The Taj is a monument to his life
Or just for his death? —
The bitter breath of life
And the symbol of the struggle of poor workers?
Yes, they come to admire the crown
It is great for every tourist,
The best memorial
Tour guides are present
To the team in search of history.”
from Monkey bathby the child
In recent years in Britain, Christmas has come earlier and earlier. This is not the result of the discovery of the new gospels which prove that Jesus was not born on the 25th of December but rather on or around the 13th of November. No, it’s a retail business cashing in on the holy Christian celebration of the Saviour’s birth to sell, sell, sell!
While we have every right to scoff at an entire population that is motivated to buy Christmas trees at uncompetitive prices, take advantage of false “deals” and quickly accumulate unnecessary gifts, the fact that consumerist festivities kill Scrooges by the millions must be understood. People and turns them into generous gift fairies.
Then there’s also the “plus” of people who are generously motivated to donate to charities at Christmas – and not just on or around December 25, but weeks and months before.
Of course, retailers big and small have not only extended Christmas like the folded flexible bells of an accordion until the first week of December, but have also extended it into November and, in one article I read, an Anglican priest wrote, a wedding party celebrated their October wedding by singing Christmas carols.
Retailers have also invented “days”. Valentine’s Day has its origins in Roman and Christian myth or history, but Mother’s Day? Or Father’s Day? Sister’s, brother’s… uncle’s? There’s no doubt that dog, cat and gravel-food manufacturers and retailers will soon be inventing Dog Day. (Isn’t there already?
–Ed? Er… yes sir, it marks the rising of the Sirius “Dog Star”, which we Parsees call “Tir! — Your humble Savant, fd) “Cat Day” and “Twitter Day?” (Is it called X now? – Ed)
But why blame opportunistic retailers? We colonists in India, millions of non-Christians, celebrate Christmas with presents and stockings, chickens if not turkeys, and we sing carols too. I attribute this to our multi-religious nation celebrating each other’s festivals like Christmas, Diwali, Eid, Holi, Dashain… come on, come on all. No excuses!
The only new year of my minority Parsi community, mistakenly known as “Papayati”, is not spread to others. During my childhood the only Maratha Hindu person who pretended to adopt the festival was a neighboring beggar who accepted Parsees on their way to the fire temple with caution.Our poppet, our poppet“! A plea for a festive handover.
So, in celebration of Christmas, gentle reader, here’s a short Christmas story:
Pigeon picnic
i
I was two years old; My sister was three
In the last years of colonial rule
I remember our big house in Quetta
And rambling – though it probably is
The army cantonment was just a bungalow.
They say that early memories are distorted
The shape of things. I think David thought
Although Goliath was a mighty mountain
A stone knocked him out of the sling.
That’s another story, that’s about it
A Christmas memory. I have no doubt
has become a subject of distortion
A story that repeats itself has an impact
The subject is — distortion will prevail
II
My mother said she would cook it for Christmas
Zarin and I each a gingerbread man.
We promised, and started in the kitchen
Proceed to knead and make the mixture
Two identical ginger-biscuit men
With black raisin eyes and an icing smile
They looked tempting in the baking tin.
We were told that we should be patient
They entered the oven. in a while
Mum pulled a baking tin from the rack
And noticed that one of them was cracked
Oh terrible! Now he must reconcile
One of us who accepts imperfection
By celebrating one of us with a confection
III
As soon as it was bitten it would fall apart.
Solomon’s judgment at once
There doesn’t have to be just one – the one that happened to the mother
A man with a cracked ginger — that causes a fight
So, she cracked another whole one in two
And offered both of us the same pair now
It wouldn’t be unfair since both are cracked
He thought it was the wisest thing to do.
We disagreed and started yelling
And scream and kick our feet on the floor –
And our father walked through the door as we did.
His inquiring features turned to anger
“What’s really going on here?
Are these monsters threatening you dear?”
IV
Our mother told him what had happened
We can all see her eyes watering now
Our father was furious, I will never forget
His brow furrowed. He spoke a word:
“Come on!” He motioned for us to go
with him He put the biscuit on the plate
Walked out the back door, asked to wait
Like he was trying to show something
to us Then use your thumb and both fingers
He crushed the biscuit and said, “Let’s get ready
Our ginger men who want them – where
They will be appreciated even though they are pieces. “
He threw it on the roof with a quick jerk
saying “PigeonsHave a nice picnic!”