‘HO HO HO’ AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR! CELEBRATE AND REFLECT BLOG HOP

 

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It struck me today, as I sat down to write this post, that I have done my entire schooling, from Nursery to Class 12 in convent schools. Army kids either study in KVs and Army schools, or convents. Maybe that is where I first met the chubby gentleman in red with a snowy beard and twinkling eyes. The portly character who shares the limelight with baby Jesus – Santa Claus or Saint Nicholas.

Memories of Christmas are enshrined in my heart, originating from Enid Blyton’s Christmas Tales, One-A-Day Christmas Stories and the like. I delved into The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding by Agatha Christie as Hercule Poirot put in his thumb and pulled out a plum of a mystery. A favourite novella is A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens where Ebenezer Scrooge learnt the meaning of ‘giving’ after the visitation of three ghosts.

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We looked forward to going to school, clad in our Sunday best for the Christmas celebration. A no-bag day, we would admire one another’s outfits, rushing to the tuck shop before the pantomime began - the age-old story of how Baby Jesus was born in a manger after his parents, Joseph and Mary, were turned away from the inn. The shepherds with their staffs and the three kings bearing gifts would drift onto the stage, waxing eloquent about the bright blue shining star that led them hither. The choir would sing with fervour – the soulful Silent Night, Mary’s Boy Child, O Come All Ye Faithful, ending with the boisterous Jingle Bells. What wonderful days those were!

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Later when I was in college in Thrissur, Kerala, my mother, a renowned educationist, started an English medium school. After my father’s untimely demise, she felt that her three daughters needed friends to adjust to a new place. Hence, she started a Youth Club for young girls and boys. Being an aficionado of the English language, she opened English Conversation classes at a nominal rate. It was amazing to see the hordes of youngsters who flocked to these classes, and the enthusiasm with which they took in the useful tips that Mom doled out to them.

One December, she decided the whole lot would go carol singing. In those days, it was unheard of for boys and girls to move around together, especially late in the evenings, but the parents those days had complete faith in Mom. Christmas Eve found us all dressed up in costumes, all in fine fettle, voice, and confidence, as we made our way to different Christian households, which were decked up with lights. Gaping at the resplendent gift-laden Christmas trees, we would, at the first strum of the guitar, sing the carols we knew with immense gusto. The people in the houses, mostly friends, would sing along, applauding for all they were worth. Finally, we would be offered delicious cake, sandwiches and cutlets, the taste of which still lingers in my mouth.

One incident stands out in my memory. One year, we were to sing ‘We Three Kings of Orient Are’. Unfortunately, one of the ‘kings’ fell ill and was unable to make it. We had an adorable ‘young’ uncle, an eighty-year-old, an avid admirer of Mom’s drive and determination. He offered to play the role of the king. After hunting around desperately for a costume, he was sporting enough to wear a parrot-green outfit that belonged to Mom, along with a gold crown that fit snugly over his bald pate. To cut a long story short, the ‘young’ king stole the show.

Once Christmas was over, it was time to usher in the New Year. The ten days of Christmas vacation turned our home topsy-turvy. My sisters and I would rush to the stationery shop, buy card paper, coloured pens, glue, glitter and sequins. Back home, we would sit and make New Year cards in bulk, to be sent to friends and family. The first day in school would find us handing over our cards to our teachers and our best friends.

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Those were the days when the postman was the most awaited person at home. Every day, he would pedal his way to our gate, ringing his shrill bell, as one of us would trundle out to take our postal treasures from him. Every day would find a collection of Christmas and New Year cards, each more sparkling than the last. We would pore over them, and finally line them up like little toy soldiers on the mantelpiece. There would be glorious messages bidding adieu to the old year, and welcoming in the new.

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As teenagers, there were a few romantic missives that we blushed over, little declarations of love and romance, replete with red hearts and balloons, innocent notes that had nothing graphic or risqué about them. These were akin to leaves – green and fresh when they first arrived, but withering away as the infatuation died a normal death as well. It was all very sweet, and natural.

As a teacher, and an Army wife at that, I remember my husband grumbling about one heavy trunk that we carried around on every posting. It was filled with greeting cards and letters from my students on every occasion – Teachers’ Day, Diwali, Holi – and farewell messages. Some were exquisite, others a trifle clumsily depicted, but they were all equally heartwarming, the affection palpable.

That trend has died an untimely death. There is so much we blame the virus for – two years of isolation in ivory towers, hidden behind masks. We shove so many of our present problems under the COVID-19 carpet, hoping that they will go away somehow. However, problems are a part of life. Solving them is an art.

Two years of isolation changed the personalities of many. As an educator, the biggest change I found was in the social make up of children. Many went into a shell, unable to conform to being with others, a trend which plagued them when they got back to school. Their communicative skills also weakened, impacting their reading and writing skills. It was a period of intense emotional and physical decline. This continues to have an effect on the communicative skills of children to this day.

The New Gen expresses feelings through messages that get deleted within twenty-four hours, or are a copy of a million others plastered all over the Internet. Many find it impossible to write essays and passages instinctively without errors. AI has sprung into action, apparently making lives easier, by dictating apparently ‘perfect’ content that looks genuine. Where does that leave creativity, I wonder? That creativity which was defined so beautifully by Mary Lou Cook, American author and chef.  

“Creativity is inventing, experimenting, growing, taking risks, breaking rules, making mistakes and having fun.”

Quote Fancy

We have succumbed to digital greetings, which have taken away the joy of receiving a physical card, or a proper handwritten letter.

Email is not the same as snail mail, sadly!

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This post is a part of 'Celebrate and Reflect Blog HOP' hosted by Sukaina Majeed and Manali Desai  - #EveryConversationMatters

 

Learning and Creativity