Farrukh Dhondy | Christmas seems to come earlier every year… amid the spirit of giving

Is the Taj a monument to her life

Or just to her death? --

A bitter life’s breath

And an icon to the poor worker’s strife?

Yes, they come to admire the Taj

For every tourist it is, by and large,

The best monument

The tour guides present

To the history-seeking entourage.”

From Monkey Bath, by Bachchoo

In Britain in recent years, Christmas comes earlier and earlier. This isn’t the consequence of the discovery of a new gospel proving that Jesus was not born on the 25th of December but rather on the 13th of November or thereabouts. No, it’s the retail trade cashing in on the sacred Christian observance of the birth of the saviour to sell, sell, sell!

Though one is entitled to sneer at whole populations being induced to buy Christmas trees at uncompetitive prices, to avail of false “bargains” and to hoard soon-redundant presents, one must appreciate the fact that the consumerist celebration kills off the Scrooge in millions of people and turns them into generous gifting fairies.

Then also there is the “plus” of people generously moved to donate to charities at Christmas -- and that not only on or around December 25, but for weeks and months before.

Of course, retailers, small and large, have not only expanded Christmas like the folded flexible bellows of an accordion, through the first weeks of December, but have stretched it into November and, in one article I read, written by an Anglican priest, a wedding party celebrated their October nuptials by singing Christmas carols.

Retailers have also invented “Days”. Valentine’s Day has its origin in Roman and Christian myth or history, But Mother’s Day? Or Father’s Day? Sister’s, Brother’s… Uncle’s? There is no doubt that dog, cat and budgerigar-food manufacturers and retailers will soon invent Dog’s Day (Isn’t there one already?

--Ed? Er… yes sir, it marks the rise of Sirius the “Dog Star”, known to us Parsis as “Tir! -- your humble savant, fd) “Cat Day” and “Twitter Day?” (Isn’t it called X now? --Ed)

But why blame the opportunist retailers? We colonials in India, millions of non-Christians, celebrate Christmas with gifts and stockings, chicken if not turkey, and we even sing the carols. I attribute that to our multi-religious nation celebrating each other’s festivals -- Christmas, Diwali, Id, Holi, Dussehra… come one, come all. Any excuse!

The only New Year, belonging to my minority Parsi community, popularly if mistakenly known as “Papayti”, hasn’t spread to the others. In my childhood the only Maratha Hindu individual who pretended to adopt the festival was a neighbourhood beggar who would accost Parsis in their finery going to the fire temple with “aamchi popety, aamchi popety”! A plea for a celebratory handout.

So, in celebration of Christmas, gentle reader, here’s a short Christmas story:

PIGEONS’ PICNIC

I

I was two years old; my sister was three

In the last year of the colonial Raj

I remember our Quetta house as large

And rambling -- though it probably

Was just an army cantonment bungalow.

They say that early memories distort

The size of things. I suppose David thought

Goliath was a mighty mountain though

He dropped him with a pebble from a sling.

That’s another story, this one’s about

A Christmas memory. I have no doubt

It has been subject to the distorting

Influences that a repeated tale

Is subject to -- distortion will prevail

II

My mum said for that Christmas she would bake

Zareen and me each a gingerbread man.

We promised, and in the kitchen, began

To knead the mixture and proceed to make

Two identical ginger-biscuit men

With black currant eyes and an icing grin

They looked enticing on the baking tin.

We were told we had to be patient when

They went into the oven. In a while

Mum pulled the baking tin out from the rack

And noticed that one of them had a crack

Oh horrors! Now she’d have to reconcile

One of us to accept imperfection

By persuading one of us the confection

III

Would crumble as soon as we took a bite.

In a flash the Judgement of Solomon

Occurred to Mum -- there needn’t just be one

Cracked ginger man -- that would lead to a fight

So, she cracked the other whole one in two

And offered us both the now-equal pair

Since both were cracked this wouldn’t be unfair

She thought this was the wisest thing to do.

We disagreed and started to howl

And scream and kick our legs along the floor --

And as we did our dad walked through the door.

His enquiring features turned to a scowl

“Exactly what the hell’s going on here?

Are these monsters bullying you my dear?”

IV

Our Mum explained to him what had occurred

We all could now see that her eyes were wet

Our Dad was furious, I’ll never forget

His gathered brow. He spoke a single word:

“Come!” he said gesturing to us to go

With him. He put the biscuits on a plate

Walked out of the back door, told us to wait

As there was something he wanted to show

Us. Then using his fingers and both thumbs

He crushed the biscuits saying “Let’s prepare

Our ginger men for those who want them -- where

They’ll be appreciated though they’re crumbs.”

He flung them on the roof with a quick flick

Saying “Kaboothars, have a great picnic!”