Our very first Christmas when we returned to Pakistan in 1970 was celebrated in our mother's village, Shantinagar. Shantinagar is a predominantly Christian village set up by the Salvation Army in the early 1900's. It was around that time that my Nana's (my maternal grandfather) family moved there, bought land and set up a home. That home has been there ever since - with changes, additions and improvements of course.
The closest city to it is Khanewal. When I was a child, and used to write letters to Nanaji, or Maamoo, or my cousins, I had to add "Via Khanewal, District Multan" while writing the address on the envelope. As of now, Khanewal is the district.
That Christmas is the only one I remember where all of us, Khalaji's family, Maamooji's family, and us gathered there. It was a truly overwhelming time. There was so much happening, and everything was still so new and strange to me that the memory of those days we spent filter through vivid flashes. The tanga ride from the Khanewal train station to the village on that dusty road bordering the canal. The increase of charpais in my grandparents' adobe house. Going to the chowk to get a dozen glass bangles fitted on my tiny, skinny wrists. I have a vague recollection of the inside of my grandparents' house. Group pictures on the wall of the various groups my youngest Maamoo was a part of, including the Student Christian Movement. A red plaque with the gold inscription, Christ is the head of this house. The unseen guest at every meal. The silent listener to every conversation. A picture of the European Jesus, sandy-haired, translucent eyes.
That year, Maamoo may still have been in the Salvation Army band. At any rate, watching the band play hymns and Christmas songs was a treat.
I do not remember Maamoo's house so well from that time, but images from his dukaan. The sky-blue/white packs of K-2 cigarettes with the peak that gave the brand its name. The old scales with the chains, and the heavy round black weights of one sair plus. The plates of the scales, was one larger than the other, on which I imagined sitting, to be weighed. No, I was told, those are not for humans. They are for food products. I saw the scales - which also look like the scales of justice you see at courts - more as a toy.
I do not think I was the only one I viewed them as such, then, or today.
***
I was still trying to keep track of my cousins at the time. Five from Khalaji. Five from BaRe Maamoo, Three from ChhoTay Maamoo ( who may not have been there that Christmas but definitely not later ones in my memory). And also the cousins from my father's side, which was somewhat easier because only BaRi phupi had children at the time, five.
I know I must have played with my cousins that Christmas. I also was still painfully shy, and quiet in the midst of so many people. Especially when I dressed up in anything other than play clothes.
On Christmas day, I wore a teal colored gharara suit. The kurti had silver piping around the half-moon neck. The gharara's folds gleamed as I walked. My long thick hair was in two plaits. We went to the Salvation Army church for services. Most of us sat on a white sheet spread on the ground, while our parents and grandparents sat on chairs. Nanaji in his turban with the stiff cloth, the achkan hugging his upper body and white shalwar. Naniji, as she dressed most of the time, in a white sari, wearing dark glasses that covered her cataract filled eyes.
I remember little to nothing of the sermon. I could not understand most of it at the time, anyway. There was a moment when I was left alone on the chadar. I looked around me, at the crowd of people in their Christmas best. I can still recall the sense of loneliness, of feeling completely out of place in my outfit, among these strangers.
***
Christmas, and even Easter, were those occasions for us where we had special outfits made. I do not know if it was every year that my siblings and I had new outfits, but that was part of our tradition. New clothes to celebrate a new day, a new beginning.
That tradition has all but disappeared for us, here in America.
***
We would spend two or more Christmases in Shantinagar after that. I used to love being around my Nana. I never spoke to him much but just to be in what I thought was a noble, kindly presence. And when we did speak, he always made me feel good about myself, which is not something I ever really remember feeling at any point in time.
And my Nani, forever quoting Psalms and bible verses in between conversations. The love of Nanaji's life. They were the glue that held so much together. Nanaji readily forgave things of his grandchildren that his children did not. They were incredibly conservative. But they were also filled with love. And I was very fortunate to have witnessed that, to have been blessed with it.
Ever since my mother lost her only surviving sibling, my BaRe Maamoo to emphysema two months ago, I see a change in her, something akin to a desolation. She speaks more often of the past. She did before, but now even more so. She is not alone in feeling that way. Every Christmas, I remember the Christmases we spent with our loved ones in Pakistan. And I miss that sense of family, of extended family. True, we did not agree on everything (who does?), and there were jealousies and clashes. But we still were together, and those few moments of love and peace are treasures.
No Christmas, or the looking forward to it can go without remembering those we have lost in terms of their physical presence, but whose spirit lives on within us and without us. The window on this day is dedicated to them. My grandparents, paternal and maternal. My aunts and uncles. My cousins. Thank you for your love, and all that you gave us in that love.
