Making of family traditions

How do family traditions start? I've often wondered. Who sets off those little trends that either beguile newcomers to the family fold or drive them insane with their quirkiness? In our country, we see these traditions when we attend weddings, funerals and death anniversary rituals. There is always some ‘elder' among the large number of relatives who knows exactly how things have to be done, how many people to feed, the value of the donations to be made, the various people who need to receive gifts and so on and so forth.

In our household, happily, there seemed to be no traditions whatsoever. As children, we attended family weddings, anniversaries, even funerals, but we never had even a hint that discussions of any sort took place about how these were to be conducted. They just happened, we were there, we came home and we went on with our lives. My siblings married without much ado and it was only when I was about to launch into my own married life that I discovered traditions. These didn't come from the bridegroom's side, for surely if I'd known that was part of his baggage neither his good looks nor his good nature would have impelled me to take that step into the happy future I thought lay by his side.

No, it was the friends of the family, and the one odd relative who was around that looked a bit peeved that we weren't conforming to tradition. No flowers in the bride's hair, no downcast eyes, no gold jewellery, no respectful silence … just not done. But we survived that and set out on what I thought was a tradition-free future, given that we'd largely escaped any impositions despite going through the usual tradition fest of an Indian wedding.

The years slipped by and I began to realise that say what we may, there were traditions from both sides that were becoming a part of our small family. Festivals were the first to rear their heads. Both of us were accustomed to open house at such times, laden tables with food and sweets aplenty and it seemed only natural to continue that happy habit. Only this time, the person responsible for the laden table was me. In my childhood home, the entire month before Christmas was a treat for the senses. Mother would sing Christmas carols in the days before we had a music system and all of us, father included, would be a part of the kneading and mixing and moulding that went into the preparation of the mountains of sweets and savouries that threatened to make mini-mountains out of us.

In my nuclear family, all agog, visualising the laden table and a storeroom full of brimming containers of fudge and cookies and cake, I embarked on what came to be my tradition of solitary slaving at the stove at festival time. I did this with carols blaring in the background in keeping with our noisy times, the husband away on duty somewhere in the desert or, as the years went by, hidden in his den, an eager-to-help tiny tot at first getting in the way, then growing too large to fit into the kitchen space and avoiding involvement because of it. Letting go of tradition was out of the question. Being realistic about the quantities required for a small-size family was also unacceptable. How else would I get my festive good cheer?

Oh my gosh, now I'm that elder who won't let go of tradition — in this case the stocking of the Christmas larder.

What will my children take with them to impose upon the next generation?

Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.