I studied in a Roman Catholic school with strong Italian connections. Though as non-Christians, we had "Moral Science" thrice a week instead of catechism classes, the Catholic influence was significant. Most of our teachers were Catholic with last names ending in Fernandes, D'Souza, Alvarez, etc reflecting their Portuguese origins. Christmas was celebrated at school with unfailing regularity and enthusiasm. Each year, one of the teachers would direct a play based on Jesus' birth; I played one of the three wise men, on at least two separate occasions. There would be a fake Christmas tree with decorations and we would all sing "Rudoph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' and "Jingle Bells", before being let-off for a ten-day Christmas holiday, which was the best part of Christmas.
Once I left school, Christmas never had the same meaning for me. A lot of people host private parties on Christmas eve, which we used to unfailingly attend for a few years in junior and medical college; however these parties have nothing to do with Christmas, Christmas eve being just an excuse for a celebration, and for the last few years, we have not attended a single one of these. The only other time we were really caught up with Christmas celebrations was in 1994, when we were in London during Christmas. My cousin made it a point to take us out to Oxford Street to see the Christmas decorations and frontages put up by all the large stores. It was interesting to see people bustling around with large packages trying to get their last minute shopping done and to watch the varied Santa Clauses walking around - the roasted chestnut vendors on the pavements however were the best part.
I live pretty near my school, which has one of the best churches in the country; Christmas eve sees a large number of people congregating outside and inside the church for the midnight mass, following which there is a general racket with people bursting crackers, blowing whistles and yelling. As older kids, we used to hang around the school and church on Christmas eve just to check out all the Catholic girls; for many years until the mid to late 80s, the only women in India wearing skirts were Christians and Parsis....... when I was non-vegetarian, Christmas used to a good time to ask one of my receptionists and secretaries, who were usually Catholic, to get some extra turkey from home; now I am back to being vegetarian and it doesn't matter.
Today is Christmas day. My hospital does not even recognize it as a holiday, partly due to an agreement with the workers' union in which the number of yearly holidays has been brought down to 13; Christmas was one of the first casualties. Yet, at least 30% of my staff is Catholic, and they are on leave till the 2nd; which is fine considering that during Diwali and other Hindu holidays, they cover for the Hindus. However, there was hardly any work in the morning today and I got home by lunchtime to spend some time with my family. I also thought I would catch Xena, the Warrior Princess on television, but Xena was replaced by a rerun commemorating Andrew Lloyd Webber's 50th birthday. Jeez!
It is 11.20PM as I write this. I have to catch the 5.45AM flight to Ahmedabad, where I will spend the entire Sunday in a conference. An Indian Airlines flight was hijacked yesterday after it left Kathmandu and has now been taken to Khandahar in Afghanistan; the hijackers want the release of some Kashmiri militants who are in jail. India is losing badly against Australia in the cricket series. A cousin brother of mine after having learnt reiki and pranik healing has started calling himself a doctor and seems to have become so successful that he is planning to open franchises in different parts of the country; reiki apparently can be performed long-distance. My wife is in the last stretch of her pregnancy; she goes on complete bed-rest from next week till the 5th of February, after which she can even try bungee jumping, since the crucial eighth month will be past. My sister is staying over with us for a few days with her four-year old daughter and two-month old son - my nephew is a delight at this age, smiling at the slightest noise and trying to focus on whoever comes into his field of view.
The more things change, the more they remain the same.
A week from now, we will be in the year 2000. And life will continue just the way it always has; some good, some bad. Nothing much will have changed, though a whole bunch of people will have made pots and pots of money due to the Y2K scare. On second thoughts though........... I take the first part of the previous sentence back. Two thousand will be a watershed year for me, because if all goes well, I will be the father of twins sometime in February, and my life will have changed completely, forever. At 35, I feel that I am at least 7-10 years too old to have children. My only new-year wish therefore, is to be able to have enough energy for the twins, so that I can give them my all.
Merry Christmas!!
Two kinds of friends are invited this year: real friends and virtual friends. Real people and internet people. People I've met and laughed with and leaned on and shaken hands with and people I've never met but whose inner thoughts and ideas I know better -- in some cases, much better -- than my real-world, warm-blooded friends.
The tricky part, the part that's going to put the "why" in the party -- is trying to tell these two types of friends apart.
For example, there is an enormous sense of familiarity and dissonance when you meet someone whom you already know. At first, there is almost always a bit of discomfort as the real bodies clank and clatter into place in your mental picture. We don't need bodies in ether-space when we communicate; we only need knowledge of our language, the ability to type and express ourselves in a coherent way with a keyboard, and the desire to communicate.
In real life real bodies are so distracting. It will be my job to feed these numerous bodies who are going to be sitting on real chairs in my house at this party. I will be ironing real napkins, washing real glasses, cleaning the real bathroom, hopefully providing competent directions for the freeways, and of course, the real people must try to find an authentic, an actual parking space. In Venice on a Sunday: that's a real challenge. And all these items and tasks and many many more must be met before a single word of conversation can be spoken.
Plus, I have to present myself in a proper way so that people will like me. In real life, that means a shower and rollers and hair spray and fragrance and fluffy duds.
Online, it's just so much easier. And actually, much more real. If I'm online I have to arrange my website so that people can bear to look at it. I have to find images and typefaces and maybe design a layout that simulates the look and feel of my mind. It's a direct linkup, after all. In virtual life, I am a classic Courier type of person, with maybe the occasional handwriting script font thrown in for a flourish. I like pale colors, old newspaper images, and lots of casual people photos that I take with my digital camera.
So in effect, when you visit my site, you're visiting my mind. The same is true of my house, of course, but once again, we're entering the distracting world of the real: my real but primitive attempt at real estate. It's still an echo of my mind, but the link is not as direct. If I could visualize my home and make it so with a few simple keystrokes, my house would look quite a bit different. This is true for everyone, I suspect. That would explain the endless stream of verbiage you will often encounter whenever you visit someone's home: the long stories about their home improvement plans are really long stories about why what you see surrounding the person isn't actually and truly what or who that person really, really is.
The real world we live in is a world of endless compromise and maladjustment's. No wonder it's so hard to make friends -- it's hard for people to see other people for who they really are when there are so many layers of just plain stuff to work through. These are not my real clothes; I'd rather be wearing cashmere. This is not my father's Oldsmobile; I'd really rather be driving a Rover. I'm not really as old as I look, or as plain. What you see is not who I really am. I'm not really this tired or this frazzled.
But hello dear reader -- what you're reading right now -- now we're getting closer to the truth. These are the very same things I would tell you once we make reservations, find the right outfits, coordinate our schedules, hand the keys over to the valet, let the waiter clear the table, and generally tend to the myriad details of real life. Once a lot of procedure is gotten through, then and only then can we get down to talking. Really talking.
So, the party is going to be strange. There are going to be people I know very well for many long years and to whom I've practically nothing to say after I ask them if they'd like second helpings of the turkey and applesauce. There are people I don't know at all but whose voice I've heard in my head for many months now -- and as they take a second helping I'm going to know exactly what they're thinking, even as I try to get used to how they look as real, physical people.
The really great thing about such a party, by the way, is the fact that at the end of the evening, as I'm cleaning it all up and reflecting on it, I really won't be able to tell the real from the virtual friends. They will have mingled and blended and transformed right before my very eyes.
Merry
Christmas!