boarding school; he monitored the students who for one reason or another didn’t go home during vacation, so that the Christian employees could have time off for their celebrations. Kirin’s mother didn’t work, since her office was closed. She, Kirin, and his grandmother had their own traditions for the day.
Kirin both loved and hated Christmas Day. It was the one day his mother spent with him, actually talking to him, seeming to actually see him. But the focus of the entire day was Amir, of course. He had disappeared on Christmas morning, all those years ago.
So Kirin and his mother had gone downstairs to Nani’s apartment, a picture album tucked under his mother’s arm, just as they did every Christmas morning. Nani was waiting for them, trays of sweets spread out on every table—gulab jamun, gajar ka halwa, different kinds of ladoos, all of them so sugary and sticky they made Kirin’s teeth ache when he ate them. His grandmother’s shrines had been freshly decorated. The garlands of flowers he had helped her string now hung over Ganesh’s plump golden shoulders, and bananas, apples, and oranges were piled around the picture of the Child Krishna, a blue-skinned, deep-eyed boy with a peacock feather in his hair and pearls hanging from his ears.
“Merry Christmas, Maa.” His mother stepped over the chalk markings Nani had drawn on the floor as part of her worship. “Are you done with your puja?”
His grandmother’s hair was still damp from her devotions, and the air in her apartment smelled of incense and burning ghee. Sometimes, on the important Hindu days like Diwali and Kali Puja, Kirin and his mother celebrated puja with Nani, but he knew his mother did not consider Christmas to be a holy day, at least not in the sense that Nani did.
For Kirin’s mother, Christmas was the day when she remembered down to the tiniest detail her last moments with her first son.
She placed the photo album on Nani’s dining room table, between the candles and roses. “Shall we begin?”
Kirin and his grandmother glanced at each other as they took their seats. Kirin wasn’t certain what message Nani’s gaze held, but he knew she did not approve of his mother’s Christmas tradition, even though she always went along with it.
His mother carefully flipped open the album. As though she’s opening holy scripture , Kirin thought. She turned the pictures so that Kirin and Nani could see better, and then she leaned across the table, her eyes fixed on Kirin’s face. He felt the same flush of warmth he felt every Christmas: his mother was actually looking at him; she actually seemed to see him.
“That Christmas morning,” she said, using the same words she always did, “began with joy, Kirin. It was twenty-one years ago today. If your brother had lived, he would be twenty-three.”
She paused, as though the thought of her son as a grown man was difficult for her to comprehend. After all, Amir’s story never changed, so how could time affect Amir? In Mum’s mind, Amir would forever be two years old. She shook her head, as though dislodging the odd-shaped thought from her mind.
“In those days,” she continued, “we decorated the house with Christmas lights, and we put up a Christmas tree. We celebrated Diwali, and we celebrated the Muslim Eid-ul-Fitr too. In fact, we celebrated every chance we could get—Christian, Hindu, Muslim festivals. For us, they were all opportunities to rejoice that we were together. We were so happy . . .”
Her voice trailed away, and Kirin wondered if his mother ever once thought about how different his own reality was from the life his parents had lived before Amir’s death, if it ever occurred to her that he might care that they found no reason to rejoice now.
His grandmother curled her small brown fingers around his hand and squeezed. “You should still celebrate, Shashi, for Amir was given back to you. He is here with us now.”
Kirin’s mother didn’t even glance up from the
Kirin both loved and hated Christmas Day. It was the one day his mother spent with him, actually talking to him, seeming to actually see him. But the focus of the entire day was Amir, of course. He had disappeared on Christmas morning, all those years ago.
So Kirin and his mother had gone downstairs to Nani’s apartment, a picture album tucked under his mother’s arm, just as they did every Christmas morning. Nani was waiting for them, trays of sweets spread out on every table—gulab jamun, gajar ka halwa, different kinds of ladoos, all of them so sugary and sticky they made Kirin’s teeth ache when he ate them. His grandmother’s shrines had been freshly decorated. The garlands of flowers he had helped her string now hung over Ganesh’s plump golden shoulders, and bananas, apples, and oranges were piled around the picture of the Child Krishna, a blue-skinned, deep-eyed boy with a peacock feather in his hair and pearls hanging from his ears.
“Merry Christmas, Maa.” His mother stepped over the chalk markings Nani had drawn on the floor as part of her worship. “Are you done with your puja?”
His grandmother’s hair was still damp from her devotions, and the air in her apartment smelled of incense and burning ghee. Sometimes, on the important Hindu days like Diwali and Kali Puja, Kirin and his mother celebrated puja with Nani, but he knew his mother did not consider Christmas to be a holy day, at least not in the sense that Nani did.
For Kirin’s mother, Christmas was the day when she remembered down to the tiniest detail her last moments with her first son.
She placed the photo album on Nani’s dining room table, between the candles and roses. “Shall we begin?”
Kirin and his grandmother glanced at each other as they took their seats. Kirin wasn’t certain what message Nani’s gaze held, but he knew she did not approve of his mother’s Christmas tradition, even though she always went along with it.
His mother carefully flipped open the album. As though she’s opening holy scripture , Kirin thought. She turned the pictures so that Kirin and Nani could see better, and then she leaned across the table, her eyes fixed on Kirin’s face. He felt the same flush of warmth he felt every Christmas: his mother was actually looking at him; she actually seemed to see him.
“That Christmas morning,” she said, using the same words she always did, “began with joy, Kirin. It was twenty-one years ago today. If your brother had lived, he would be twenty-three.”
She paused, as though the thought of her son as a grown man was difficult for her to comprehend. After all, Amir’s story never changed, so how could time affect Amir? In Mum’s mind, Amir would forever be two years old. She shook her head, as though dislodging the odd-shaped thought from her mind.
“In those days,” she continued, “we decorated the house with Christmas lights, and we put up a Christmas tree. We celebrated Diwali, and we celebrated the Muslim Eid-ul-Fitr too. In fact, we celebrated every chance we could get—Christian, Hindu, Muslim festivals. For us, they were all opportunities to rejoice that we were together. We were so happy . . .”
Her voice trailed away, and Kirin wondered if his mother ever once thought about how different his own reality was from the life his parents had lived before Amir’s death, if it ever occurred to her that he might care that they found no reason to rejoice now.
His grandmother curled her small brown fingers around his hand and squeezed. “You should still celebrate, Shashi, for Amir was given back to you. He is here with us now.”
Kirin’s mother didn’t even glance up from the
Similar Books
