When my brother Suresh and I were children, we found the days leading up to Christmas no less exciting than the actual festival. The smell of baking filled the house, and we sang the songs of the season, especially, All the presents, oh what fun, are handed round to everyone.
Suresh and I spent hours wondering what we would get for Christmas. The packages below the tree would only be ours on the morning of December 25, but our parents usually took us shopping much earlier to buy us additional gifts.
In a store stacked with treasures like Aladdin’s cave, we were clear about our crazes. Suresh was mad about cars, and I could not have enough dolls. Both of us were also addicted to board games. The problem was choosing just a few in each category from the hundreds that were on display.
Our parents had numerous Christmas expenses, but, oblivious to their charitable commitments, Suresh and I were chiefly concerned with decorating the tree. Every Christmas, when we opened the box of decorations, we would pull out lights that were not working. If one did not come on, neither would the others. My father would painstakingly set them right, and the tree would glow in colourful lights.
We saved money on the bulbs, but the bells and baubles were another matter. They slipped through our fingers with tiresome regularity. Year after year, we would end up replacing nearly a dozen ornaments. Our parents, who seemed unable to economise in December, were relieved that at least the tree was free. How, you wonder?
Our cook's husband was a gardener who worked at Rashtrapathi Bhavan. Much to our delight, he would bring us Christmas trees every year. How he managed it, we preferred not to know. Suresh and I told our friends, quite untruthfully, that they came to us straight from the President.
Our stately pine, complete with cones, was a dazzling sight to behold. The Nativity scene reposed simply and serenely beside it. At church, as Suresh and I listened to the story of the first Christmas, our thoughts wandered, rather regrettably, to the magical moment when we would uncover the secret delights awaiting us back home. On our return, we would invariably discover that they were not really surprises. Items we had reluctantly left behind at the toy shop lay neatly wrapped beneath our Christmas tree.