One reliable indicator of the passage of time is when you realise how long since you stopped believing in Santa Claus. My moment of truth came at the tender age of 9. Since I was raised in Chennai, I can't claim it happened on a cold and frosty night when we sent what we fondly imagined was reindeer poop on the front lawn to the Veterinary Institute for analysis, only to discover that the offender wasn't Rudolf, but the neighbour's pi dog, Ramu. Anyway, tis' the season of giving when we are encouraged to spread peace on earth and goodwill among men.
I happened to be back in Madras last week which must be the sole surviving bastion where carols are sung. We were enjoying a drink at the fireplace, (just kidding, any builder who installs a fireplace in Chennai is liable to be publicly flogged) when the doorbell rang and 12 lusty carolers wearing Santa hats trooped merrily in to wassail. Call me pernickety, but I have to say that their enthusiasm was disproportionate to their musicality and perhaps it was just as well that they caroled, if that's the word I'm looking for, without the benefit of amplification. Had this been the case, secularism may have crumbled and Harrington Road may have been renamed Hariharan Salai, which fans of Colonial Cousins would have approved.
Many moons ago, a friend of mine organised a variety entertainment programme at the local Home for the Aged, followed by a slap-up meal. The good sisters who ran the home approached her with a request to include children in the festivities. Clearly the elderly blossom in the presence of young people, who bring back happy memories of days gone by. Yours truly was pressed into service to compose a request to GenY to participate.
How in the name of all that's holly (sic) was I to persuade a gang of uber-cool, laid-back, rap loving, bowling alley addicted teenagers to fit an unusual form of distraction in their agenda? Bring out the meaning of Christmas, urged my friend. Tell them it's Baby Jesus's birthday and how happy he'll be if they bring him nicely wrapped bars of soap for the people in the old folk's home. Yeah right, I thought to myself, you sign the letter.
And so I sat down to compose an appeal calculated to tug at the heartstrings of rich, privileged brats. Times have changed: given that the ultimate cultural icon is i-phone X, it was safe to assume that one's target audience would not be wholly attuned to the wholesome values embodied in, "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth." Any dental problems faced by this lot were more likely to require a gold bridge or platinum braces.
To re-write the carol from a geriatric perspective as in, "All I want for Christmas is two new false teeth" would be culturally inappropriate. Something radical, yet inoffensive to senior citizens was the need of the hour.
I finally settled for:
Dear …,
With four square meals a day, your problem is overeating and the lack of a beating. If you pause between mouthfuls, how about considering the fact that you too will be a senior someday and perhaps cold, unwashed and friendless in a retirement home. Deep-six Snapchat and pack up a few bars of Pears. Gift wrap them and tie with tinsel. Stick to silver; gold may be a bit over the top. Get out your guitars and practice a few carols: Good King Wenceslaus is cool, or maybe you can do Silent Night. And get your butts over to the Home for the Aged at 5 PM sharp. Smile, God is watching you. Enjoy the pleasure of doing something for a complete stranger without any prospect of earthly reward,
Santa
Of course I chickened out. Instead, I gave my friend a form letter with the usual pious spiel about how we must think of the less fortunate and a token reference to elementary economics: as in how many bars of soap make up a pizza. Today Christmas is big business: a retailer's dream filled with designer handbags and glittery gee-gaws bought at never-ending sales, followed by tasteless turkeys and soulless stuffing washed down with copious quantities of the cup that cheers. A former classmate sent me a cyber Xmas card with moving parts featuring Santa's buxom elves clad somewhat inappropriately for the North Pole. As our music teacher, Mrs Joseph taught us many moons ago, "Christmas isn't Christmas, till it happens in your heart…"
