(23 Dec ’12)
In Mumbai, Christmas in
a Protestant school meant singing a hymn at assembly. The choir sang a couple
of carols, the pre-primary kids had a party of sorts, and since it coincided
with the end of year, there were elocution, debates and essay competitions
before school shut for a couple of weeks and we cousins steam-shipped down to
Palolem. Our neighbourhood, middle-class, a mix of Gujeratis, Maharashtrians,
Goans, Tamilians and Sindhis, had a handful of Christian families. To our joy,
we children were always treated with cake, kalkals, chicken-mayonnaise
sandwiches and a small gift like a pencil or a keychain or some cheap plastic
toy which we treasured until the next year. Decorations were a star-kandil outside one window, and a small
crib in a corner of the ‘hall’ (haven’t figured out why the tiny outer room was
called by this name in Mumbai.)
Marriage made me set up
homes in remote corners of the country. At Diwali, the military cantonments
celebrate with lights, sweets and snacks and fireworks. Religion didn’t play
much of a role. Parties did. The Muslims were ‘targeted’ on Id days: for mutton
biryanis, sheer-khurmas and whatever else the dear housewives could slog up. We
focused on the Christians on Christmas and Easter. Our Anglo-Indian neighbour,
Mrs Dutton, took help from my son and me for stirring the huge amount of batter
for the cake, a month before she baked it. In return, we ate the salt-meat: no
one in Goa makes it that tasty. Really. The Syrian Orthodoxes from Kerala
treated us to their creamy fish curries and stews with all the members of the
aapam family. Sweets followed. In the bitter winters of Kashmir, Punjab,
Northern UP (now Uttaranchal) and the edge of the Thar, Christmas meant razais,
silks, woollen clothes and socks inside leather shoes. Even today, no Christmas
or New Year passes by without my thinking about our soldiers who go through so
much hardship to keep us safe. It’s unbearably cold where they live, the
landscape barren and the environment depressing. Away from home in miserable
weather conditions, lonely yet motivated, these fine young men … keep them in
your minds when you celebrate cheerily here in Goa.
Camps and other closed
communities have their own ideas of fun. Santa Clauses came in cycle-rickshaws,
by helicopter, jeep, or walking. In some postings, we had real snow. Mostly, we
did without the (cotton or thermacole flakes) pretence that modern malls and
five-star hotels display. Once, the husbands were all away near a border area.
We ladies entertained our children by dressing up in reds, Santesses
Clausettes, so that the ‘tradition’ continued.
In Tamil Nadu and
Hyderabad, like in Goa, Christmas was ‘pleasant’ not bone-chilling cold like in
the north. So no bonfires or heaters. Dancing under starlit skies and visiting
churches around midnight was the norm.
When I took up a job in
the hospitality industry, I learned that The Season was serious business time.
Blocked rooms, booked rooms, many-dished buffets, expensive decorations, high
bills, non-availability of tickets for travel, I learnt about them all. Those
who depended on this time of the year to earn much of their annual income,
lobbied and manipulated to get the highest payment for singing, decorating,
driving taxis, supplying pulaos /sorpotels /pickles /dodols /bebincas. The
spirits of Christmas could be kept on hold whilst survival was happening.
In the hospital where I
worked, in Mumbai, nurses from Kerala learned Rangoli from their Maharashtrian
friends, or got them to do the stuff on their ward floors. Blinking lights,
shiny and colourful clothes came into the staid, serious corridors. So festive
did the atmosphere get, that even patients often forgot about their illnesses
and discomforts. The power of pretty surroundings, pleasant faces and
cheeriness can’t be underestimated. It is often followed by good appetite, good
sleep, and recovery.
Sale, sale, sale. No
prices ever come down, but customers flock to buy something that has a black
cross on the old price and a red tick-mark on the new one. From Diwali till well after New Year’s, this
madness continues.
In little Sangolda,
away from prying tourist eyes, the chapel has been white-washed. Our
man-of-all-trades, Shiva, hasn’t had a day to spare do clean up our yard,
because he’s been painting the fronts of homes (the backs remain neglected for
generations together), scraping compound walls, cleaning corners, destroying
cobwebs, washing grills, etc.
A little Sikh boy once
asked his father, a soldier in the Indian Army, what Christmas was. The father
replied, in the tradition of the sub-continent: “It’s the gurpurab of the Christians.”
Peace be with everyone,
and a jolly ho-ho-ho to you and yours.
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