Dr Elsa Lycias Joel
Every year by the end of October, I receive frequent calls and emails from family and friends wanting to know what’s happening at my end or how Christmas is going to be or if I’ll visit my mom. Something about Christmas motivates people to connect. Then the conversation continues until Christmas gets over or we meet and make up for the lost months or maybe years. Two reasons behind all these are the closing down of offices and companies for Christmas or people exhausting their excessive leave balance. Whether we live in a village or a city or a town, Christmas brings an aura unknown to all irrespective of their faith or religion, as a result of which people transform into beautiful welcoming and hospitable beings. This season gives everyone an opportunity to build a connection, make amends over a wrong, conquer all inhibitions to invite and get invited for a good chat and try to resolve imaginary hostilities, all with those two words ‘Merry Christmas’ which sounds merrier with a small cake in hand. These magical 12 days of Christmas fly by as fast as the Peregrine Falcons and most people find themselves too busy to share a smile or a kind word, forget receiving a reply in one complete sentence.
These days, conversations in living rooms are mostly centered on bygone years when Christmas meant more than just cakes, gifts and carol services or about how pathetic Christmas is going to be in the future. Since I know what Christmas was like in my childhood, I know aunts, uncles, grandaunts, granduncles and cousins aren’t exaggerating. At homes, there were no heaps of gorgeous goodies that were the best, the most expensive, the latest, the newest or the most exclusive but there was a sense of belonging that nobody could resist. Kind words, deeds and smiles were real, in dead earnest. All they discuss makes a lot of sense to all but the Gen Z who try so hard to get everything into their system.
Thanks to the olden days. Christmas these days is special only because each one tries to recreate or relive good old memories. Cakes and delicacies never looked perfect but they tasted heavenly. In our household, all ingredients that went into the making of eatables had a history such as being carefully processed for months by a dedicated family member or gifted by a loved one or shipped or sent from a far off place. So, when a delicacy was made or eaten, memories or talks revolved around so many people. Whether it was dark rum or wine or whisky or brandy in which dry fruits were soaked, the person entrusted with the responsibility of shaking the air tight jar or topping it with more alcohol was adored or frowned upon by self declared cake connoisseurs, after the Christmas fruit cake was baked. Many a time, this role was played by all in turns so that not one person alone bore the brunt of a notorious oven or a bad baker. I don’t know who in the family came up with this idea of shared responsibilities, from sourcing ingredients to processing dry fruits to measuring the flour to baking the cake. Kudos to her/him, nobody could find fault with anything cooked or baked during Christmas. Yes, love was in the air. Lessons were taught and learnt in a subtle yet profound way. The first best set of delicacies was shared with the less fortunate as well as the missionaries who lived around to make lives better.
There were no Christmas markets in my village. Thankfully, Christmas shopping was not in vogue. Shopping for the sake of shopping was and is too stressful to me. But I was in want of nothing. New clothes were in my clothes chest though I never cared much and gave my parents a tough time to make me wear new clothes to church. My mother still complains that I always chose that one old frock with Chelsea collar over everything and I was the sole reason behind the bickering between her and my dad, as we got ready for church. Aunts and uncles tried in vain to make me feel jealous about well dressed cousins. Anytime, I was told that my new clothes would be given away I would come up with a list of beneficiaries. Not bragging but unlike many kids, I felt mighty pleased to see ‘other kids’ wearing my clothes because those ‘other kids’ lived in an orphanage nearby. Secretly I wished my cousins also wore one of their favorite old clothes and gave away the new ones. Later, when I knew I played my best part because generosity isn’t about giving away what we do not need but what we may need and that which we are ready to forsake, I felt truly wise.
Even before the box of fireworks and crackers arrived from Sivakasi, the fireworks capital of India, I heard stories from my mom about the children working there. At that tender age I could keep myself away from bursting and burning that stuff for three reasons. One, my dog Tiger was terrified of loud noises. Two, I knew it wasn’t right for kids to be working. Three, it felt so horrible to imagine people and kids with corroded nails, asthma and other diseases making those fireworks so that others could enjoy watching the sky being lit up. Neither was I part of the fun that lacked common sense nor did my plans to drench the box with water materialized. Hence, I took away my share of fireworks and sparklers, hid them in the spandrel but never found them again. Also, I believed Father Christmas took them away. I guess I had my own ways of seeking seasonal cheer which always extended for another one year.
