The Indian Christmas metaphor

When the Grinch stole Christmas, he put it in to the stockings of those to whom it does not belong. It hovers in an unlikely air in unlikely lands, seeping into spirits like rum into plum cake, in the Santa caps on beggars at traffic lights, in lopsided synthetic trees at copy-cat malls, incessant elevator music, and FM radio channels with regional commentary. In the hill-stations, it roams the British clubs with mock-up colonial balls inducing hangovers centuries old. On the plains, it lurks in five star brunch menus and Gujarati eggless-plum-cake-only bakeries, in fast selling bottles of sweet white wine, and gaily decorated baskets of chocolates. On the coasts and by the palm-fringed beaches, it sweetens binging by the sea and tripping to bhangra pop. What with kandils and ‘Merry New Year’ Apna Bazaar wishes, stockings stuffed with bangles and mithai, you can excuse Santa for parking on the wrong roof and wondering why he got towed. And yet, the Indian Christmas is a year-end metaphor that brings together the hotch-potch of the naughty and nice of the year past, and the fact that we launch ourselves into a new year with an 8 per cent GDP in our stockings is proof enough that we were just so darned good.

The sub-continental Christmas is not merely an excuse to start the party a week ahead of time. The spirit of it borrows heavily—much in the Indian tradition of borrowing a cup of milk from a neighbour, or a tenner from a dinner guest—from the themes of bonhomie, camaraderie, hope, joy, sacrifice and its due reward. It justifies the globalised economy—it is the homecoming of making merry, slapping backs, kissing air, dancing dirty, shopping plenty, wearing little, and eating lots. It blends into the Indian psyche by being the one western thought we as a celebratory nation understand at the grass-roots, though if they’d let us have the copyright, we’d up the global noise quotient a bit with a band or cracker or two.

And who needs religion to own its metaphors? Many children here are born into little more than piles of hay or straw, or even mud. Where there were horses, or donkeys, there may, even now, be cows, or goat, or pigs. Often, there is little privacy, and much noise. Unsanitary conditions, and only the help of a kindly mid wife at hand. Often, for the few outside pristine white hospital walls, there are few visitors but much kindness, and still, much elation at the birth of a child, any child at all. The cry at birth is an event, that in India, despite all population concerns the UN consistently reports each year, is heralded by the joy of a community that knowingly nods its collective head. ‘Ah, they had a son, those Ibrahims/Patels/Iyers/Shenoys/Singhs” one might say, and absently go about one’s business. There is something about a virgin mother, a census and a birth that just fits right in to the subcontinent. Irrespective of conversions, missionaries and Christianity, India would have still joined the party when Christ was born.

India is always game for a miracle. And even though parliament has banned the propagation of superstition, you will still find eager parents looking for ‘good signs’ that herald and dot the arrival of their newborn—the full moon, the day of the month, the position of the stars, the time of the night, the behaviour of animals and sightings of birds, music, even untimely sneezes, let alone flashes of light. And voices from above are highly believable to a nation that still watches a baby monkey lift a mountain to box office success. Indira on a flying chariot from the sun doesn’t raise eyebrows, so why should santa on a sleigh from the North Pole?

And probably where the blend is perfected, Christmas is where the true crossover takes place—where Bollywood meets Hollywood in the true tradition of Yash Raj/Karan Johar films. We more than understand the decades-old Hollywood beamed excuse of ‘It’s Christmas’ for everything from dysfunctional families reunited with lessons learned, misunderstandings healed, old friends hugging, and that all-encompassing and serendipitous stringing together of lovers who’ve conquered all. A ‘The End’ to the year begins under a twinkling star that seals our perfect ending with a sigh that we share with the rest of the globe.