Christmas city

For me, and many like me scattered all over the world, Christmas will always be spelt Calcutta. The Calcutta I knew and loved embodied the spirit of the Yuletide season which, like the mellow December sunlight, seemed to seep into the houses and streets so that the city appeared to glow with a borrowed radiance. From the mazy lanes behind Ripon Street and Elliot Road rose an aroma of cakes, each made to an Anglo-Indian recipe as prized as a family heirloom, given to be baked by Muslim bakeries, and to be eaten as an ecumenical prasad by Christians, Hindus, and atheist Marxists alike. As dusk fell, Park Street would become a blaze of lights as though, lured by the festive air, the stars had come down from the skies. In the centre of the New Market an enchanted forest of glittering green and gold trees, adorned with cotton-wool snow, would spring up overnight, conjured by a benign sorcerer in passing. It was a time of homecoming, of old acquaintance never forgotten, as hundreds of friends and relatives from Montreal and Melbourne, London and Los Angeles, would return to visit the city of their long ago and far away childhood. It was a time of remembrance, of names and faces retrieved from the attic of memory. Do you remember Ronen? And what happened to Patsy? And who was it who used to sing in El Morocco? Was it Shirley Myers? It was a time of song and celebration. Voices outside our door woke us from sleep. It was past midnight. “Could be burglars,” said Bunny. “Do burglars sing Silent Night, Holy Night before breaking into houses?” I asked. I opened the door. It wasn’t burglars. It was our friend, Shanu, leading a band of carol singers. We welcomed them in. A cake was brought out, a bottle of rum produced, more carols sung. It was one of the nicest Christmas parties we’ve had and the best part was that we didn’t go to it, it came to us. As does Calcutta, over 30 years after we left it, come to us as an unbidden but welcome guest, city of Christmas, then, now, and always.