Excerpt 2 - By the River Pampa I Stood

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Christmas Time

That evening had been a lovely one. And so is its memory. Like a peacock feather tucked away between the pages of a favourite book, to be retrieved occasionally; to be cherished forever. There was plenty to eat and plenty of music. She danced with the little ones and sang merry old Malayalam songs for them.

Memories, like diamonds, have a way of getting more precious with time.

For Christmas every year, she was unanimously chosen by the children to be their Santa (or Christmas Papa as he is known in Kerala). She would fish out the famous red gown with frilly edges from her kaalpetti – her mother’s wooden bridal dowry box with intricate carvings and brass knobs and edges – and press it well to remove creases, taking care to adjust the heat lest the frilly nylon edges get burned. The children loved to do her face and her patience with them was remarkable. She would sit still on a chair for hours while the children cut out beards and moustaches out of cotton rolls and pasted them on her face with glue made of flour and water. When she emerged from the chair, lo and behold, we had our Santa!

This practice had begun when I was a little girl. And this practice continues now, when Laya's cousins enjoy creating a Santa out of their great grandmother, Annammachi.

Santa and the little ones would then go carol singing from room to room inside the Gold House:

Joy to the world; the Lord is come.
Let earth receive her King.
Let ev’ry heart prepare him room
And heav’n and nature sing……

The maids in the kitchen would grumble about the missing ladles and spoons and tins. These were the musical instruments that accompanied the singing. In any case, the cacophony heralded the spirit of Christmas into the Gold House, which at other times wore a lost and forlorn look.

She made mounds of mouth-watering cookies and cakes at Christmas. The aroma of baking filled the house and the courtyard. Munching hungrily, we would gather around her, begging for a tale.

A brilliant storyteller she was, indeed. She could hold a listener with bated breath at the edge of his seat for hours, engrossed in her tale. And clamouring for more at the end of it.

Geeta Abraham Jose (By the River Pampa I stood)