
tastier when shared, or fought over.
Right now I’m at my ancestral home in Ottapalam, by the side of a beautiful mountain,
inside a 35 year old house, with spider webs in all corners, soot on all walls and
memories in every brick. You wouldn’t believe how cold it is, here. My whole
body is shivering and my teeth are jittering. Winter has set in well. There are
a few Christmas stars nearby, well a few minutes’ walk away of course. It’s the
countryside and houses are scarce. They are not the rich flashy ones. Simple,
ordinary ones, but ones into which as much love, hope and happiness had gone at
the time of hanging. There are no stars above my door. No, not because I don’t
love Christmas, but because there are no children here. I’m not a child
anymore. I have grown up and somewhere along the way, I stopped believing.
This mundane reality, with its brief bursts of bliss scattered far apart in a dreary
desert of miseries, has taken its toll on me. I’m tired of not believing. It’s
that time of the year that we are allowed to be happy, expected even. Christmas,
I believe, is a time of hope and dreams, of forgiveness and a new beginning.
I’m not Christian. No, but every Christian I know, would agree, that Christmas
is for each of us to hold in our heart. It’s a feeling, more than a festival,
marking the birth of our beloved Jesus. It lights a lamp in the darkness of our
heart and warms the soul shivering in the corner of it. So let me just see if I
can make my fantasies a reality. Bear with me on this.
My breath, it’s freezing in front of my mouth. I can see from my open window, the
first of the snowflakes falling to the ground. Wow, it’s actually snowing. Jack
Frost is here. The tall Christmas tree in the middle of the nearby field looks
beautiful, with all the lights and the beautiful white star at the top. The
children are ice skating around it, laughing and holding hands. Some are nearby,
throwing snowballs at each other, ducking the ones thrown at them. I can see my
nine year old self among them, playing, without a care in the world, about the
future or the past, just the happiness of the moment in my mind. The same
happiness I felt as we chased dragonflies in our school ground. Only two things
existed, you and the dragonfly, nothing else in the world mattered. There are
some children sliding down the mountain covered with ice and flying into a mound
of snow. There are couples around, holding hands watching the children play.
Choir songs are being sung. In the distance, near the moon, I can see a sledge
being pulled by reindeers. He’s coming. Magic is real, my dear friends. For a
writer it lies in words, for a painter in colours, for a singer in the voice, for
a dancer in the body and so on. Where does your magic lie? Find it, believe in
it, and chase your dreams. Merry Christmas to all.
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