When I was little, I absolutely "hearted" Christmas. I say "hearted" because that really is the only word that truly captures my shallow love of the festive season. It wasn't so much love as fascination with the glamour that went with the festivities. The fascination was so strong that on my seventh birthday, I wished for a white Christmas. It made no difference that we didn't celebrate the holiday or that I could play with firecrackers and bright colours (on Diwali and Holi) with abandon instead. To my seven-year-old mind, Christmas was that time of year when we'd get cards from countries I'd never heard of and my parents would line them up on the bar for months. When we were invited to my parents' friend's home for a never-ending lunch at which I couldn't pronounce a single dish on the menu. When we got presents (correction: many presents) wrapped in bright paper and gold ribbon. When the cacophony of noisy rickshaws were replaced by carolers in perfect harmony.
Twenty-five years on, the fascination has been replaced with a more mature love and respect for a time of year when everyone just spends a little more time thinking about the people they love and care about (and even some they don't). When family comes first and the food is fantastic; when tradition counts; when good plum pudding matters; when it's all about sharing love, laughter and good times. I've learned that there's some glamour in those things too...
Merry Christmas... make a wish!
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