Thought Crimes

Today is Christmas Eve and my amazing powers of deduction tell me that it’s bound to be Christmas tomorrow. Christmas, or even Christmas Eve for that matter, is synonymous with two similar yet disparate incidents for me. I’ve taken part in burlesques where I’ve been a jolly St. Nick (no mean feat considering my far from ample frame) and have made stockings of paper with wishlists caligraphed in a plethora of colours, but two incidents stand out. Boman Irani in Bluffmaster made an aphorism – “Pachees saal ki tumhari zindagi mein tumhare pachees yaadgaar din honge”, and if life was counted in terms of 25th December, then these two would be the yaadgaar moments of my life.

The first occurred when I was a mere lad of 8 (or possibly 7). It was the first time I had heard of the Santa-down-the-Chimney story, and was determined to see if Santa would come down my chimney as well. My sister and I duly laid out stockings, hoping against hope that they would be more than just socks the next morn. Our parents, finding us more in their thrall than usual, coerced us to sleep as quickly as possible, making us comply with the threat – “Santa doesn’t come if you stay up too late”. The next morning saw the stockings contain more than our little feet for the first time in their undistinguished lives. It was probably their greatest ever moment – God rest their soles in peace! But their moment was nothing compared to ours. As my mother later told me, it was the first time she had seen “pure unadulterated joy” on our faces. The drawing books and the chocolates that met our eyes might have been treasures bestowed by the magi. The end to this episode of bliss came after the holidays had ended when a dear sagacious cousin of mine told me that Santa was a myth; they were our parents who put in the gifts after ensuring we were far away in Santa-land.

The next yaadgaar incident came a couple of years later, when I was older and wiser, though probably still as tall. Some cousins of mine were visiting, and the older one – senior even to me by two years, would be titillated at the very mention of the mythical Jolly Fat Man. Now I was in the position of my wise cousin who had made me see light long ago, and he was the ignorant fool. However, no amount of argument would make him come around to accept the rationale. Anything we said was met with the riposte – “My friend has seen Santa in his bathroom”. What were we hapless mortals to do in the face of such irrefutable logic? To continue to try and persuade him would make him petulant and exacerbate the situation for you as the gentleman in question was a hefty lefty. It was he who made us make paper stockings to appease Santa and his unwavering belief shook our own foundations of rational thought. Sure enough, that time we received more than our usual share of an éclair and a pen. There were imported chocolates, Christmas cards and games which none of us had ever seen before. More to get rid of his smug expression than anything, we asked our parents to step in. They did so with great pomp, having evidently decided that the hefty lefty was too old to believe in Santa. He was told that the great gifts were courtesy Grandma, who had visited Singapore a few months ago, and had naturally come back laden with goodies for her beloved grandchildren. Hefty Lefty tried – “My friend has…” but was cut off in mid sentence. At last everyone in the family was an enlightened soul.

Now Christmas is around the corner again and I’ve realized that the time has come for me to stop being greedy and not put stockings beside my bed. I might have found out ages ago that Santa didn’t come visiting, but hey, everyone likes gifts.

So here’s wishing you all a very Merry Christmas… and a Happy New Year.