Book Review: INDIAN CHRISTMAS

Title: Indian Christmas

Editors: Jerry Pinto and Madhulika Liddle

Publisher: Speaking Tiger

Pages: 234

My GoodReads Rating: ⭐⭐⭐1/2 

This book consisted of a series of essays on the subject of Christmas as it is celebrated in India. I would have loved to contribute to this collection. If there is another edition, I hope the editors reach out to me.

 

Unto All of Us a Child Is Born by Jerry Pinto: I could totally relate to this essay. Jerry spoke about the lack of snow in Bombay at Christmas and how we aspired to have snow because that is what we saw in Christmas cards and films. Older people talked about Jim Reeves; he was the cornerstone of secular Christmas music. Jerry also spoke about the crass commercialism that Christmas has been reduced to, and reminded us that Christ and his family were migrants, relating the fact to His teaching, Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you do unto Me.

Jerry highlighted the fact of Jesus’ Birth, and related it to the title, Unto All of Us a Child Is Born. That single word, All, makes us all party to the great miracle, and invites the least of us to partake in the message of joy, hope, peace and love.

This was by far my favourite among the essays. Jerry’s essay reminds us of the reason for the season, which often gets lost amid the commercialisation of Christmas. This was also the only essay that referenced what it means to be an Indian Christian.

 

Christmas in Many Flavors by Madhulika Liddle describes the diverse ways in which Christmas is celebrated in India, in terms of foods, sweets, snacks, songs and décor, as also the diversity of religious (as per the different denominations of Christianity) and secular celebrations. As she says, “We adopted the faith, but reserved for ourselves the right to decide how we’d celebrate its festivals.”

The Child by Rabindranath Tagore: This lyrical poem contains the last two sections of one of Tagore’s finest long poems, inspired by the life of Jesus Christ. The poem roots the Nativity amid the rhythms and struggles of Indian rural life.

In the Spirit by Salman Rushdie: As an atheist Muslim, neither Rushdie nor his family celebrated Christmas. But Christmas entered his life several times in other ways.

At Midnight the Shepherds Saw the Light (Author Unknown) was a poem translated from Hindi. We read the original Hindi and the English translation and, in both languages, the words ‘Aadhi raat’ and midnight, repeated several times, are soothing and affirming.

Cake ki Roti at Dua ka Ghar by Madhulika Liddle: Here the author tells the true story of her own surname and how it came to be. Dua ka ghar (house of prayer) was the name of the author’s family home, built by her grandfather. This recollection was warm and fuzzy. The author shares her childhood memories and reiterates a point I believe: that Christmas and Christianity are not Western constructs. They belong to Indian Christians as much as to any believer.

The Sunset Club by Khushwant Singh: This excerpt takes us into the lives of the Hindu Mr Sharma, the Sikh Boota and the Muslim Baigs. Later in the excerpt, Begum Baig points out that Christians make merry but don’t go to church to give thanks to their Maker. I enjoy reading Khushwant Singh, but the Christmas reference here was incidental.

A Merry Vindalee to You by Anupama Raju: The author gives us the story of Vindalee, the Keralite version of the Goan-Portuguese Vindaloo, and her mother’s recipe. A Christmas Wedding in Kottayam by Elizabeth Kuruvilla: The narrator and her husband, on a road trip on their Enfield from Delhi to Kerala, are now in Kottayam, her hometown, to attend their reception. Both these stories were fuelled by nostalgia, but they were more about food than about Christmas.

I’m Dreaming of a Goan Christmas by Vivek Menezes makes a reference not only to the sweets, but also to what Christmas means to Catholics and those of other faiths in Goa. I liked this essay.

Nothing Compares to the Joys of a Village by Mary Sushma Kindo (Translated from Hindi by Renuka Chatterjee) was a lovely eye-opener to how Christmas is celebrated in small villages in the Hindi heartland. They don’t have enough but manage to mark the day with joy.

My Memories of Christmas by Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar also talks about Christmas in her childhood, when she was fascinated by the festival, but from a non-Christian perspective. The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri: The excerpt shows a Bengali family in the US beginning a Christmas tradition.

In Search of an East Indian Christmas in Mumbai by Debbie Rosario describes the tradition of Christmas celebrations that she witnessed when she was young.

