A Christmas wish

"I'll be home for Christmas

You can count on me

Please have snow and mistletoe

And presents under the tree …"

The tunes of this popular carol come wafting in from the background. I am in the company of friends at a noisy Christmas party. There's a lot of gaiety, dancing and fun. There's good food on the table and the spirits are high.

However, the lyrics of the carol stop me in my tracks. In the midst of that crowd, I suddenly find myself alone. Even in the centre of all that merriment, a strange feeling of emptiness grips me. Christmas, they say, is a time for being with the family, but that can no longer be the case with me.

In almost a decade of my nomadic existence on foreign shores, I never got around to being home with my loved ones, especially mum and sister, during the festive season. Today, both are gone from this world and it suddenly hits me.

As the song plays on, nostalgia sweeps over me. My thoughts fly back to my childhood years when life was simple and all was well with the world.

Christmas used to be one grand affair in our house and we celebrated it enthusiastically. I remember how in those days, preparations for the big day would begin almost a month in advance.

Each year in our house, we had this ritual of buying something new — our first television, our first refrigerator, our first music system … all had their ‘birthdays' in our place on Christmas day. It of course also helped that Dad got his annual bonus around December.

The house would be painted invariably in pink (like the previous year and the year before that …) — and our ‘Christmas' curtains (we coined the name because we only brought them out during Christmas) pressed. A fortnight before Christmas, dad would march us all to the tailor to stitch new clothes. Me being the youngest in the family, I got the most expensive (and fancy) cloth material.

As a young boy, I would sit late nights in the kitchen with my mum and sister, while neighbours would come to help them prepare the loads of special Christmas sweets. Each year, the first sweet would be given to me as some sort of ritual. This ritual continued down the years — right till my last Christmas in Mumbai, before I headed to foreign shores. I never knew then that it would be my last Christmas home.

One cold December night

I remember leaving my mum sad and forlorn one cold December night as I left for Qatar a decade back, promising her that I would return for Christmas on my next vacation.

However, on going abroad, I learnt a few hard truths about life. With senior guys in our office getting priority on leave for Christmas, I never got a chance to go home for Christmas in three years.

I thought things would change after I arrived in Dubai, but it never did. Lured by the dazzle of Dubai and fair-weather friends, I preferred spending my next few Christmases in noisy nightclubs and restaurants, sparing little thought for my mom who was getting on in years and probably hoping that I would drop in and bring some joy during the season.

But I never quite did, believing I could always go home "next year". Alas, "next year" never came.

One fine day, mum quietly passed away, quietly into the night. That year, I shed a quiet tear in her memory, ruing the many missed Christmases I never spent with her or would ever get to spend again.

And it has been like that ever since.

Today, I may be having more lavish parties and boisterous fun, but the magic is gone. Christmas, somehow, never feels like Christmas without her around.

Mum are you listening?