There was no white Christmas this year. Rather, the weather was dry, grey, and insufferably banal, and the usual surge of cheer that lit the streets had been slightly dampened. People sent e-gift cards instead of buying lumpy sweaters, and ate apples instead of truffles (well, I ate both.)
My family, however, spent one of warmest and most colorful Christmases, the kind that Jesus himself probably intended (no e-gift cards).
A few weeks before the holiday, my home had already been littered with red and silver cellophane, gold ribbon, boxes of Godiva, and empty bottles of Japanese plum wine. We neglected to go to the gym for the sake of "holiday chores" and by the time Friday, the 23rd, rolled around, I could barely fit into my pink snuggie.
Still, we were excited to spend time together, to love each other, to enjoy some time without the vagaries of our work. I came home early the day Manu and I were going to assemble and decorate our tree. We're raging Eco lovers who have come to enjoy the tradition of building the same tree every year, saving the whales one Christmas at a time. This year, Manu took issue with the whole procedure. She wanted to go to the mall instead. I looked longingly at the wine and chocolates that would have accompanied the assembly line (a new aspect of the tradition I included this year).
I swallowed. "Yes, let's go." We never got a chance to put up or tree, so we put all of our gifts beneath another fauna.
We had intended to wrap lights around our potted plant, but forgot to do that, too.
That evening, I wrapped my mother's gifts, a chore I find quite pleasurable, and after several hours of talking about nothing whilst curling ribbon, we finally went off to bed. It was a bit difficult to get up for work the next morning, but since our new way of functioning was indulging in confectionery and cocoa, somehow we managed to get through the day.
My aunt and uncle had flown in from Alabama, and so my cousin's family and mine enjoyed Saturday morning, Christmas Eve, doing nothing but eating fruits and chocolate and fried Gujarati foods that we judge other people for eating. (I most likely will have type 2 by Wednesday).
While my aunt and mother divulged their 2011 regrets and their 2012 goals and their innermost secrets and their deluded love affairs with Bollywood actors, my cousin, my sister and I filmed ourselves and posted videos on YouTube and Facebook. We learned three things through our endeavors: rapping is difficult, the pain from stubbing your toe is difficult to conceal, and the three of us will probably be famous by Thursday, the day after the effects of our gluttonous consumption will kick in.
My parents had gotten me a snow globe.
We then drove for many moons so we could test the malleability of our seemingly pregnant stomachs, which within three days were carrying approximately 9 months of food. We ate (devoured, ravaged) South Indian food at a restaurant where seating was first come, first serve; naturally, the survival-of-the-fittest Indian roots surfaced, and my parents and aunt and uncle circled the full tables like hawks, eyeing the contented patrons with glares.
Yes, how dare they chew their food before they swallow. Chop, chop, unassuming diners, it's time to go.
We finally saw some people take a pause for breath, and in the hiatus that followed, they were suddenly surrounded. My family did not even wait for the waiters to clear out the tables before sitting.
After our glorious meal, we rested our hands on our protruding stomachs and walked over to the real Christmas spectacular: Don 2, Shah Rukh Khan's newest film.
I almost peed in my pants with excitement (and from washing down spicy sambhar with 4-5 glasses of water).
The movie was brilliant, as expected. All we needed to end the weekend was the drive into sparkly midtown Manhattan, where we all argued about the expression of the lights (were they tear drops or melting icicles?), shared bags of roasted peanuts for which my generous aunt overpaid the nutsman, and the youth issued declarations about the commercial banality of midtown and while the elders of the pack mused about their next snack. Once my mother reminisced drinking tea in silent, suburban Ridgewood, where we could also fill up our almost empty tank, we drove back up north.
Back at home, we loudly claimed a lack of hunger, and then continued to eat popcorn with chaat masala, peanuts, grapefruit, ice cream, blueberries, more Gujarati specialties dear to our clogged hearts, and Godiva truffles whose caloric count is nonexistent on December 25.
We ended the evening by Facetiming (if Google is a verb, why not Facetime?) our grandparents in India, who were too fascinated with my cousin's new abominable snow man look (read: strategically grown beard), to realize that we were all present, connecting to each other through a small machine thinner than my diary, each of us thousands of miles apart, and still within three inches of each other, grasping for the other's face, unable to touch.
The next day, everyone dispersed, and all we had left of the weekend was a few dozen boxes of chocolate, my pink snuggie still sprawled on the couch, and a few music videos we had created to change the world.
No, Manu didn't steal Christmas. She actually brought it to life.
And we get to keep our potted plant all year round.
My family, however, spent one of warmest and most colorful Christmases, the kind that Jesus himself probably intended (no e-gift cards).
