CHRISTMAS NOSTALGIA

Memories of childhood days inundated me thoughts like a flood-

Of days when I eagerly awaited

When year-end exams will be over;
When me and my friends will go down to the paddy fields

To play with the smell of recently harvested and thrashed paddy 

Still fresh in the air and the rats having a field day- 

Storing and stuffing themselves full with the grains dropped by the farmers;
Of playing in the sands by the river bank- 

Building sand castles, digging trenches in the soft sand and playing war games;
Of searching for turtle eggs among the river banks;

Of jumping now and then in into the ice-cold water to wash off the sand and mud;
Of going to the nearby jungles to collect the best coal-black clay for sling shot pellets;
Of the baths and the vigorous rub-downs my mum gave me

Hurting like the pricking of a thousand needles but never dissuading me from doing it again;
Of lighting kerosene lamps and going to the river to spear fish in the night;
Of herding and taking care of the cattle for the grand Christmas feast;
Of going to the forest with friends to collect firewood for the Christmas hall bonfire;
Of the Christmas carols along the narrow village roads 

Singing with friends at the top of our voices never minding the biting cold;
Of constructing the Christmas hall with straws, bamboos and elephant grass;
Of the excitement and eagerness to go to Church on Christmas day 

Itching to put on the new shiny dresses- lovingly bought and presented me by my mother;
Of the rumbling in our stomachs towards the afternoon

When the aroma of the feast being prepared outside mercilessly assailed our nostrils;
Of furtively putting aside some meat and rice in plantain leaves and 

Hiding them away to be enjoyed later in the night;
Of sneaking out of the Christmas hall

And tormenting the girls sitting nearest by the wall with sticks through the loose straw walls;
Of volunteering to boil the tea to be served in the Christmas hall- 

Surely not out of altruism or the sermons 

But rather because of all the milk and sugar that can be at our disposal 

To separately and secretly make our ‘Special Tea’ served in bamboo cups;
Of the pulsating and intoxicating beat of the drum and buffalo horn inside the Christmas hall…
And many more came in a flood of reministic nostalgia;
Memories now but never losing their saccharined flavour.

Immanuel Zarzosang Varte
Imphal, 22nd December 2013