Impossible reunions, toy trains, scarlet ribbons

[1]

By Jostein Gaarder [2]

Rs 729

Somewhere down the line, you may find yourself ensnared in the cynicism of Christmas. Consumerism, tacky bunting, holiday shopping hordes, tinny carols blasting in the mall, the Santa hats worn by the children begging at the signals like grim wordless taunts at the frippery of your merry-making. Regardless of your spiritual upbringing or your current system of belief, you are held prisoner of the season, enforced jollity and all.

It’s easy to Bah, Humbug your way through it: the diaspora leaches in friends and relatives, eager to reconnect and be entertained, the children speculate about what Santa will bring, your social circle begins to compare social calendars like they’re playing Top Trumps. It seems that only your credit card will develop that warm, fuzzy, Christmas glow, from being swiped too often.
Christmas is especially hard for those bereft. The elderly who have outlived their circles, the families scattered, the dear departed, the father who cannot afford to take a flight home, the soldier on the frontline…
Don’t be surprised if, despite the slew of Merry Xmas’, you are reminded that this, two days after the winter solstice, a day with the most dark hours in the year, is a heavy day.
Far away, in time and space, a story hovers over this globe, festooned in fairy lights and tinsel. Heavily pregnant, poor Mary must trust Joseph to take her to Bethlehem where there is no room at the inn. Young, possibly frightened, she lies down in a stable and gives birth to her son. This son, who the Bible says angels herald, is born with his fortunes already told. As the infant Jesus is held by the Magi, who have brought with them embalming incense as a portent of his Crucifixion, King Herod, hoping to kill him, orders a genocide of all first-born males in the land. This is the first Christmas story.
But Christmas has grown far beyond its religious identity. Everyone is drawn to celebrate, to give, to receive, to pray, to party. Everyone wants to add their colours to the canvas of the world’s Christmas stories.
Writers, poets, artists and now bloggers, amateur photographers and self-appointed social-documentary makers will all present their version of the Christmas story. Some follow the “inspirational” formula: strife, followed by resolution, finally adorned with a shiny-happy ending. Some dip into magic-realism, conjuring wistfully blurred moments of otherworldly induced happiness. Some rustle up universal symbols of joy: new-born babies, impossible reunions, windfalls, little toy trains and scarlet ribbons.
Irish author Cathy Kelly’s Christmas Magic is a collection of short stories with Christmas as catalyst. With its pink sparkly cover and a blurb that cheerily asserts that this is “the most wonderful time of the year”, it’s hardly surprising that the book has spent time on the bestseller list of the season. The stories are Christmas-lite: fluffy tales where slim, long-limbed, mature women get over their divorce with a sexy dress and a handsome older guy with a nice car, or a couple of nervous spinsters find the wherewithal to finally make their first trip abroad (simultaneously helping a young couple deal with both infertility and alcoholism), empty nest syndrome, cheating spouses etc etc.
This is a book that will be bought as a last-minute present but end up, like the “fat girl” in the last story, A Family Christmas: categorically dumped now that her ex-boyfriend is married. This is not the kind of Christmas story you want.
Instead, Jostein Gaarder’s The Christmas Mystery is perhaps one of the best books to resort to at this time of year. Written like an Advent calendar, it begins on November 31 and features 24 wondrous chapters to Christmas. It weaves a spell using time travel, modern day travails, a little boy’s search for his mother, a metaphorical runaway lamb and a host of wonderful, complex, subtle human moments that leave a most delicious yearning by the time the sun sets on Christmas Eve. When a picket fence gate opens on Christmas morning, you will gasp in tearful delight.
The truth is, no matter how cynical, how jaded, everyone would like to have their own Christmas story. Perhaps this is what makes Christmas secular, universal: tired, after a hard year, it is easier to put down our shields of scepticism and reach out, build new bridges, reclaim our “hopeful human”.
What started out as proof for some — that “God so loved the world that he gave his only son to mankind” — is, in the quiet moments, a chance to give in to the irrepressible heart. It is human to feel empathy, it is human to believe tomorrow will be a better day, it is human to want to rely on the love of your kin and the kindness of strangers.
It is human to want your own Christmas story to be gilded with the touch of the divine. Like all storytellers know, the best way is to start with hoping for peace on earth and aspiring to goodwill to all men.

The writer is a Mumbai-based freelance journalist