Early on Christmas morning, in the bracing cold, I decided to top up my walk with something more. I messaged Mudar to ask if he was awake, and then offered to take him out for breakfast wherever he liked. Prompt came the reply: what an offer to have to pass up, but I am on my way to Burrabazar to pick up Santa and go to this orphanage to bring good tidings of great joy to the children.
Undaunted, I headed vaguely in the direction of Park Street, and to wherever the spirit of the day would take me. Soon came a hurdle: the narrow Kolkata street was blocked by two garbage trucks facing in opposite directions, engines running but stationary, blocking both up and down carriageways with the two drivers merrily chatting with each other. Soon cars began to pile up and, realising that they couldn’t go on like this, one of the drivers stretched out his hand through the window and tried to pass a mobile phone to his friend.
But no, there was a few inches’ gap between the two stretched out hands. Then an exasperated cyclist negotiated his way through the minuscule space between the two trucks, stopped between the two outstretched hands and passed the phone from one to the other. Many of us drivers in the piled-up cars laughed (none of us had honked), the traffic eased and I realised the spirit of Christmas was upon us.
Then down broad Gariahat Road another little play soon unfolded. A massive buffalo lumbered along the spacious pavement, accompanied by two gwalas at their own easy pace, uncaring about whatever chores may be awaiting the three. Then, as is in their nature, a gaggle of street dogs collected, began to bark and tried to snap at the ankles of the buffalo. With much difficulty it picked up pace a little, the gwalas shooed away the dogs and the merry threesome resumed their amble.
It was fascinating how all went through the little act in an easy, half-hearted and non-serious manner. The dogs didn’t bark seriously. The body language of the buffalo said to them, go take on someone your own size. Even the keepers were not worried at all about their keep bolting. It was a little game they played for fun. They, too, were obviously affected by the spirit of Christmas, though I doubt whether they knew it.
Determined not to let my spirits down despite lack of company, I parked easily on deserted Middleton Row and headed for breakfast at Flurys. It was too early for the usual holiday line-up at the doorway for a breakfast table, and I sat down at one of those for two that must have been provided for hand-holding couples — or single 60-plus diners.
Inside, everyone knew it was Christmas. The air was comfortable and warm, filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread, cooked breakfast meats and slightly oversweet pastries. The music of timeless Christmas carols floated over all else. The lingua franca was English, in which diners and waiters communicated easily, giving and taking complicated orders. Promptly thereafter, the waiters switched to Bengali between themselves. Anglicised bilingual Bengal was hale and hearty.
None of the diners was in any way consciously dressed up. They were all in rumpled, comfortable woollens, obviously up a little earlier, teeth brushed and out in a hurry so as to beat the crowd at the gate. There was particularly this late middle-aged woman, obviously past her prime, neither enthusiastic nor depressed, engaged in sparse conversation with her woman companion. Obviously the last thing she would do was to dress up for breakfast.
It took them a little long to serve me my ham-and-cheese omelette. The croissant came a little earlier and as freshly-baked and fluffy as you can make them. The omelette did not disappoint and, as always, the freshly brewed coffee, preceded by its aroma, was just right. I firmly resolved that enough was enough and managed not to order a calorie-rich pastry. At the doorway, on the spur of the moment, I pushed a little tip into the hand of the slightly harassed doorman – something I never do – as he handled the long line of eager clients. A brief smile of surprise crossed his face and I knew that he was also in with the spirit of Christmas.
Out on the street, a group of urchins had somehow got hold of a bunch of Santa caps and was trying to hawk them to passers-by. An indulgent family which did not need the caps nevertheless chatted and haggled with them for some time and bought half a dozen. The children flashed million-dollar smiles and ran maybe to their parents on some nearby pavement to announce their successful treasure hunt. Seeing them run off the family’s smiles got broader. The spirit of Christmas had affected them too.
In Bangalore I have mostly spent the run-up to Christmas asking friends where one could go listen to good carol singing. And usually there has been a choice. In Kolkata I sensed the mood of an inclusive Christmas building up when I found the basic jhuggi grocery shop before our apartment block putting out modestly priced Christmas cakes by Monginis. As the mood took hold of me, I wanted to do something on the day itself. When I set out for my morning walk I did not realise that in the first two hours itself my day would be made.
