Christmas used to be real family time--way more than festivals that are fastidiously mine, via nativity;--festivals, I miss and crave to be with family on. But really Christmas always meant special Ma-and-me time without unwanted intermissions-- like a bunch of visiting relatives or to-do rituals that clouded quality time. It used to be about the prettiest ornaments, school concerts, my favorite tree in our balcony, the mica glitter that stuck to my sweaty nose even when decorating was over. It was true surprise at getting gifts, devout faith in Santa Clause, it was all about magical times, almost as magical as my Birthdays...ah Bandel.
Four years down, Calcutta was different, I no longer had the niche; but I had more than a few, too eager to make me happy. I missed my trees, my extensive time with Ma and most of all my space. But those were the first years of buying gifts, finding the joy in giving. It was discovering New Market and Calcutta decking up for the holidays. It was a part of falling in love with a city that would make me love cities for a long time to come.
I don't know when it became about just a holiday so crowded picnic-getaways; just another evening and day ritual, that I have to do. The same reason, in spite of being a stickler to rule, I don't enjoy most of my native festivities any more, too much compulsion without explanations or logic.
A part of me wonders what the hype is about white Christmas, as much as I hate snow. The other part reminds me of a time when I would not take anything dispel the Mother-Daughter time.
More recently, Christmas, sadly, is best spent in thin air, a day I utilize flying, because of the cheapest rates. And while I enjoy the chime of bargain-deals in my head, I cant help but think how unfortunate is she, who is nowhere on Christmas day, who is not expected or welcome anywhere?
When did Christmas become a regular Sunday? An unfortunate long weekend, when really no sense traveling because it is so cold. I read no traveling as no celebrating. I have forgotten how to celebrate in the warmth of my own family room, the mind wanders for answers in the outside world, whereas maybe happiness is tucked somewhere under a cushion and a throw on a couch. Maybe if I had a home where I belonged more than the other 3, I would know how to make magic from cookies and cocoa, mash potatoes and gravy, and silver, blue, green and red ornaments; maybe I would know how to go back to 1989 again.
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