Did Your First Christmas Cake Come out of an Ammunition Box Too? By Easterine Kire was interesting. Santa Comes in a Rickshaw—Christmas in Bow Barracks by Nazes Afroz was too short and ended abruptly. I would have liked to read more. Christmas in the Moon Place by Veio Pou was a lovely depiction of life in a small Christian village in Manipur around Christmas.

Yuletides of Yore by Minoo Avari was a recounting of several Christmas memories, one of which was the 28^th birthday celebration of her mother, which coincided with Christmas. 

In A Village Christmas by Damodar Mauzo (Translated from Konkani by Jerry Pinto), the author talks about the Hindu festival, Ganesh Chaturthi, and Christmas being his favourite festivals, and links these favourites to the strong secular fabric of his village.

How India’s Pluralistic Past Shows the Way Forward by Manimugdha S Sharma: Here the writer talks about festivals in general, and Christmas in particular, and mourns the fact that India’s pluralism is on the decline.

Armenia Christmas Food in Calcutta by Mohona Kanjilal is a detailed description of the title.

In Christmas Memories of a Family by Nivedita Mishra, the writer, born and raised in a multi-cultural multi-religious family, tells us that she is not very religious, but that she does have a strong faith in God and that her faith is rewarded one Christmas. This was another one of my favourite essays in this collection.

Last Christmas in Bandra by Aravind Adiga was a random unrelated recollection of a judge. Christmas was only incidental here.

Christmas Carols Punjabi Style (Translated from Punjabi by Nirupama Dutt: There is no mention of the writer’s name.

Made in India and All of That by Nilima Das is a charming account of the childhood of a woman of mixed parentage who received the best of both worlds.

A Christmas Prayer—Words and Music by Alfred J D’Souza; Arranged for choir by Leon D’Souza

Most of the essays were about the secular nature of Christmas and the celebrations, rather than any affirmations of faith. This collection can be read by anyone who misses the secular appeal of Christmas. 

I loved the beautiful cover of the Holy Family in Indian garb.

(I read this book on NetGalley. Thank you to the author, the publisher and NetGalley.)

Book Review: 12 NEW CHRISTMAS STORIES: AN ANTHOLOGY

Title: 12 New Christmas Stories: An Anthology

Author: Lee Allen Hill, Diane Kenel-Truelove, Terry Broxson, Ann Mullen-Martin, Jay Squires

Publisher: Atmosphere Press

Pages: 112

My GoodReads Rating: ⭐⭐⭐

 

This was a sweet collection of tales, some nicer than the others.

‘Jesus and Donkey’ by Lee Allen Hill was a sweet tale. A little boy, Jesus, who has recently lost his father, lives with his mother and Donkey, his dog. He wants to get his mother a turkey for Christmas, but the money that he has saved is only sufficient to buy a chicken. And then Jesus loses the chicken.

There is a smattering of Spanish strewn through this story, which I enjoyed. The author has some interesting things to say on the subject of dogs. Dogs, born without pockets, have little interest in trade and commerce.

I also loved Mr Epstein’s thoughts about Christmas. Christians celebrate a Jew . . . The best of us should be celebrated ecumenically.

The stories by Lee Allen Hill were my favourites.

‘The Magic of Santa’s Christmas Box’ by Diane Kenel-Truelove was a sweet true story about a child’s belief in Santa Claus, and how the sense of wonder stays with her.

‘A Christmas Gift’ by Ann Mullen-Martin is a sweet story about an elderly childless widow who takes in a foster child she grows to love. When her application to adopt the child is approved, it is a Christmas gift for both of them.

‘Bring Back the Carolers’ by Jay Squires was describe as Non-fiction in the Contents, but appeared to be fictional as the narrator was addressed as Junie by her mother. This narrator mourns the disappearance of carolers over several decades and remembers a time when the carolers used ot come to their door.

‘The Christmas Tree’ by Terry Broxson: This story could have stood by itself. It didn’t need to be narrated by a cat. Some of the stories felt forced, and this was one of them.

‘The Million-dollar Christmas’ by Lee Allen Hill: The father of our seven-year-old narrator wins a lottery of million dollars. The banter between the family members was a hoot; the father especially had some of the best lines. I smiled as I read this one. This tale was a true expression of the Christmas spirit.