A few weeks before the holiday, my home had already been littered with red and silver cellophane, gold ribbon, boxes of Godiva, and empty bottles of Japanese plum wine. We neglected to go to the gym for the sake of "holiday chores" and by the time Friday, the 23rd, rolled around, I could barely fit into my pink snuggie.
Still, we were excited to spend time together, to love each other, to enjoy some time without the vagaries of our work. I came home early the day Manu and I were going to assemble and decorate our tree. We're raging Eco lovers who have come to enjoy the tradition of building the same tree every year, saving the whales one Christmas at a time. This year, Manu took issue with the whole procedure. She wanted to go to the mall instead. I looked longingly at the wine and chocolates that would have accompanied the assembly line (a new aspect of the tradition I included this year).
I swallowed. "Yes, let's go." We never got a chance to put up or tree, so we put all of our gifts beneath another fauna.
That evening, I wrapped my mother's gifts, a chore I find quite pleasurable, and after several hours of talking about nothing whilst curling ribbon, we finally went off to bed. It was a bit difficult to get up for work the next morning, but since our new way of functioning was indulging in confectionery and cocoa, somehow we managed to get through the day.
My aunt and uncle had flown in from Alabama, and so my cousin's family and mine enjoyed Saturday morning, Christmas Eve, doing nothing but eating fruits and chocolate and fried Gujarati foods that we judge other people for eating. (I most likely will have type 2 by Wednesday).
While my aunt and mother divulged their 2011 regrets and their 2012 goals and their innermost secrets and their deluded love affairs with Bollywood actors, my cousin, my sister and I filmed ourselves and posted videos on YouTube and Facebook. We learned three things through our endeavors: rapping is difficult, the pain from stubbing your toe is difficult to conceal, and the three of us will probably be famous by Thursday, the day after the effects of our gluttonous consumption will kick in.
(this video doesn't show on all web interfaces, so if you want to see it, shoot me an email!)
We opened presents on Christmas morning, after another round of goals and feedback on these goals (read: unsolicited adult advice on life and that funny thing they keep mentioning, "future.").My parents had gotten me a snow globe.
We then drove for many moons so we could test the malleability of our seemingly pregnant stomachs, which within three days were carrying approximately 9 months of food. We ate (devoured, ravaged) South Indian food at a restaurant where seating was first come, first serve; naturally, the survival-of-the-fittest Indian roots surfaced, and my parents and aunt and uncle circled the full tables like hawks, eyeing the contented patrons with glares.
Yes, how dare they chew their food before they swallow. Chop, chop, unassuming diners, it's time to go.
We finally saw some people take a pause for breath, and in the hiatus that followed, they were suddenly surrounded. My family did not even wait for the waiters to clear out the tables before sitting.
After our glorious meal, we rested our hands on our protruding stomachs and walked over to the real Christmas spectacular: Don 2, Shah Rukh Khan's newest film.
I almost peed in my pants with excitement (and from washing down spicy sambhar with 4-5 glasses of water).
The movie was brilliant, as expected. All we needed to end the weekend was the drive into sparkly midtown Manhattan, where we all argued about the expression of the lights (were they tear drops or melting icicles?), shared bags of roasted peanuts for which my generous aunt overpaid the nutsman, and the youth issued declarations about the commercial banality of midtown and while the elders of the pack mused about their next snack. Once my mother reminisced drinking tea in silent, suburban Ridgewood, where we could also fill up our almost empty tank, we drove back up north.
Back at home, we loudly claimed a lack of hunger, and then continued to eat popcorn with chaat masala, peanuts, grapefruit, ice cream, blueberries, more Gujarati specialties dear to our clogged hearts, and Godiva truffles whose caloric count is nonexistent on December 25.
We ended the evening by Facetiming (if Google is a verb, why not Facetime?) our grandparents in India, who were too fascinated with my cousin's new abominable snow man look (read: strategically grown beard), to realize that we were all present, connecting to each other through a small machine thinner than my diary, each of us thousands of miles apart, and still within three inches of each other, grasping for the other's face, unable to touch.
The next day, everyone dispersed, and all we had left of the weekend was a few dozen boxes of chocolate, my pink snuggie still sprawled on the couch, and a few music videos we had created to change the world.
No, Manu didn't steal Christmas. She actually brought it to life.
And we get to keep our potted plant all year round.
Being Electronically challenged I always felt comfort in talking and hugging to people.
ReplyDeleteHowever, reading Rucha's blog, I actually felt warmth!
We actually felt that "Maaan does matter!"
May your all dreams come true!