DECEMBER'S STORIES

I’m seated on the sandy shores with one of my favorite uncles. “Uncle Chandima “whom I use to call him. He was one of my aunt’s trusted associates, who was engaged in the delivery service at the Tangalle Post Office. Many evenings were spent soaking in the winter sun with Uncle Chandima. The skies turned crimson red with bright orange layers .The cries of the vendors along the beach, the merry songs and the children stories  are been heard and told. The December holidays are the perfect of all memories. The Tangalle beach was the most cherished of all Christmas holidays. I should have been seven or eight years then. If I’m not mistaken by my math. I used to spend the year ending holidays at my Lokuamma’s in Tangalle. She didn't have children to enthrall that time.  She still recalls the moments She entertained listening to my childhood adventures, long descriptions and all naughty I did. I was a classic fragment of her lonesomeness.

I liked the Christmas Eve. I loved watching people getting ready for the Christmas Day with decorations, glitter and huge dinner tables. What I liked most is the night time, the time I use to sit at the doorstep looking for brighter stars while Lokuamma discloses Santa’s tales, trying to feed me the night’s meal. I remember she often emphasized on “being good” and that good kids will receive gifts from Santa. And now I know that “Being good “was a phrase nothing more than an attempt made by her to make me eat all the dinner or may be to stop me being impish. Inspired by many a Christmas tales, I wasn’t at an age to be too skeptic about Santa’s gifts. I too wrote letters to Santa asking for toys and other fancy stuff I liked. I stayed up in bed pretending to be sleeping, just to see Santa giving me gifts. The next morning I would see a toy teddy bear and a story book under my pillow. Aye, Santa is real! , I thought.

We grow day by day. We learn as we grow. We see things different as we mature. Eventually I realized that all those Christmas gifts were given to me by my parents and not the Santa. Santa is a fabricated icon. A symbol of lavishness and happiness.

We all are Santas in different ways. We all are capable to aid and share. In least we can put up a smile of those who are worried in life, because there is no better exercise to heart than reaching down and lifting up people. Unfortunately Capitalism is ruling world like for every single capillary that makes up arteries and veins in a body. Money is everything. Religions are been commercialized. Even giving has become more of a return on investment out of its true virtue.

In the long run, human relationships are too being prepared for sale. Human relationships are an effort of trust and understanding. It is sure – footed and something confident.  Nobody can ask for it or buy it; instead one should treasure it with solid exercise. It is ridiculous to see someone pleading Santa in this way, which I came across in the news feed of my Facebook account a little while ago.

Santa, Can you hear me? 

I have been so ‪good this Year 

And all I want is ‪‎One thing

Tell me My ‪True Love is Near 

He's all I want,

just for Me Underneath ‪My ‎Christmas ‪‎Tree

I'll be Waiting here ..  

‪‎Santa !

That's My Only ‪‎Wish This Year!  

So at the end of the day Santa is a match maker too!

Can human folly harbor a more ungrateful thought than the notion that whereas God makes man beautiful in body, man makes himself pure in heart?