‘A Touch of Christmas Cash’ by Ann Mullen-Martin seemed like fiction. The protagonist was called Olevia. This charming story reminded us that if we have enough, we should think of others.

‘That Year Was Different’ by Ann Mullen-Martin was a continuation of the previous story, written a year after the Christmas of the previous year. This October, Olevia, now 13, has lost her mother.

‘Tis the Season’ by Diane Kenel-Truelove: The author is accused of shoplifting while she is shopping for Christmas gifts at her favourite department store.

‘Is Santa Claus real?’ by Terry Broxson wasn’t much of a tale; it was more like an anecdote.

‘Of Evergreens, and a Flash of Red' by Diane Kenel-Truelove was about a gift box that mysteriously disappears, then shows up again.  

‘JoJo’s Turkey’ by Lee Allen Hill takes us into the life of little John Joseph Jorgenson ‘JoJo’, newly turned nine, who now sees himself as the man of the family. His dad is in prison and his mom works hard as a firefighter. On Christmas Day, his mom is busy, saving lives, while his aunt is busy and drunk in front of the television. Little JoJo makes arrangements for a turkey dinner for his hero mother.

(I read this book on NetGalley. Thank you to the author, the publisher and NetGalley.) 

Book Review: THE FIRST ADVENT IN PALESTINE

Title: The First Advent in Palestine

Author: Kelley Nikondeha

Publisher: Broadleaf Books

Pages: 214

My GoodReads Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

The First Advent in Palestine was a beautiful book that stripped Advent of all the holiday revelry that pervades this holy time today and set it in the context of the conflict-ridden milieu in which Christ was born. It wasn’t a peaceful time by any means, and yet very few people point out the violence that that era of human history was fraught with.

The Palestine of the first Advent was just as conflict ridden as it is today. The types of dangers that people faced differed, but life then, as now, was unpredictable and frightening.

 

The author juxtaposes the past with the present. Most newspapers and TV channels won’t even talk about the truth of what people in Palestine are grappling with. The sheer trauma on account of Israel’s cruelty. Tear gas, stun grenades, rubber-coated bullets and an ongoing genocide are the reality of the people of Palestine.

The author draws parallels between then and now, helping us to see their humanity and empathise with their struggles. Shepherds, she tells us, were the “essential workers” of that time. Today’s tyrannical and insecure leaders is what Herod was.

The author upturns our long-held notions about how there was no room at the inn, telling us that’s not how Palestinians are.

Along the way, she introduces us to Israeli Messianic Jews, Jews who believe that Jesus was the Messiah.

The book is non-fiction, but the writing is literary and luminous.

One thing you can do in the dark is light a candle. Another is tell a story.

In fraught places, childhood is complex.

There is a fierceness that coexists with kindness.

I must admit that I haven’t read much of the Old Testament. But reading this book, I got a better understanding of the force of God’s promise of peace to the world. It helped me to understand the context of the Gospel, how Christ wasn’t born in a picture-perfect crib. Reading this book took away the tinsel and holly and made the season real.

It’s ironic how it’s now the Jewish state of Israel that is visiting death and destruction on others, namely, the people of Palestine. We don’t speak enough about the pain being unleashed and perpetrated in Palestine.

The book looks at the traumatised people of Palestine through the lens of humanity to acknowledge their suffering. It takes us along to bear witness to Zachariah’s story and Mary’s too, the former of disbelief, the latter of acceptance. Alongside these, we read the stories of Palestinians today, Sliman Mansour, Nafez Assaily etc.

The book forced me to think of things I hadn’t considered. Like how silent night, holy night doesn’t necessarily mean peaceful because nightfall brings dangers. Only privilege can equate silence with peace. I realised that as we go from year to year, from Advent to Lent and back, the need for that peace remains.

Flight to Egypt, a painting by Palestinian painter Sliman Mansour, has been used on the cover. The image of Mary, the infant in her arms, with a UN care package, reinforces how the Holy Family was seeking normalcy and peace in their lives.

This is the book I didn’t even know I wanted.

(I read this book on Edelweiss. Thank you to the author, the publisher and Edelweiss.) 

