It's Christmas!

It's Christmas, and it seems almost sacrilegious to talk about anything else except Christmas. But this year, it's just me and H, in our tiny, albeit cosy hostel room. We have two Christmas cards between us, and the room is so far devoid of any decorations. H thinks it's folly to buy more stuff when we already have so much to take home next year. And I suppose he's right.

Everywhere you go in Delhi, it's Christmas big time. The newspapers are full of it, recipes for cakes and goodies, what gifts to buy, etcetera. In the markets, it's the same. Shops are decorated in red, white, greens; even petrol station attendants are wearing Santa suits. The non-Christians overwhelm us with their fervour for the Christmas season. I guess everyone is cashing in on Christmas.

So as it is every year, and as it will probably be every coming year, we have to yet again make a conscious effort to remember what Christmas is about. It's easy to get caught up in the lights and the Christmas sales, the cakes and the glitter and the songs, but all Christmas signifies is the birth of Jesus after all. I'm a fine one to talk, but here's a poem from Gerrard Kelly...

The gift
We were so glad to welcome him
On Christmas day;
It was like having a new member
Of the family.
He looked so small and helpless,
It made you want to pick him up
And cuddle him.
We made promises, ofcourse,
Said we'd make room for him in our house,
Said we'd alter our routines
To fit him in,
Said we'd take a walk with him
Each day.

But the novelty
Soon began to wear off.
By New Year,
We mentioned him less often.
Daily chores were less of a thrill,
More of a reluctant duty.
By February he was unwanted.
By March we had abandoned him.

We should have read the warnings,
We should have counted the cost.
A God is for life,
Not just for Christmas.

Oh well, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone!!

Christmas past

Christmas had flavour then, it had an aroma, a magical essence of festivity. It had something to do with the smell of baking cakes in mom's rusted oven. The ornaments were simple, ribbons of coloured paper strung along the ceiling, a few clusters of balloons at strategic corners. My mother's fir tree in an old tin pot stood in the corner, brightly done up with gold and silver strings, a big star ceremoniously stuck at the top of the tree. Christmas cards arrived daily, from relatives and friends and well-wishers. My brother and I would collect the ones bearing our names, a childish competition to see who receives more.

I was, as a child, even more gullible, lead hither thither by an elder brother. I believed fervently in Santa Claus, but my brother put an end to that. 'There is no Santa Claus, it's only mom and dad pretending' . And before I could recover, 'Let's look for the gifts while they are gone'. And so my innocence ended at the tender age of 5 years. I learnt to deceive too. 'Look, mother! Santa got me exactly what I wanted'.

I did not know those Christmases represented phases of my life. Because every year, there were changes. Some were subtle, some struck closer to home. You could tell from the decorations how progress was happening. Cards are passe, real trees replaced by bigger, greener plastics. You could see how dear ones slowly disappeared from Christmases, some died of diseases, some in accidents. I remember a new year's eve spent mourning an uncle. The elders cried, we children huddled together, uncertain what to do when New Year arrived.

Every year, a little more numb,a little more pain, a little more smarter, a little more cynical, a little more adult. I mourn the death of childhood, the glee of being alive. Our worries were so small then, and our joys were so simple. Everyday was an occasion, Christmas and New Year were only the icing on the cake.

(Lungleng thut, inspired by Caliopia's post).