Thinking about Christmas, I hear the bells chime. I see the twinkling stars winking at me from faraway houses as I walk back home after the Midnight Mass in my hometown Alappuzha. I hear the age-old Christmas Carols fill the misty midnights in my Mother's house in Chamampathal.
I remember my own Christmas Tree in Bangalore that filled my December nights with nostalgia. Lying down on my bed, I peeped through the small opening in the curtains, made with a purposeful intent, and looked at my little tree lit by the flickering lights. In the pale light of their sparkle, I saw the colourful Christmas baubles quiver in the cool December breeze.
Last night, we bought a Christmas tree from Walmart. I promised myself, I will reuse it again and again, year after year, until the synthetic leaves begin to fade and wither. In an attempt to convince myself, I remembered then that the first Christmas tree that I bought for myself in Bangalore, was used for many years; including all the trinkets and paraphernalia. Even today, in my apartment, now, with its door shut and uninhabited, the remnants of my last Christmas lie buried in the darkness of my kitchen closets.
As I get ready to welcome my first Christmas here, I begin to dream of the day I will have my own Christmas tree, a real one, nurtured in a fenced front yard, which will only grow with years and not shrivel and wither with time.