Book Review: CHRISTMAS STORIES YOU'VE NEVER HEARD: LIKE HOW BABY JESUS HAD A CONE HEAD AND STUFF

Title: Christmas Stories You've Never Heard: Like How Baby Jesus Had A Cone Head And Stuff
Author: Sammy Adebiyi
Publisher: Sammy Adebiyi
Pages: 88
My GoodReads Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

 

This book does the impossible, bringing about a sense of newness to the Story of the Nativity, a story we’ve heard a thousand times and could recite in our sleep.

Through seven short chapters, all quirkily named, this book brings about a newfound reverence in all readers.

In Christmas Choir Gone Bad, the author reminds us that the people in the Bible were far from perfect. Their stories were the kind of stuff that Sunday School teachers would frown at, but that’s how it is. And yet, God picked these imperfect people to be part of the lineage that ultimately Christ was part of.

It is a reminder that our imperfections can’t get in the way of our salvation, as long as our faith wants in. As Adebiyi says, “Don’t worry about the super ripped, balding angel bouncer at the door.”

The writing is imbued with candour; the author relates each of the highlighted elements with experiences from his own life. He explains the analogies, occasionally stretching them to the limit, until we get what he is trying to say.

As he promises, he delivers. It is true that we have taken the superawesomeness of the Christmas story for granted but that’s because no one really pointed it out to us the way Adebiyi has.

Messrs Mathew, Mark, Luke and John used simple words to write their versions of the Gospel because, of course, a story as amazing as that didn’t need embellishment. The truth was amazing by itself.

That is why it helps that Adebiyi has highlighted some of the most inspiring elements of the Nativity story, all tied up casually in a tone that mixes up the elements of pop culture with all things Biblical. Once you focus, you see the thread of deep faith and reverence that suffuses the writing.

Don’t get me wrong. Silent Night is still my favourite Christmas song. But it conjures up such a peaceful and calm world that it’s easy to imagine Jesus in His divinity, and think of Him as perfect, never peeing or pooping, Mother Mary never facing issues of sleep deprivation, or any of the normal frustrations that a new mother faces.

Christmas Stories You've Never Heard: Like How Baby Jesus Had A Cone Head And Stuff is just the kind of book you need to remind you of what a miracle Christmas is. I read it after Christmas and it helped me to wipe the dust of the ages and see Christmas as I did as a child: with a sense of pure joy and wonder.

Book Review: THE SNEEZING CHRISTMAS TREE

Title: The Sneezing Christmas Tree
Author: Aaron Kerr
Publisher: Self-published
Pages: 40
My GoodReads Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

 

Alice, her younger brother, Tommy, and their parents are out looking for their perfect Christmas tree. After a long search, they finally find a tree they all like, and Tommy decides to christen the tree, Emily. They bring Emily home, thinking that she’s a perfectly normal tree, and then the sneezing begins.

The book is written in the first person PoV of Alice. The pages are peppered with beautiful illustrations. I read this book two days before Christmas and got my kids to read it too. I knew just as soon as I began reading it that it had the potential to be a story that my kids would love.

There are lessons for little ones about not keeping secrets from our parents, as also about seeing trees as living beings who bring untold wealth to our world, the importance of creating happy memories for ourselves and of finding one’s purpose in life.

The best part about this book is that it puts Jesus Christ firmly at the heart of Christmas.

The entire story is tied up with humour, as in the camouflage pajamas, and warmth. The Sneezing Christmas Tree is a special treat for all ages.

Book Review: CHECKOUT GIRL

Title: Checkout Girl
Author: Aimee Alexander
Publisher: Self-published
Pages: 17









At 17 pages, Checkout Girl is more of a short story than a book, but as long as GoodReads classifies it as a book, a book it is for me as well. After all, I signed up on their site to read 50 books in 2015, and now that we are in Week One of December, I am beginning to feel more than a little desperate.

I found the cover page of the book, with its soft twinkling lights, and the hint of a Christmas tree rather appealing.

The story is about an 83-year-old woman who dies suddenly, just outside a mall where she has gone shopping. She expects to have her whole life flash before her eyes, as is commonly believed, and is surprised to find herself given the opportunity to make a difference in the life of a single mother, the checkout girl who had shown her a kindness just moments before her death. The checkout girl who has now been fired from her job for her pains.

