Christmas and I

 In Thalassery, my hometown in Keralam, Christians were in a negligible minority. On Court Road, where I lived, there was just one family – that of Mabel and Ida. Mabel was my age and one of my closest friends. We walked to school and college together. Our families knew everything about each other. Her father, Earnest, a lawyer like my father, was my father’s friend and the three of us children, and two fathers, often went to the local beach together.

   So, Christmas was not a memorable event. But Mabel’s Mummy always sent us home-baked Christmas cake, and I often had a lavish Christmas dinner in their home. That was about the size of our Christmas. Mabel’s family attended midnight mass at the local Methodist Church. We didn’t exchange gifts or cards; no one had that kind of spare money then.

   When I got married to Balan, and went to live in Colombo, the texture of Christmas underwent a sea-change. My husband’s urban family, though Hindus, celebrated Christmas with gifts for the children in the family. So, I was drawn into the obligation of gifts for Balan’s nephews and nieces. The more westernised wings of the family went to Christmas balls and Balan’s British employers hosted a lavish celebration at the luxurious Galle Face Hotel every year. I went, but never having danced anything but Bharatha Natyam before, lurked at the sides of the ball room, and was glad to make my escape before the revelry became raucous.

   When I had children of my own, Balan would bring gifts home. Sometimes sparklers. In Nigeria and Zambia, we often went to the houses of our Christian friends for dinner; it was all very low key.

   When did it escalate into this money-eating monster? I hardly noticed the transformation, The deluge of packing paper at the end of Christmas week always irritated me. I didn’t see the point. But my grand daughter begged for Christmas trees and baubles, as soon as she could talk, and we obliged. Now she’s past the baubles stage; spending-money is much more in demand. Phew! As they say.

   This year, we shall give her some money and let Christmas skid past. As usual, I shall have dinner with Mary and Michael. Any excuse to enjoy their cooking and the company of the two families together. We met up in Zambia in the late sixties and her mother hosted the fancy dinner. Our children grew up in each other’s houses.

   So, the ritual persists. Perhaps that is what it is about – bringing family and friends together over a rich dinner.  I will settle for that.