When I can't sleep I tell myself stories - sometimes made up and sometimes memories. Last night I revisited Christmas in India and thought this morning that I would share some of the memories with you.
Calcutta was hardly designed for Yuletide cheer - even with the holiday falling in December it was still hot outside of our air conditioned cocoon. But with Diwali and Id out of the way Calcutta celebrated the holiday with vengeance. Park Street was lit up and the centre of the New Market became a Chinese Christmas Grotto with paper lanterns and tinsel galore.
The first sign of the coming festivities was the arrival of dollies(sic) - large baskets filled with fruit and alcohol that were sent out like hampers. As a doctor Dad always got loads and the delight of chocolate and figs and dates was extreme. My mother and sister took to flying to Hong Kong to do their shopping - these were the years when such things were not only possible but also desirable. And me? I just loved it all.
When I was about four or five I was taken to see Father Christmas. He bore a striking resemblance to Dad's friend Dr De Senha and his pink powdered face showed tramlines of a rather darker complexion where the sweat caused by the heavy velvet suit had run down his cheeks. I was terrified - and screamed loudly. I swear it was almost a relief to me to find out the Santa Claus was not real. Poor Terence - he loved children and he and his wife Alma were childless. I am not sure that I helped fill the void!
Christmas Eve was the midnight carol service at the cathedral - yes Calcutta has a very handsome cathedral - possibly the only time of the year that many of us entered its doors. After singing carols loudly and badly it was time to head home and try to sleep before the joy of the morning. Whatever school I was at always had a Nativity play and I was always the plump angel with the halo that dug into my head. Miss Bath's always had a pantomime, of the very highest order, and to go and see it was one of the Christmas treats. One year the Amateurs put on Peter Pan and I clapped for Tinkerbell to live with all my heart and soul. I still believe in fairies so please don't try to put them in the same category as Father Christmas.
Christmas Day was always sunny and once the presents had been opened it was a dreary trudge round a series of sherry parties that my parents had to attend. I got shockingly drunk one year and have never touched sherry since. After a snack lunch it was off to the polo where the treat of the year was to see the naughty polo players pretend to fall off their horses so that my father had to mount his bicycle and pedal over to the far side of the field. This always produced a standing ovation as it was always in doubt that he would make it.
In the evening my mother had one mantra - no one should be alone for Christmas. George and Dorothy were rounded up - any stray jockeys or polo players were bidden to join us and of course, there was always Desmond and the assorted Doigery.
There was a widely held belief that the turkeys purchased in the New Market were in fact vultures so much thought went in to finding a turkey. When I got older I did a term paper for an American friend for an American turkey from the commissary. By hook or by crook a bird was found and at eight Christmas night we sat down, rarely less than ten and more often than not far more. By now my father was tired and emotional - a day that had started with sherry ended with whisky and had cycle rides in between would leave him reeling and longing for bed. There was always a row but once out of the way the meal progressed happily and the festivities continued well into Boxing Day.
Boxing Day was racing - always and immovable. I would be left to play with my new toys, taken to see the Sound of Music (again!) and generally recover from all the excitement.
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