A snippet of a review on the cover promised me that the book would tug at my heartstrings. 
It didn't.
Maybe my heartstrings are too taut.

All the same, I found the book cute. Perhaps if it had been fleshed out a little bit more. Maybe if I had known a little more about the life of the sweet, old woman who died just as the story began, or even about Debbie, the checkout girl, it might have made a difference. 

At one time, the author compared Debbie to another girl who is a part-timer and who enjoys this job. The author writes, She and Debbie are the same age: nineteen. Yet they live as though a generation apart. Having a child can make the world a much more serious and grown-up place.


There was so much in that last line that could have benefited from elucidation. But the details didn't come.

Debbie's little daughter, Jessie, and her profanity spouting mother, Janice, could have been given more space to breathe so we could understand their presence in Debbie's life. On the other hand, the old woman, whose first person account this is, doesn't share much about her life either. We don't learn the details about why her son is in jail. We don't even know her name.

Eventually, the dead old woman does something nice for Debbie, and earns her wings. She is grateful for the opportunity to play an angel and help Debbie.


This story should have been thickened with some more detail and stretched to a mini-novella. The author has a pleasing style of writing, and I would certainly have liked to read more.

Goodbye, 2014

How did it get so late so soon?
It’s night before it’s afternoon.
December is here before it’s June.
My goodness, how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?
- Dr Seuss

With two children whose combined ages still add up to a single digit, I do a lot of reading of children’s books. And Dr Seuss, with his penchant for rhyming, ranks up there among our favourites. And so it is only fitting that I should start this post with a quote from him.

For it’s that time of the year.

December has always been my favourite month, for as long as I can remember. A huge part of that has to do with it being Christmas season, and how it has always been synonymous for hope and faith and for believing again. Ever since I was a little girl, I just felt that no matter what had gone wrong that year, it was going to be set right in the most spectacular manner possible.

And that was the other thing about December. It brought with it the promise of newness, the opportunity to wipe out the disappointments of the year that was whizzing by, and to dream, build and hope again. To believe that we have been granted a clean slate, some coloured chalk and a chance to re-write our lives.

Are we going to grab that chance to finally set things right? Or is it easier to lull ourselves into believing the lie that nothing ever changes and that resolutions are meant to be broken?

I hope you and I both have the courage to start something new in the coming year.

And while we are still here, on this side of 2014, I invite you to make some goals for yourself.

Goals are magic. They are paths that could lead us down completely new directions. 

If only we let them.

So go ahead and make some goals. One, two, or twenty. It doesn’t matter how many. Of course, “15 goals for 2015” does have a nice ring to it.

Write them down on a sheet of paper, and put them up where you can see them every day.
On your soft board.
Or your mirror.

Maybe 2015 is the year when you will finally get over your fear of the deep and learn how to swim.

Or learn a new language.

Or maybe you will overcome your phobia of heights and climb your first mountain.

Maybe you will make the first move towards reconciling with that estranged loved one that you haven’t spoken to in a long time.

Or maybe you will put pen to paper, one word after another, and finally write the untold story that is inside you. 

The first of many you know you were meant to.

Whatever it is, no matter how unconquerable it may seem at this point, I hope you will take that first step. As the greats say, one year from now, you’ll be glad you did.

Here’s wishing you a truly fulfilled 2015.

I hope to see you more often in the coming year. I hope you'll drop by.

The Spirit of Christmas Past

Christmas is most real to a child, perhaps because the Creator of the world came to us in the form of a child.


As children, preparing for Christmas, it was a delight to do something good and not be found out. The parish priest of St John the Baptist Church, Thane, (I think his name was Fr Peter something), came up with an ingenious idea to prepare the Sunday School children for Christmas. While others cleaned their homes, we children should clean our hearts, he said.


He handed each of us a single sheet of paper on which the popular image of a heart, with numerous lines crisscrossing it, was printed. The crisscrossing lines would total up to more than 300 little squares. The idea was that all through Advent, we should do something nice for someone and offer it as our gift to God. With each good deed, we would be permitted to colour one of those little squares. On Christmas Eve, we were encouraged to place our coloured hearts, a symbol of our love for God, in the manger at the church crib. Wrapped as He was in nothing but swaddling robes, our coloured hearts would keep Him warm.


