Yet another Christmas has arrived. With each passing year, I miss the Xmas of old. The day began with church service. My three siblings and I would trot behind mother, who would lead us like a mother hen to the bus stop. Father, who was allergic to organised religion and its trappings, preferred to make us church-goers tea and toast, and after we left for church, hit the bed again—a green gramophone record playing Christmas carols, the chiming of bells lullabying him to sleep.
We would alight at Fort Cochin—the older part of Cochin that refused to shed the influence of Europeans who took turns to occupy our land. Fort Cochin would be decked liberally with stars and cribs. Mother and children would troop to the church through narrow thoroughfares lined by houses that lacked walls, their front doors opening directly on to the street.
Xmas songs, especially those from the album Twelve songs of Christmas by Jim Reeves, would waft from open windows and mingle with the misty December breeze. After a rejuvenating church service, thanks to Christmas carols the congregation sang along with the choir, mother and children would troop back beside the iconic Chinese nets of Cochin to the bus stop. Back home, we would join father, fresh from his extended sleep, for ‘Christmas special’ breakfast, which would invariably consist of appam. Cake, which mother was adept at baking, would find its place on the table.
Then, we kids would find some excuse to catch up on sleep, as only father had permission to skip the church service. Mother would prepare the day’s highlight—biryani for lunch, whose flavour still has my mouth watering—with the able assistance of our helper Leons chettan. The smell of onions, cashew nuts and raisins being fried to marinate the biryani emanating from the kitchen would have us springing out of bed.
Before tucking into it, we would sip a few allotted ounces of wine, again prepared proficiently by mother. Father would have his quota of stronger spirits to work up his appetite. The delicious Christmas lunch would be cherished with Christmas carols playing from the good old turntable, the Christmas tree in the background. After lunch, father and children would hit the bed for an extended siesta like beached whales. I wonder what Christmas memories I have left behind for my children.