#23 My Christmas day

I woke up eight in the morning. After drinking a glass of water stirred with honey, I sat for learning English grammar. It was about nine when I felt a little cold. I peered out through the window and perceived sun was shimmering upon the streets. I took my book, reader and pen, and climbed up the stairs.

            My dear readers usually think that I am an introvert and read books whole day long. It is a grievous error. I believe I am an extrovert. I’ve so many old and new friends that I never feel alone. I become introvert when I see people messing all around and doing nothing more than creating problems. I read books when I have nothing good to do. My biggest weakness, like other modern writers, I speak a lot and read less.

            When I was solving a worksheet of pronoun, my mother came and put a green kite before me. I gazed my mother. She smiled and informed the kite came from somewhere behind. I looked at the blameless sky. At least a dozen kites already hung in the sky.

I remembered father gifting me a spool and a couple of kites on my birthday. Early in the morning, every year on my birthday, he took me to the kite’s shop and asked the shopkeeper to give a hard, shiny and the best string. He didn’t know anything about the kites but he had always rejected a few kites to pretend as if he was once a great kite fighter. I’ve spent all my childhood birthdays in cutting kites rather than cakes. It is after admitting to college I come to know that the students still love cutting cakes.

The kite fighter in me born again as I saw yellow, black, red and blue kites spun and glided in the sky. I rushed down to fetch my spool holder. I tied the string with the kite and then jerked it twice. The kite spun, tossed and then flew away with the wind.

After an hour or two, my childhood friends, Rashtra and Abhimanyu, arrived at my rooftop. I feel Rashtra’s parents are patriots, so they derived his name from rashtra-pati or rashtra-geet. Abhimanyu, a tall figure, handlebar moustache boy, gazed at my English Grammar book, twirled his moustaches and said, ‘No matter how big writer you may become, but for us, you will always remain our ustaad.’ After that, we laughed, rebuked and shared school memories with each other.

Towards midday, we mounted on the Bullet motorcycle and made our way to market. Neither any girl nor any boy left behind on our way, we didn’t wish a merry Christmas. Even Rikshawalas gave a reassuring smile to us. All this while, we talked and made plan about partying at night. We thought we all old friends would meet up and go to Sacred Heart School, the only place where Santa Claus existed, to see girls. The gifts giving Pere Noel (Father Christmas) had always successfully called lovely girls to Sacred Heart School. Unsurprisingly, later, this plan also became an illusion as just as our old plans.

            I spent rest of my Christmas day loitering on the streets, fighting with friends, buzzing around the houses of lovely girls, standing at the burger shop, killing time in the cinema hall. At night, as I returned to home, mother roared at me for coming late at home. Father was asleep. After dinner, I took a novel by Khushwant Singh and soon, sleep came over me.

            All in all, the Christmas day was same like the other days. December 25 is just an announcement about the beginning of the winter vacations. Going to a club, drinking and partying hard, flirting with girls and becoming a center of attraction is a delusion for most of Indians. At the end of the day, whether it’s a new year or a Christmas party, Indians satisfy themselves with daal, roti and sometimes chawal as their dinner.

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