JD communalism
combat 24 December 2015
A Christmas story,
in a Sal forest
John Dayal
Let me tell you a
Christmas story about a little baby boy. In fact two little boys.
They were born in a
forest, watched perhaps from the shadows by birds and animals, and this virgin Sal forest in the
hills of Kandhamal in central Orissa has everything from deer and foxes to
tigers and all the way up to elephants. Could be a scene straight out of a cinema
reinterpretation of the Nativity in the Gospels of the New Testament.
The four Gospels of
Mathew, mark, Luke and John document the life and times of Emmanuel, God with
us, but more universally known as Jesus the Christ. Jesus, as every child has
been told, was born in a Manger, the wooden or earthen tub in which fodder is
kept for cows in the shed, or gowshala, in the town of Bethlehem where his
parents had to stop suddenly because of Mother’s labour pains. Mary and her betrothed
Joseph were on their way to Jerusalem, their ancestral town, to register
themselves in a government census ordered by Cesar, the Emperor of what was
then known of Western civilisation. But for these orders, Jesus could well have
been born in the gown of Nazareth, some distance away, where Joseph worked as a
skilled carpenter.
Circumstances
ordered by government and nature has made Bethlehem famous in history. Jesus
was born there one winter, fixed rather arbitrarily by later kings and their
astronomers as the night of 24th December of the Gregorian calendar.
All very complicated. There are no reindeers in Bethlehem, it never really
snows in December, but there are all sorts of trees, even sheep and shepherds,
even now. Alas, too many soldiers, policemen, the occasional battle tank, and
all too much barbered wire in the rolling countryside.
The Kandhamal
forests are now well known in the Christian history of India, which began in
Kerala a few years after the crucifixion of Jesus in Jerusalem. It too sees
lots of policemen and their military vehicles, hunting not for animals but for
political extremists who too are armed. They kill each other all too often.
Other people also
kill, and burn houses, and hunt for men, women and children, even on Christmas
Eve.
This is what
happened on the eve of Christmas 2007 when targetted violence broke out. I was
there within a few days to record and report, but this is not the time to speak
of the violence. One can always Google the details, though the judicial
commission headed by Justice Panigrahi appointed to investigate the violence is
still a long way finalising its report. Ironically, Justice Naidu, who filled
in for Justice Mahapatra who was asked to probe the large scale targetted
violence against Christians in August 2008 but who died before he could write his document, filed his
report this week. This happens.
Just story is just
of the two children who share a birthday with Jesus the Christ.
Close to
the tip of the Kandhamal district is the village of Ulipadar, a part of
Bamnigaon, inconsequential and insignificant as most villages in backward
Orissa are. In this village lived two women who had come here on their
marriage. One was 26-year-old Muktimeri
Parichha. Both were heavily pregnant, and were expecting a safe delivery at home
or a small dispensary and clinic some kilometres away, which is run by Catholic
nuns.
But the violent mob
reached them before the labour pains had started. The village folk ran into the
forests to save their lives, these two pregnant young women among them, helped
by others who half carried them up the hills. Back in the village, the mob
pillaged and burnt the houses.
The two babies were
born soon thereafter. The mad rush for dear life had perhaps triggered the
labour. Later they told me there was no cloth to wipe the babies clean. The
mother’s dhotis were torn in half, one half for the woman, the other half to
swaddle the newborn. Quite out of the Gospels, where the Magi and the kings of
the east were to find the Baby swaddled in clothes. On a second visit later, I saw the babies,
healthy and smiling. Both had been given names, which could roughly mean
beloved of Jesus, or bhaktas of Jesus, to use a word now very popular. The
Children are growing well, I am happy to report. Justice for the victims of the
violence is another thing altogether.
Christmas in India
means many things, and like language, micro culture and folk art, changes every
hundred kilometres or so. And it is a heady, ever changing mixture of the
local, vernacular folklore and food and dress habits and imports of the last
thousand years, from the west and the east.
There was Christmas
in India before the Portuguese came and brought in the new songs of the Birth
and the Joy and Hope of the salvation it promised. The Jingle Bells and carols
came later, with the Dutch, the French and British, the generic term used as a
coverall for soldiers and civilians from England, Scotland, Wales and north
Ireland. There is also a dash in the hot pot from Switzerland, Spain, Italy,
Armenia, and a huge dollop from countries of the Mid East and the Far East,
from Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, a hint of Egypt, and just a trace of
China.
Born of southern
stock, I grew up in the extreme north, in Srinagar, Shimla and Dehradun, the
hills and foothills of the mighty Himalayas, before coming to Delhi. My wife
grew up in Travancore, in what is now Kerala.
We celebrate in a
complex, but lively mix or traditions that trace roots in the Syrian oriental
ritual tradition as well as in the more Anglicized way seen in films and
television shows. But we know that the Christians of the North eastern States,
the many tribes in their homes in the Hills of Nagaland, Manipur, Mizoram and
Meghalaya dip deep into their own culture and folk traditions, while accepting
the best of the music that the west has to offer. Some daring young one will
have an occasional choir number, which could reflect something they heard of
Bhangra pop. It is the joy that is important. And Gujarati Christmas will be
incomplete without Christmas Garba dance by the beautiful girls and women.
So it can be a mix
if plum pudding, and walnut cake, roast pork and fried beef as much as it can
be pilaf and biryani, kebabs and gujiyas, shakar paras and appams and stew,
often at the same feast – what with these cross cultural and cross
denominational marriages that the young so love and he occasions bishop
decries.
The midnight Mass
may not be entirely traditional, and is certainly more popular among the
Catholics, the High church protestant episcopalians and the Oriental or Syrian
Orthodox traditions, some more urban than rural – to do with issues if
illumination and transport, I presume. But there is always a Sunday morning
service for the laggards and those who go to bed early in the cold.
The wine, the mulled
beer, the eggnogs or the single malts are optional. Alcohol can be a strict
No-No is several denominations.
But Christmas is not
really to be celebrated in five star hotels or in the large dhabas that have
sprouted up in the last 30 years or so along highways and low ways. It is time
for family, and friends. And to marvel that a little baby could mean so much to
so many so many millennia later.
As a Prince of
peace.
Christmas is about
peace, and love.
And the hope that no
one has to be born in a forest to a young, very frightened woman fleeing for
her life, because the government failed her. Or to be a refugee in a tiny boat
far away from home.
And it not spelled
as X-Mas. It is Christmas.
Merry Christmas, my
friends
--
John Dayal
www.johndaya
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