Christmas makes me unhappy. It wasn’t like this when I was little, though. When I was 8, I still believed in Santa Claus and his elves, and thought that he left me presents in my stocking. I wrote him letters, and lay awake in bed hoping to catch him, but i almost always fell asleep before 12. I never really got what I asked for, but it was ok. No one really ever got what they asked for. Those who did not ask for things also always seemed to get things they didn’t want, and I wasn’t the kind to raise Hell over an unacquired toy.
The next year, I chanced upon my sister stuffing an unwanted present into my stocking, and my little mind raced with questions and overflowed with disappointment. At breakfast, while my little brother was happily tearing away at his loot, I remember saying to my mother, “He does not exist does he? It’s just you.”
Christmases that followed weren’t any different. We made the usual sweets, stuffed and baked the chickens and turkeys, and stirred the giant christmas cake. We skipped to midnight mass like good Catholic people, and came home happy, humming carols and bickering about who would cut the christmas cake.
Things changed. My dad moved to India and it took a while to get used to the idea of him being around. Our lives got complicated, messy, and unhappy. I guess he couldn’t deal with the idea of his family becoming reality, and my mother couldn’t keep turning a blind eye to his adulterous ways.
Christmas changed.
All I now remember are the numerous times before midnight mass when we’d dress up, and they’d fight; mother reduced to tears, refusing to go to mass anymore. My catholic guilt forced me to go to the service (or else be forever damned in Eternal Hell), and all i’d think of while shivering in the cold, biting, starless night, was how I wish I’d stayed home with her. The caroling was mechanical, and there wasn’t any joy in my world. Or, they’d fight after mass, if and when he’d come home.
Then there were christmases when mother fell terribly ill with the stress. And other christmases when extended family was part of the verbal scuffle, trading insults like they were exchanging presents!
Christmas mornings were silent. Everyone stayed out of everyone else’s way and waited for the damn day to get over, plastic smiles fixed on faces. I stopped doing the church thing, as did my little brother. I remember being snuggled in bed the year after I returned from Bangalore, listening to carols wafting into my room from the service being held nearby and thinking, “Hmmm… I wonder if I should go.” And then thinking, “Naaahhh. And ruin all this blissful blank peace?”
Each year, I now send out cards to those who do believe in Christmas, hoping, I guess, that at some point, i’d be reacquainted with “The Christmas Spirit” because of their belief. For me, Christmas is always going to be a season of stress and painful memories.
I honestly wish I could believe. And I really wish Santa was real.