Lights, garland, tinsel and ornaments were shared among kids. Every kid wanted every other Christmas tree to look as grand as his/hers. It was never about flaunting the best decorated tree in one’s home but it was about making sure all trees of known people lacked nothing that another tree had. For instance if my tree had a few baubles and I found a tree in another home with none, I readily shared half of what I had. This sharing continued until each tree had only one bauble. And if I had only one candy cane on my tree, I readily made a few, if necessary, with the resources I had at home. Whenever adults glanced at my tree, I had reasons to begin a conversation about the candy canes without warbles and why certain baubles stayed glued to branches and where all my stuff went. Learning to improvise or make the best use of scarce resources was a Christmas routine. Parents and grandparents did teach us to share and care, giving away the best we had, through their actions. That sense of pride or accomplishment I felt whenever I could make other kids happy matched nothing. Free workshops I conducted with a tone that did not match my smile made me a bit famous among the 6 or 7 I knew. Teaching them to wrap crushed paper balls with gift wrappers or giving them all the bottles of glitter nail paints I found in my house to colour the handmade baubles and woolen threads to hang them made me an expert of sorts. Friends who could never follow my instructions to use a needle to put a hole ended up sticking those baubles in their trees with glue or tape.
People rarely mentioned the words ‘mine’ and ‘yours’. It was ingrained in us that we’d enjoy Christmas in the right spirit if we just shared.
The menage, young and old, transformed into bakers, sous chefs, devoted kitchen staff, patient babysitters, listeners and interior designers, as and how the situations demanded. Given my unbelievable power of imagining things, I remained the undisputed storyteller who could hold the attention of all kinds of kids for hours, making the job of child whisperers easy for them. Happily, I remain so.
In our house, when relatives started trickling in, practicing carols would begin in small groups and even two people sounded like a strong team. If ever I sat still in a place while awake, it was when dad, his brothers, cousins or my grandfather sang or made music. At that tender age I understood they were flawless because they sounded just as the ones I heard from the gramophone records. Mayaki Paati, our housekeeper and also my confidante could sing a few carols and chorus in spite of not having the wherewithal to learn to read or write any language. This is proof of music being an intrinsic part of our home. Caroling was an integral part soon after the Advent began. It wasn’t just about the members of church choirs visiting houses. Friends got together as groups, practiced their favorite songs even if few of them could not carry a tune in a bucket and visited people as and when they pleased. Carolers were welcomed with warmth, one of Mayaki Paati’s renditions and food. They did not just sing and leave. At times they stayed up late, talking, remembering and laughing. People had the energy for all these and more. Kids waited for carolers till they dozed off and never complained when music and banter woke them up way past midnight. Whenever carolers came and went unannounced, hosts made the most of limited resources with love. Evening strolls to enjoy the Christmas decorations, lights, small Christmas trees and mangers made of Citronella grass locally known as chukkunaari pullu, along the Minchin street, Neyyoor felt like a fairy tale. We could hear people singing or playing music in their homes. The musical influence of the British missionaries on the natives was laid bare before us.
Christmas Tree Day in school was special. All children looked forward to their role in plays, singing carols, dancing, distributing cakes and decorating the tree. Nobody went without a role. Each one had a reason to be proud of them. Come November, dancing and singing practice alternated with six periods of school lessons. Nothing was taken for granted. Every student had two businesses: his/her own and Christmas business. Rehearsals were held on holiday evenings too. Since the school was pretty close to the Dartmouth Chapel, we heard choristers practicing their parts. I prayed that my uncles, aunts and cousins would arrive home well in advance so that I could display my talents. Dropping a hat, missing a beat, Santa hats that fell down in the middle of Jingle bells dance, dance partners who pulled and pushed the other too hard and similar instances were not retained as bad memories but as nostalgia and evidence that all of us put on a great show, no matter what. My memory of that day convince me that behind each remark lay no hidden condescension and behind each smiling face there was no scorn, unlike other days. None of the familiar sights and sounds of celebrations dampened our spirits. Cousins of classmates who visited my hometown for a week or two during Christmas resisted going back to their homes, which pleased us.
It was Christmas. I knew, as surely as I knew anything, that advent season brought with it a magnificent optimism. We were indeed blessed to have the very best, truly the best kind of Christmas. Evidently, we had a Perfect Christmas or we worked together to hide defects if any.
Dr Elsa Lycias Joel is a journalist and can be reached at elsalyciasjoel@gmail.com