Looking back, I recall that none of my good deeds were really scale-breaking. Sometimes I may have foregone a sweet that my brother wanted. Or I may have given up watching a favourite TV programme and tried to help mum instead.


More than the deed itself, it was the spirit in which it was done that made it significant. For once, we thought of the needs of others, rather than our own. For once, we swallowed our pride and grief, if we were scolded undeservedly. For that one time in the year, we would try our best to be a little less selfish, a little more generous, a little more as God would have us be.


The Wise men came with their gifts. We brought our hearts. It was with a glow in my heart that I would place mine at the manger, knowing without the shadow of a doubt that just as the Babe smiled upon the little drummer boy in one of my favourite Christmas songs, He would look with delight upon me.


My parents never bought us gifts at Christmas. Partly because our financial circumstances didn't permit it. But more importantly, because we were just not aware of the tradition of buying one another gifts for Christmas. The way my parents taught us to view Christmas, the focus was always on the Birthday Boy, whose birth transformed the world.


So the tradition of piling up neatly wrapped gifts at the foot of the Christmas tree and pretending it was Santa Claus who had bought them for us never featured in our memories of Christmas Past. In fact, for a very long time, we didn't even have a Christmas tree.


Dad used to make a crib, a small visual representation of the Nativity. It was a small house that Dad had fashioned out of leftover plywood. It wasn't at all ramshackle as the real one must have been, but that was because Dad had good carpentry skills. With loving hands, he would smooth sawdust on the floor, place the thatched and stitched roof on top of the house and put the little statues in their positions. Even as he tried his best to make the little house as comfortable as possible, he would tell us, "The real stable must have been dirty and smelly. Imagine the trouble that Our Lord willingly accepted for our sake."


All through Advent, my excitement would be steadily built up, rising in intensity as Mum made a different Christmas sweet each day for our kuswar (Christmas goodies). One day, it would be neureos, then perad the next day, dodol the day after, and cake and kormolan the next. The following day, it would be two types of doce (the Portuguese word for sweet). one made of chana dal, and the other of local bread or pao. They were both my favourites, chonya doce and unddya doce, unddo meaning the Konkani word for bread. This would be followed by batk or bolinhas. For the local flavour, Mum would make chaklis and besan laddoos and our basket of Christmas goodies would be complete.


Day after day, our little home would be redolent with the aromas of all these sweets. It was another reminder that Christmas was approaching. As these Christmas goodies were being made at home, I would go to school with a heavy heart. Somehow it seemed unfair to miss all the excitement even for a few hours.


Incidentally, one of my cousins, so went a famous family story, apparently wrapped up a school exam in a fraction of the time allotted to write it because she did not want to miss out on the kormola making at home. While it was a very amusing story that never failed to bring on the laughs, dear cousin, if you read this, I want you to know that I thought your action was thoroughly excusable. :)


Meanwhile, Dad would decorate our little house with colourful buntings and balloons, even as Christmas carols would be playing on our little tape recorder. Mum would sew Christmas dresses for the two of us. The finishing touches would be put at the very last minute, often because there was so much that she had to do, while managing her sewing business too.


While these preparations were on, my excitement would be muffled, under wraps. It was only when Dad got the crib ready, often the last step in our Christmas decorations, that the warm feeling in my heart would smoulder into a full-blown fire.


Those childhood Christmases were beautiful. I remember the thrill that used to come over me at Mass on the first Sunday of Advent when the choir would sing, "Bestir thy power, and come, Lord, to save thy sin-laden race." It used to be my cue to give in to unmitigated joy and excitement because my favourite time of the year was finally here.


Truly, there is no Christmas like the one experienced by children. One casualty of being a grown-up is that unfortunately we lose the tenderness and affection that we used to experience as children. We lose the warm Christmassy feeling and merely end up keeping the date.


This year, I resolve to change all that. I resolve to become a child again at Christmas time. I resolve to re-live the excitement that was mine, all those years ago, and to share in the delight of my little daughter and son and two nephews. I resolve to open my heart again so that when I peer into the crib and look at the little Babe lying in the manger, I can feel content that I have made my heart a fit dwelling for Him.