On Christmas, remembering an inter-faith marriage that bought two families together

But the tree won’t be replaced; there are too many emotions attached to it. Ditto for a sketch of Santa Claus with a bag of goodies, done on a thermocol sheet during a niece’s school days. A few touches of paint and it continues to adorn the front door. Each year, new decorations flow in but the old ones stay put. They are not to be disposed of.

It’s been 25 years of being wedded in a Christian home. It seems only yesterday that a girl in her 20s would hide eggs in her purse to mix with henna to get shiny hair, fervently praying that none in the 17-member vegetarian Gujarati family would notice her transgression. Perhaps they had noticed but chosen not to comment, as not many were aghast or surprised when their girl married a Goan boy.

The mandatory Special Marriage Act registration apart, this girl also wanted a traditional white wedding. There was no mehendi or sangeet but surprise, surprise, the entire Gujarati family, barring a handful, turned up in church for the service. The savvy priest ensured that the inter-faith wedding service had the perfect blend of solemnity and spirituality.

The traditional Christmas favourite, sorpotel, simmers in a pot. I won’t be eating it; my food habits haven’t changed much. But it never fails to bring a smile to my face as I reminisce about my maternal home, where my grandmother would wrinkle her nose in disgust at the bombil frying in a neighbour’s house.

Now, the family descends upon our home for Christmas, eager to sample the marzipans, jujubes, neureos, fudge, nankhatais, cake and homemade wine. The fare is so different from the chaklis, sev, mohanthal and laddoos prepared for Diwali that they are used to. But my maternal family seems to be having the best of both worlds, truly.

Even in the run-up to Christmas, the brother comes in with his young daughter to dress the tree. A nephew climbs the high stool to tie a string across the rectangular hall to hang some decorations. A sister is willing to check out the neighbourhood Christmas bazaar for essentials. For me, Christmas has been meaningful since my days in a convent school with its annual party, mellifluous carols and Santa in a buggy. When my son was much younger and work was as taxing as it can be, I would still make time for weekly practice sessions in church just so I could sing in the choir for the Christmas midnight Mass.

It’s Christmas time in the city again and a lot has changed. The old maternal home, a wada, has been pulled down as the civic authorities feared the structure would give way. The grandparents have long gone; the parents are ailing. What will remain of that house are memories — of granny in the kitchen with three daughters-in-law of the joint family mastering family recipes under her watch; of a young cousin decorating the vintage Standard Fiat with red roses to take a bride-to-be to church; of parents patiently waiting for the newly-married couple to visit them every weekend, soaking in stories of their new life, a different culture; of old pen friends reconnecting after years.

Gieve Patel’s poem, ‘On Killing a Tree’, talks about how a hack and chop will not make a tree perish as long as the roots are intact. Our Christmas tree certainly has no roots and it is veering towards becoming skeletal. But it holds within it the trust of two families who believed love can overcome all impediments. The TLC showered on the tree during the festive season breathes life into it, and reaffirms that commitment.