The Christmas tree at the Gym
There was excitement, walking onto the tennis courts with the Christmas tree all decorated and lit up. Its snow ( ok cotton ) covered branches leaning over tables laden with Santas gifts. Aloo sound blasting out carols out on speakers larger than ourselves. Games that were played in age groups. Lemon and spoon , the three legged race, sack races, lungdi races. More fiercely competed than Usain Bolts 100m dash. And food. Batawadas and cake. Which we tried to get double servings of. Patties and hotdogs. The real hotdog, filled with real beef mince. Ribbon sandwiches in Christmassy red and green. When Aloo sound switched from ‘Joy to the world’ to ‘ Santa Claus is coming .. ‘ we’d make a collective dash for the entrance. Where the Maquis pets horse ( pretending to be a reindeer) drawn carriage ( pretending to be sleigh ) would roll in. With Santa from Bandra standing up and waving out. And in between waves he’d dip into his bag. Grabbing fistfuls of sweets which he would throw to us. Diving for them while mothers and the Christmas tree Hon. secretary would try and keep us from falling under the horses hooves or the wheels of Santas sleigh..Santa went up onstage and our names would be called out to receive our presents. And we would be warned not to rip the present open. It had to go under the Christmas tree to be opened after midnight mass on Christmas day. But we knew. A hockey stick is still a hockey stick even if it has five layers of wrapping. How did Santa know? That letter written to Santa , North Pole must have reached him in time. And Mums telling him about us stealing marzipan and milkcream dough he must have overlooked. He’d also give out prizes for the games. That guilt for putting the lemon back on the spoon without starting all over vanished in the face of a large gift wrapped box that rattled promisingly while we tried to guess the contents. And soon he’d be back on his sleigh for a final lap of the tennis courts and be gone. Our knees marked with race lane chalk and hands firmly clutching our presents we’d head home. We learned delayed gratification ,looking at our presents everyday under the tree till the 25th.
Back from midnight mass we were warned to open the presents carefully without tearing the wrapping paper. Which was put under the mattress to straighten out. And the world was magical until the ball hit the crib and decapitated a shepherd and the hockey stick was confiscated until it was time to go out and play. A sorrow that vanished in the face of roast chicken,fugias and sorpotel. Candle lit rosary around the crib stirred momentary guilt stirred twinges of guilt about our sins of gluttony. But nothing that could’nt be washed away with a glass of Nanas special home made wine. We went to bed dreaming of sugarplums and Poppins, giant Venus fruit cakes, unlimited kalkhatta glasses. Soon to be forgotten promises were made, not to fight with the siblings about whose turn it was to clear the table or get up early to go and get the milk. And Santa in our dreams morphed into Dad while Mrs Claus closely began to resemble Mum.
They still do.
P.S. A shout out to all the Mums and Dads who covered for Santa and all of those who still do and all of those who will.
Posts
