around the fireplace

…and all through the house, not a creature is stirring, not even Alfie, the school hamster, on his annual visit to us over the Christmas holidays. It is very still and very quiet; the only sound is that of the tapping of the keys on my keyboard, and an occasional grunt from the central heating. Outside my window, the streetlamp shines yellow through the thickening fog. There is not a soul in sight, not a man, not a woman, not a child. Not even a cat, not even a fox, not even a bat. Perhaps, if I stay very quiet, I’ll hear the bells on Santa’s reindeer - the thought comes unbidden to my mind, and I have to stop myself from peering hopefully up into the sky.

I don’t celebrate Christmas any more, not since I grew up, not since I moved to London. I do not like the cold and the damp dark of winter, the sunless days, the foggy nights. The frenetic activity that accompanies the ‘silly season’ wears me out, and all I want to do is snuggle into a burrow of blankets and hibernate the winter away, till sun and warmth return once more.

So, why am I checking the sky for Santa, I ask myself?

Because my children do, even though they’re ‘all growed up’? Because I love the sound of sleigh bells? Because I like the idea of an old man in a red suit and white beard flying through the night, with a sackful of toys for the world’s children? Or because I’ve always waited for Santa, ever since I was a child myself, and some things do not change?

Christmas for me was not always so dull. I grew up in Calcutta, a city that celebrates all festivals with great enthusiasm and good cheer. Christmas, I remember, was no exception. The city would break out into a glad frenzy of music and dance and theatre, of late nights and good food, and chocolates and cakes and presents wrapped in pretty red paper. The central circle in New Market would be full of fake Christmas trees of all sizes, covered with tinsel and cottonwool snow. Tiny cottonwool Santas with long beards and floppy red hats would be on sale, to be bought individually or by the box.

The Midnight Mass in St Paul’s Cathedral, or even in my school chapel, would be thronged not only by members of the Christian community, but by Calcuttans belonging to all religious communities. We’d wish each other ‘Merry Christmas’ with the same joy that we wished each other ‘Shubho Bijoya’ or ‘Id Mubarak.’

The last time I spent Christmas in Calcutta was twenty years ago. I don’t know if those fake trees and cottonwool Santas are still being sold in New Market, and whether Park Street is still lit up the way it used to be when I was small. I hear though, that the Calcutta spirit is still alive, and that Calcuttans of all shapes, sizes and religious hues still wish each other ‘Merry Christmas’ with the same glad happiness of my childhood. In a world that is becoming more and more divided by religion every day, it is reassuring to know that the spirit of secularism has not died out entirely.

I know that there is no Santa, no reindeers flying through a starlit sky, and that if I look out of my window again, I will see only swirling fog. But I do know that good wishes there are in plenty - for peace on earth and good will to all.

So - Merry Christmas, everyone!

London, where I live, and Mumbai,  where I used to live. Two fascinating cities that seem very different, but, surprisingly, are more alike than not.

Even today, after years of familiarity with Mumbai, I look forward to every visit there with a tingle of excitement and expectation. As my plane circles in the sky waiting for a landing space at the crowded Santa Cruz airport, Mumbai appears below me, spread out like a map in 3D. The Arabian Sea, grey and calm, laps gently against the city’s southern edge outlining it in silver and rust. The skyscrapers rise high into the sky from streets so very familiar to me. It’s not dawn yet, and the streets must still be relatively empty: from this high up in the air I cannot tell. In my mind’s eye I imagine the traffic building up, and see the whirling, twirling, colourful, noisy, smelly mass of humanity that makes up the city. My plane is given clearance to land, and as it comes in, the slums and shanty towns of Santa Cruz rush up to meet me, their tin roofs patched with blue plastic, and glinting in the rising sun.

I pick up my baggage and hurry out of the busy, crowded terminal. Noise engulfs me, so I cannot hear myself think: unintelligible announcements over the public address system, shrieking, blaring traffic, and running through and over it, the loud, impassioned chatter of my countrymen. I am glad to see the  familiar face of the friend who has come to receive me. She takes charge, and steers me firmly through the chaos. I climb gratefully into the relatively quiet haven of her car. ‘What a noisy bunch of people we Indians are!’ I think.

London, even at its noisiest, cannot hope to compete with the deafening clamour of Mumbai. London is contained, quiet and polite. The traffic, though heavy, is mostly silent: a sounding horn is something that turns heads. People speak in quiet voices, and loud conversations are met with disapproving glances and uncomfortable shufflings by those around you. Even dogs don’t seem to bark here, or when they do, they are shushed quickly and firmly.

London, despite its sprawl and size, usually does not give the impression of being a  big city,  made up as it is of many self-contained little towns, some larger than others, all stitched together in an orderly patchwork of terraced houses, narrow streets, green back gardens and paved patios.

Despite these apparent differences, both London and Mumbai are mega-cities, with a heterogeneous, culturally-mixed population and a rich and vibrant intellectual and cultural life; both are centres of business and finance, London doing at a global level what Mumbai does at the India level; and both offer its citizens anonymity, affluence, convenience, comfort,  and the freedom to live life in the manner they wish to.

There are other similarities too:

Each city has its own distinctive ‘language’, Cockney, the working-class speech of East London, and the ‘Mumbaiyya Hindi’ of Mumbai, dialects that are vigorous, vibrant, irreverent - and defining.

Both cities are often written off as ‘unfriendly’ by first-time visitors, who vilify  Londoners and Mumbaikars alike for their hurrying pace and lack of smiles, though both groups are essentially friendly, helpful people - if only they had the time!

Both cities have great wealth, and poverty too. In Mumbai, the homeless carpet the pavements at night; in London, the poor are less abjectly poor, but there are still too many of them - under the tunnels of Waterloo Station, in parks and parking lots…Beggars harass you on the crowded trains of Mumbai, and they harass you on the less crowded trains of London. There is a difference in the degree of poverty, yes, but ultimately poverty anywhere, in any degree, is cruel, ugly and a reminder that we as a species still have a long way to go.

Of these two cities, and of some of the people who live and work here, more in my next post.