Christmas-My childhood Memories

 “There is nothing sadder in the world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.” Erma Bombeck.

I grew up in a neighborhood where Christians were in the minority. Yet Christmas brought so much joy not only to us Christians but also to those who lived around us. 

Christmas preparation started early in October at our home, when my mother along with my two older sisters and I went shopping downtown for clothing and cake ingredients. Exchanging gifts at Christmas time was not a custom for us then. However, wearing pretty new clothes to church on Christmas morning, making the traditional Christmas fruit cake, and having a feast-like Christmas lunch with family and neighbors were part of the celebration.

The dark and moist fruit cake my mom made at Christmas was called Rich Cake, because almost all the ingredients that went into the cake were imported from either Britain or Australia and that surely cost a lot of money. Along with 25 freshly laid eggs collected from our chicken coup, large amounts of  imported raisins, currants, cherries, strawberry jam, butter and vanilla went into making this cake. At that time, we didn't have a cake mixer to beat the batter, or a food processor to chop the large amount of dried fruits or even an oven to bake the cake. Yet that didn't stop my mom from making the cake.

Along with my two older sisters, she spent long hours chopping the fruits and soaking them for days in brandy and golden syrup and beating the cake batter in a huge enamel basin with a wooden spoon. She then poured the batter into large baking trays and sent them to the bakery to be baked a month ahead.  Once the cake was brought back from the bakery, no one was allowed to see, touch or taste the cake until the Christmas morning. It was stored securely in barrel-like steel containers away from ants and the family’s sight. As a child, I wasn’t fond of the fruit cake, and so it didn’t bother me much. My favorite was my mom's fluffy raisin and cashew nut cake.

We didn't have Christmas lights blinking on our rooftops or a decorated Christmas tree in our living room. Instead red, yellow and green loops of crepe paper hung across our front porch and living room with clusters of huge colorful balloons pinned at every corner.  From the middle of December, Christmas carolers from our home church as well as from neighboring churches would start marching down our lane with candle lights in one hand and tambourines in the other, making a joyful sound to wake up any dozing soul. Yet, no neighbors complained nor did they throw a stone to show any displeasure. Love and respect for each other gave no ground to feud  over petty things.

On Christmas morning, we would wake up to the sound of firecrackers blasting in our backyard and far across our streets. My ears, in the mean time  would be perked up to hear another kind of sound, the jingling of keys on my father’s almirah (free standing cabinet) in the next room, and for my father's voice calling my name. No sooner did I hear that, I’d jump out of bed and run towards Dad’s room wondering what toy Dad would be holding in his hand this time. As always Dad would  be waiting with a huge smile and a gift in his hand-a beautiful doll in a box, or a winding toy-like monkey beating a drum or a shaggy dog barking , a toy train or a tea cup set . He would also present me with a beautiful taffeta or a frilly lace dress to wear to church that morning.  Since my sisters were old enough then to sew their own clothes, he got mine made at the seamstress' shop in downtown where he worked.

Until we returned from church on Christmas morning, we were not allowed to eat anything. But when we returned, we would find all kinds of Christmas goodies and cakes laid out neatly on plates on the table with bunches of a variety of plantains. Soon, Kaakka, an old Muslim man, who worked at  my father’s office would walk in to help my mom prepare the Christmas lunch. Kaakka resembled the genie poofed out of Aladdin’s lamp, and his broad toothless smile and gentle manners charmed anyone who came  across him.  In no time, he’d get ready to prepare his famous ghee rice and goat curry in two huge barrel like containers over open hearth under at our backyard The aroma of cloves, cinnamon, cardamoms and other spices in the curry and rice wafting in the air would soon bring the neighbors around to celebrate the Christmas meal with us. Invitation was not needed for anyone to drop in, and whoever came never left without eating on that day.

Apart from the neighbors, those who usually worked at our yard fixing fences, plucking coconuts from the trees and chopping firewood would also come with their children  to eat and take some food back home. Because of the caste system that prevailed, they didn't sit with us at the table to enjoy the Christmas meal. Instead, they sat under the mango tree at our backyard and ate on huge banana leaves. 

As a child, I couldn't understand why they were not invited indoors or eat with us, but I never questioned.  Probably, my parents feared that if they invited the workers to sit with us and eat, our neighbors, mostly Hindus, would object and would leave without eating. Looking back today, such things look stupid and outrageous. But at that time, no one questioned and no one wanted do anything about it. But I was happy to handout candies, balloons and firecrackers to the children at the end of the meal, while my parents presented  new clothing and money to their parents.

 I may have born in a Buddhist country and grew up in a Hindu neighborhood, but the joy of  Christmas experienced during my childhood was extraordinary.  I didn't have the pleasure of  walking down lighted streets or sitting on Santa's lap to take a photo or have a pile of wrapped up gifts under the Christmas tree, but I had everything what Christmas is all about- love, laughter and sharing.