<p>When we were in London in the 1990s, one of the most important days on the calendar was not Christmas but the day after, called the Boxing Day. It was the day my wife keenly looked forward to because, once the festivities of Christmas and exchange of gifts were over, all shops opened their doors to the greatest sale of the year.</p>.<p>So it was that, on a dark and cold wintry morning, I found myself accompanying my wife to Oxford Street. Her heart seemed set on the fabulous but pricey bone-china dinner sets that she had spotted at the Selfridges’. </p>.<p>Promptly at 9 am the doors of Selfridges’s opened and a mob of women, with a sprinkling of men like me, stormed in. Looking around, we found no dinner sets displayed on the shelf. Instead, there were assorted crockery strewn all over the floor. My wife’s shrill cry of delight was lost in the cacophony of the frenzied shoppers. She didn’t hesitate to squat down to examine each piece at length! Gone was the dignified attire of a ‘propah’ Brit. She snatched some crockery close at hand and then, as in a game of poker, returned the odd ones back onto the floor. Though it was a complicated exercise, soon all the ladies had selected their pieces and exchanged odd pieces till each of them had secured a full set of crockery. My wife had managed to corner an elegant set of Royal Dolton at throwaway price.</p>.<p>When we reached home and she unwrapped each piece lovingly on the dining table, she shouted with excitement, “In India a set like this would cost us a small fortune!” “But, how will you be able to use such expensive crockery in India and run the risk of breaking even one piece?” I couldn’t help asking her. </p>.<p>While I was mentally calculating the hole the crockery set would make in my shallow pocket even after a hefty discount, I heard a sharp cry from my wife. My heart was in my mouth. She then handed me a plate with patterns of strokes and circles.</p>.<p>“What of it?” I asked. An attractive design no doubt, but quite a common pattern. “That’s it!” She exclaimed. “The cross of Christ! This Christmas, he has chosen to come into our home!”</p>.<p>I examined the plate, turning it this way and that. “Where? I can’t see any cross. Well, in any case, we are not Christians.”</p>.<p>“So what?” my wife retorted. “A blessing is a blessing. Not only do we get a lovely dinner set at a huge discount, but Christ too in this festive season. We’re doubly blessed!”</p>.<p>“Twice blessed,” I corrected her. </p>.<p>We returned to India shortly afterwards. The dinner set is yet to be put to use. Not out of consideration for its fragility, but because the wife considers it too ‘sacred’ to be soiled by mortals eating from it. Once a year it reminds me of the post-Christmas spirit of London.</p> <p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
<p>When we were in London in the 1990s, one of the most important days on the calendar was not Christmas but the day after, called the Boxing Day. It was the day my wife keenly looked forward to because, once the festivities of Christmas and exchange of gifts were over, all shops opened their doors to the greatest sale of the year.</p>.<p>So it was that, on a dark and cold wintry morning, I found myself accompanying my wife to Oxford Street. Her heart seemed set on the fabulous but pricey bone-china dinner sets that she had spotted at the Selfridges’. </p>.<p>Promptly at 9 am the doors of Selfridges’s opened and a mob of women, with a sprinkling of men like me, stormed in. Looking around, we found no dinner sets displayed on the shelf. Instead, there were assorted crockery strewn all over the floor. My wife’s shrill cry of delight was lost in the cacophony of the frenzied shoppers. She didn’t hesitate to squat down to examine each piece at length! Gone was the dignified attire of a ‘propah’ Brit. She snatched some crockery close at hand and then, as in a game of poker, returned the odd ones back onto the floor. Though it was a complicated exercise, soon all the ladies had selected their pieces and exchanged odd pieces till each of them had secured a full set of crockery. My wife had managed to corner an elegant set of Royal Dolton at throwaway price.</p>.<p>When we reached home and she unwrapped each piece lovingly on the dining table, she shouted with excitement, “In India a set like this would cost us a small fortune!” “But, how will you be able to use such expensive crockery in India and run the risk of breaking even one piece?” I couldn’t help asking her. </p>.<p>While I was mentally calculating the hole the crockery set would make in my shallow pocket even after a hefty discount, I heard a sharp cry from my wife. My heart was in my mouth. She then handed me a plate with patterns of strokes and circles.</p>.<p>“What of it?” I asked. An attractive design no doubt, but quite a common pattern. “That’s it!” She exclaimed. “The cross of Christ! This Christmas, he has chosen to come into our home!”</p>.<p>I examined the plate, turning it this way and that. “Where? I can’t see any cross. Well, in any case, we are not Christians.”</p>.<p>“So what?” my wife retorted. “A blessing is a blessing. Not only do we get a lovely dinner set at a huge discount, but Christ too in this festive season. We’re doubly blessed!”</p>.<p>“Twice blessed,” I corrected her. </p>.<p>We returned to India shortly afterwards. The dinner set is yet to be put to use. Not out of consideration for its fragility, but because the wife considers it too ‘sacred’ to be soiled by mortals eating from it. Once a year it reminds me of the post-Christmas spirit of London.</p> <p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
