Tinsel and what stays

‘And now, here we are—the 28th of December, the last Sunday of the month, the last column of the year, and, as it turns out, the last column before I take a small sabbatical. Not a farewell, mind you. Just a gentle stepping away, a quiet retreat into the garden to gather my thoughts, perhaps plant a few ideas, let them grow.’

- RENÉE RANCHAN

Christmas has a way of tiptoeing into one's home long before the twenty-fifth actually arrives. A sprig of green here, a glimmer of red there, and suddenly the house feels as though it has exhaled. Delhi may not boast of snow-dusted rooftops or log cabins, tucked away behind whispering pines, but we do what we can—and quite cheerfully at that.

In our part of the world, we fashion our own winter wonderlands, sometimes with a little imagination, sometimes with entirely artificial fireplaces that hum faintly in the background. They don't crackle, they don’t spit embers, and they certainly don’t smell of oak or cedar, yet they cast a sort of mellow glow that—oddly enough—feels authentic in its own way. A contraption, pretending to be a fireplace, somehow, finds its place in the heart...

The pine-scented candles come out next, their aroma filling the room with that crisp, woodland freshness one associates with Scandinavian forests or an Alpine lodge. Never mind that the closest lookalike pine tree outside my window, is rather a tired-looking one, that sways halfheartedly, whenever the wind decides to show up. These things don’t matter. Christmas is half atmosphere, half imagination, and if one can pull together a bit of both, well—one is already halfway there.

This year, the 25th arrived with its usual flourish, and our table looked like a diplomatic summit between two culinary nations that have never quite agreed on anything. On one side, the traditional Christmas fare: roast chicken, beautifully bronzed, accompanied by mashed potatoes so creamy, they could have floated off the plate, a modest pool of gravy, and—naturally—cranberry sauce, defiantly ruby on white china. Next to it sat the pudding, that dense, rich, unapologetically heavy creature that makes no concessions and accepts no substitutes. You don’t negotiate with Christmas pudding; you simply respect it, and take your spoonful like a good citizen.