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Journalism of Courage
By: Darlie Koshy
The year: 1962. The place: A forlorn village with paddy fields, jackfruit trees and tapioca plants in Kerala. During Advent, the days preceding Christmas, we would avoid milk products and meats at home — I still remember the smell of black coffee and fresh banana chips. At night, it would be pitch dark for there were no street lights, but the midnight Mass procession would be bright and cheery with long-tailed, bamboo-framed, star-shaped lanterns carried by moustachioed youngsters, their dhotis and lungis folded at midriff. The carols were rehearsed in the tiny church foyer, with only drum beats as the background score. Children like me (I was about seven years old then) would form the inner circle around the long bamboo pole on which the biggest star-lantern hung. The tune of the farewell song still plays in my ears, but I can’t remember the words anymore.
On Christmas day, my grandmother would make vattayappam (steamed rice cakes) — a dish usually made on Maundy Thursday, falling before Easter — and top it with raisins. Dressed in her mundu, which was draped in such a way that she had hidden pockets in its folds, she would pull out boiled plantains. As she would bend down to serve us goodies, I would often wonder, in that moment, if her big, heavy gold loops would split her earlobe and fall on the table. I once hid a piece or two of my favourite jaggery halwa under my pillow to eat it next morning too, but woke up amidst the guffaws of other children, as the ants had let out my secret.
The years: 1985-1996. The place: The riverside house of my wife in Kumarakom. The huge, real Christmas tree was lit up with serial lights, even as children danced to the tunes of Jingle bells being played on the tape recorder and lit candles atop turtles (animal lovers pardon!) that strayed from the nearby river.
My mother-in-law would make meen moilee (fish curry) using fresh karimeen (pearl spot fish) and curry leaves, and serve it with appam. Her duck curry has, till date, remained an unparalleled speciality. I also loved boiled duck eggs that went well with appam and coffee.
The years: 2000-2008. The place: The beautiful campus of the National Institute of Design (NID) on the banks of the Sabarmati river in Ahmedabad. Branches of the huge casuarina tree and the finely cut bushes were lit up and decorated, and the carol troupe belted out perfectly-rehearsed English and Hindi songs.
Christmas at NID was a very different and a month-long elaborate affair. Since convocation happened in December, there were several dinners and celebrations. Coffee and cakes were served on the lawns, and students had special Gujarati food served in the hostel.
The present: our home on the 14th floor of a Gurgaon apartment building. Now, dinner on Christmas eve is usually a family outing. Overall, we keep Christmas meals simple, finding comfort in biryanis and curries. The plum cakes are, of course, always there. Earlier, we used to get them from a bakery in Hauz Khas — my wife would stand for hours instructing them, but now we get it from our church.
Setting up the modular Christmas tree in the drawing room is always a well-enjoyed tradition. But there’s something special here. Ever since we moved to this house five years ago, we’ve hung four stars in our balcony, one for each member of our nuclear family. Long-tailed, the red, electric blue, yellow and silver stars stand out clear and bright every year. They always guide the carol singers to our place,who come from Hauz Khas, usually packed in a St Paul’s school bus. This year, my daughter-in-law would be joining the family, and we’ll have a fifth star, a white one. Five stars to guide them home and spread the yuletide cheer.
Darlie Koshy is former director, NID, Ahmedabad, and current director general of Institute of Apparel Management (IAM) and Apparel Training & Design Centre (ATDC), Gurgaon.
