Representational Image for Gift
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Christmas Eve brings different joys to each. It brings back childhood memories for me. To start with, it is holiday time. As children residing in a typical cosmopolitan neighbourhood in the (then) Bangalore cantonment area amidst Meenakshi Amman Koil, St Mary’s Basilica, and several mosques in the Old Poor House Road, we looked forward to every holiday, whether Diwali, Christmas, or Moharrum. Plenty of goodies from different ethnic backgrounds were offered generously and lovingly to us. In return, we used to go to their houses and give them modest sweets made by our mother.
Later in life, I had the opportunity to spend Christmas time in other parts of the world. Oxford Street in London is a sight to behold in the evenings, with reindeer themes and thousands of blue lights over the sky across the road. Or, in the hamlets sprinkled with enchanting small churches lighted during fading dusk, I used to enjoy the drive from Manchester airport to Sheffield Hallam University.
But what lasts in memory is the Bangalore Russell Market Show on Christmas Eve. I am talking about the early 1950s, when the British had left cantonment, but some of their legacies stayed back, and we were too young to be aware of the other side of British times, which left many questions and despair. The market was not available for the common public in the evening, when the official committee inspected every shop and gave prizes to the best vegetables, fruits, butter, and meat displays.
The next day, we used to look gleefully at the biggest of them all: cabbages, pumpkins, apples, oranges, and what have you. Butter used to be modelled as cottages, cars, etc. And for meat lovers, it was ‘Committee curry’, fattened lambs similar to what you read in PG Wodehouse’s Pigs have Wings about the fat pig called Empress of Blandings showcased by Lord Elmsworth for the yearly agricultural show.
Of course, we could afford none. The show was only a visual treat. My elder brothers, however, bought colourful sugar ‘committee mithais’ for us from push cart vendors. We visited better neighbourhoods and peeped into well-off households to catch a glimpse of Christmas trees with gifts hanging around, presumably handed out by Santa Claus.
It was the same during Diwali. Father used to get a small package of fireworks the day before Diwali and make us sit on the floor in a semicircle and distribute the frugal share, which would last an hour or two. Walking around the streets and witnessing fireworks in the neighbourhood was the main attraction.
Personally, did we miss anything as children because of our modest background? The answer from me is an emphatic no. We were too happy otherwise—with a house full of loving parents, siblings, sisters-in-law, nephews, and nieces—to worry about how the rich lived.