Memories of my first Christmas is wrapped in blurry recollections. The
old times and new times have been shading them fast with only faint
traces where I could locate myself in dry December evening of which my
faculties is not dull enough to forget the date.
But the year, I cannot
remember anymore. I cannot remember for sure which one it was, my third
or fourth.
But it was after my passing the KGB(Not the Russian SS)
annual examination. Should I blame old age as man does to hide his weakness?
That was a long time ago in Tamenglong district, where I was born.
I remember my sister and I went to choose the young tree,
for Christmas tree, which overnight would change our home. We decorated
with balloons, colour papers and small silver stars which our dad
bought for us.
On the top of the tree we planted the big red star that
hardly glows. No lights. Electricity was not regular for such indulgence.
The beautiful tree was an annual accessory not everyone could afford.
Even our decoration was poor. We were fortunate the tree could not
complain. Historians tells us that indoor Christmas tree tradition came from
England or Germany.
Another imported culture we have been trying to ape
with difficulties to bargain with our kind of economy.
I remember we listened to Boneym and Jim Reeves Christmas
album. The family loves them so much. The song was one beautiful thing
that I love so much about Christmas.
They sang of White Christmas, snow,
and Santa Claus. My sister and I would dream of them, wishing it snows
in our place too.
Never knowing if it does our population would be
shivering on Christmas day. I realized the foreign influence was strong
indeed. Even the age of innocence was not free from them.
But the songs
are still beautiful. I realized the good folks from my mother's side did
not have Christmas songs like the Hmar's does. They rarely compose
Christmas songs or any kind of songs for that matter.
As if fearing they
would change 'The Word' or the course of Bethlehem if they do. They have
a market bigger than ours who follows the same religion. Besides, they
also love songs too.
Maybe it has more to do with talent, creativity
and the true love for it. In Tuithraphai,Churachandpur, alone we churn
out beautiful songs/albums like the Indians did to its populations. It's
just multiplying.
But the songs are more beautiful than the ugly
populations dragging along pale caste differences, blaring religious
overtones, and ethnic prick.
On Christmas day all the kids wear new clothes. That used
to make it merrier. There must have been many amongst us who could not
afford to buy them.
Our innocent eyes must have been blind to the
reality of all sorts of miseries. I remember my parents bought me a black
'naughty-boy' shoes from Bata store with an eye that it will be more
useful for the next year in school.
I was too happy, for it was new on
Christmas day. My mother would lead us to the big and old Tamenglong Baptist
Church, beautifully situated on the top of the hill that runs in chain
with many other hills.
The hills used to be our playground after the
service. It was the age when the Christmas sermons were boring and long.
I also realized that unlike the Hmars, the good folks from my mother's
side had built big and beautiful churches in their spaces. When my dad
was transferred to Tuithraphai,Churachandpur, I was too surprised to
find very small church buildings/structures dotting the town with sick
mindset reflecting " groupism".
To this day they still count themselves
to be "pure"(Tui pawllo). I really don't know which one is without the
water in the milk. And I don't know which one is with water in the
kerosene. The black or the white is confusing.
But they all look unhealthy
gray. I still hear them say "pawl"(denomination) is "kohran"(church)
and "kohran" is "pawl". That is when I don't want to be a member of any
"pawl" or "kohran".
But my memories are still true. The buildings/
structures aren't getting any bigger. They are still squeezing each other,
pulling and pushing the flock outside the green pasture.
But
fortunately, there is, still, Christmas every year. I hope it's not about the
tradition or the feast. But we still need the birth of the Son of Man.
I remember it was quite a white Christmas, not with white snows, but
with a white pant fitted out of my dad's out-of-date elephant- pant. It
was the most beautiful age where black toy pistols and red firecrackers
were wedded with Christmas.
We just cannot imagine a Christmas without
them. They did not come in the forms of accessories. They are actually
Christmas necessities.
We beg for them as if they were what Christmas
is all about. The boy with a more sophisticated toy gun, bigger and
longer, is believed to have a more wonderful Christmas.
We used to play all
sorts of game that involves the good and the bad man, wild goose chase,
lots of shoot-out, hide and seek, and finally feigning a dead man.
The
game used to be beautiful in the midst of big trees and dry yellow
leaves that must have fallen long time ago to prepare the ground for our
play. I remember the game under the moonlight, where we used to run with
our shadows looming tall before us. In the beautiful game we chase
Christmas away unconsciously.
I do remember the sounds of many small
feet's running over dry leaves. There was joy. Memories will forever weds
them. Memories will always wades them too.
A very wrong marriage though,
for which I still cannot have a reason. The toy pistol was very
western. We did not make use of bullets, but the Chinese invented the burst in
our pistols. And the crackers were imported from the heartland of
Hindustan.
The day was a child from Bethlehem. The celebrating culture must
have seeped inside us with an influence from the Diwali celebration. A
culture that really did not define Christmas.
Neither us.
It should
not. The leftover crackers and pistols of Diwali flooded the Christmas
market.
We, kids, fell in love with it. It has been faithfully with us
till today. Now the big boys are playing with real guns and bullets. Even
on Christmas day. There is no feigning anymore.
If they are shot, they
have to bleed or die. During our days when we toy the guns I used to
play the German soldier.
The other group used to be the US. We belonged
to nation states.Global powers. Now the big boys belongs to the feared
local KSF,HDP,or ZVC.Some KCPTRF.
I don't know. Some of them tested
their big guns during Christmas. It isn't beautiful anymore. They walk the
streets trampling our dry fears that are turning yellow.
The yellow
leaves have rot. While their barrels glisters under the moonlight, we
shiver wondering if there would be another new day.
But God is too good.
Christmas is here again.
Happy Christmas!
* David Buhril,a research scholar in JNU, contributes regularly to e-pao.net.
The writer can be contacted at [email protected]
This article was webcasted on December 27th 2005.
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