It’s a few hours till Christmas;
arguably the second on my all-time favourite festival list. And yet, this
Christmas feels strange. For the first time in years, Mumbai has cooled down to
take me back to my growing years in Calcutta. Bru Café has launched the
Christmas Plum cake. And a lot of bakeries are trying hard to make me forget
the taste and nostalgia of Nahoum. But I still am not jolly. And on Christmas,
without fail, you need to be jolly.
I probably will miss going to a
midnight mass this year. I probably will miss listening to Christmas carols.
There are a list of ads I need to see before the day is out and I shut down my
laptop. It’s almost six and I should be shutting it down and watch the sun set
over Mumbai. Long long ago, it is believed that a star was seen in the sky. I
should be searching for that star tonight.
As I sit, I can hear the singing
in the mosque nearby celebrating the birth of another prophet. The world always
celebrates life; never death. It celebrates in birth; mourns in death and yet
between the cycle of life and death we play our small games; day in and day
out. Sometimes the futility of it all is striking. A friend recently said, “gain
experiences.” Noble thoughts but what are experiences but a display of
showmanship when advertised on social media?
The sun is a brilliant hue of orange,
the birds are returning home. Somewhere a bard may still be strumming his
guitar for a new song. It’s Christmas and I want to pause. And reflect and yes
have my plum cake. But those seem futile when your mind keeps humming
discordant notes. Is there light somewhere, anywhere?
The Saviour and King, they tell me, was born in a manger.
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