It’s Christmas Eve. A Italian-American family gathers for their traditional feast of the seven fishes. Carmy, the youngest son, who has been working as a chef abroad, comes home to find his mother, Donna, spiralling in the kitchen. Her mood swings wildly between tearful and explosive as she frantically prepares mountains of food. His older brother Mikey seems agitated, almost manic, picking a fight with his mother’s boyfriend over something trivial that quickly turns vicious. The house fills with relatives, friends, and neighbours. Everyone talks over everyone. Pots slam, and the noise is overwhelming. When the sister makes a mistake and asks their mother if she’s okay, the mother screams, “Do I not look okay?”. The room freezes. After a moment of pause, the mother drives her car into the dining room, smashing the feast through the wall. Dinner is over before it begins…
This is a fictional scene from the Emmy-winning series The Bear. But what it portrays is a reality in many families. Perhaps that is why it is one of the most disturbingly chaotic episodes in TV history. Festivals, apart from all the glitter and glory, are also a time for the concealment of wounds and their sudden ruptures. There is the quiet accumulation of past hurt. For some, Christmas arrives with a countdown for survival.
Ray* stopped going home for Christmas five years ago. She experienced something unpleasant during the festival and has not celebrated since. “Christmas feels like something to get through. Home doesn’t feel emotionally safe when I’m reliving that memory. So I prefer staying away,” she says.
For Kevin*, visiting his native place in Madurai was always about endurance. His uncle physically abused him and his sister when they were children. They were clueless. And then he would buy them ice cream and soup. They thought it was normal. They never told their father, knowing it would become a family issue. “There were times when you felt so vulnerable, and your mother couldn’t do anything. Everyone sees it, and it’s normalised. Even now, I don’t have closure,” Kevin says.
The labour no one sees
Gender roles are rigidly enforced during festivals, observes Ruchika*. As a child, she climbed lofts and fetched decorations. It even came with a sense of validation that she was physically capable. “But after a certain age, I was strictly told not to involve myself in decorating. My younger brother had grown older. It became his territory. Suddenly, these tasks were no longer ‘appropriate’ for women,” she says. Asking for help, especially from Ruchika, was always difficult for her mother. “There’s this belief that daughters are meant to be married off, that educating them doesn’t benefit the household,” she says.
Observing a similarity, Kevin notes that at his native place, women did most of the household work — cooking, serving, and cleaning. Men bought groceries, and women served men and children first, and ate later. Namitha recalls Easter lunches that were served at her father’s house. “My female cousins and I would set tables and serve while my brother sat comfortably and opted out,” she says. When she questioned it, she was told to stay quiet and not embarrass the family. “I remember feeling unheard and isolated while everyone else laughed and ate,” she says.
At Ruchika’s home, she often became the emotional buffer. If her parents fought, she mediated. Otherwise, their frustration was taken out on her. “Maintaining the mood of the house became my responsibility. That labour is invisible. When my brother drives my parents somewhere, his act of taking them out is praised. My emotional labour just disappears into thin air,” she shares.
This is probably why some, like Komal K, associate festivals with exhaustion long before they begin. “I have to go through an excruciating amount of physical labour of planning and (sometimes) preparing food that will be liked and approved by everyone, serving it according to each of their preferences, while also keeping kids engaged so that they don’t create a mess in my home, or hurt themselves,” she says, adding “I become a person I don’t recognise. I put up a fake smile and talk to relatives who have wronged me.”
The house fills with noise — fights, tears, phone calls to distant relatives, even threats of ending relationships. Grief is repeatedly brought up, even after she has learned to live with it. Crying is not an option. If she tries to assert her boundaries and says no to not seeing relatives, elders ask her ‘Why do you want to spoil everyone’s happy mood on an auspicious and happy day?’ No one asks about my happiness,” she says.
Once everyone leaves, Komal and her sister go to a nearby park and cry. Before they recover, another festival arrives. For many of us, like Komal, not every festival ends in togetherness. Some end simply in making it through.
*Names changed
How to get through the holidays
Have a ‘leave early’ plan: Decide how long you’ll stay and stick to it.
No matter what, eat your food: Remember the Snickers ad? You do not want to be both hungry and emotionally overwhelmed.
Perfect the long bathroom break: Phone in hand, with deep breaths, pretend you’re replying to a “work emergency” and take breaks to protect your peace.
Create a private ritual: Long showers, solo walks, journaling or doodling, headphones on and listening — Rilke poems, Visions of Gideon or Idhuvum Kadandhu Pogum.
Choose your screen comfort: A Charlie Brown Christmas for softness. Wednesday or Mean Girls when you need to activate be-a-bitch mode (politely, internally). Movies where other families are worse, also help.
Mute social media for the day: Other people’s perfect tables, matching co-ords, and forced smiles do not need to sit next to your reality.
Laugh wherever you can: Save all your favourite memes. Star those funny group chats. Internally, change everything bizarre in your house as dark comedy. Remember, humour is first aid.
Cry and be there for yourself: Seek help and don’t be afraid to do that.
Remember: opting out is also a choice.