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Memories at Christmas

taliajkynadi

In my dreamlike state of consciousness, I remember being gently awoken by the wafting fragrance of my grandma’s hot chocolate. That rich, creamy, almost caramelised scent of the milk was so distinct and the delicate thin film layer that formed on top always reminded me of how fresh the milk was, fresh from the cows lazing just outside our house. Grasping the mug, the warmth instantly radiates into my skin, and even the tiniest sip transports me back to the many Christmases gone by, being awoken by this rich, coco mixture of love.

Our awkwardly bent Christmas tree, illuminated with twinkling fairy lights, casts a warm, golden glow on the mini pond inside our home. I spent my evenings swaying on a rocking chair beside the pond, change th



is(adoring the homely but beautiful ornaments, and observing the few new ones that were added every year, coordinating with the standard red and gold colour scheme). The presents, wrapped beautifully in matching wrapping paper, seemed to overflow from under the tree, visibly more every year as our family grew. I anxiously waited for Christmas Eve- the time we would open these gifts, and transform our house into a sea of wrapping paper. I loved the open layout of our home - it allowed me to feel so connected with the rest of my family. Even from the rocking chair, I could hear all the chatter, see my mum, the artist that she is, arranging the charcuterie board, and smell the delicious food my uncle was cooking up in the kitchen.


Our Christmas mornings always started with a classic South Indian breakfast -my family’s favourite - poori. Poori is a deep-fried Indian bread typically eaten with a potato curry. The excitement of seeing these piping hot golden-brown puffs being served in front of us, poking our fingers in them too soon and being burnt by the hot steam encased inside, and competing to see who could eat the most, made it the meal I most looked forward to sharing with my family. And at the heart of this energy surrounding each of our meals, was my grandma. Without fail, for every meal we spent at her house, especially on Christmas, she insisted that all 13 of us were sitting down at the dining table, ready to say a prayer before eating. Even if it meant using the plant sprayer to wake a dozing family member up, which I know from experience is MUCH better to get out of bed on her first call. My grandma truly believes that food is the integral fabric that binds us together- it is definitely her love language. Even when my cousins and I were little, and extremely picky eaters, she would always include us in the family meals. Each one of us, riding on little bikes or toy cars inside the house, would go around the pond and come back to the dining table to ‘refuel’ as we called it, being hand-fed a bite of the mix she created for us, each mouthful catered to our specific preferences. For example, for my sister she would mix her vegetables in yoghurt, covering the taste of them, and for me she would pick out all the bones in the chicken because I wouldn’t eat chicken otherwise. As I reflect now, I realise that the mixes she so thoughtfully created for each of us, and every mouthful she hand-fed us, was a tender expression of her endless love.


Christmas in India meant lots of things to me: falling asleep while listening to the pouring rain outside, performing dance routines with my cousins that my older sister would choreograph, and eating my grandma’s famous custard pudding every night- but being with my family, that meant the most of all. Despite how much we’ve grown, how far away we were, or how busy our lives got, I felt like time stopped when we all came together, to Paika, this tiny village in India, at Christmas. Those chaotic, intense two weeks of sleeping in a house way too small to fit all of us, were the best part of my year, a capsule of time I wouldn’t change for the world. I hope for all the years and generations to come, that this tradition would continue and live on with my grandma’s love still beating at the centre.

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