Resting indolently on abandoned stone elephants, swinging our feet against cold marble. Warning the little kids to hush. Half-hearted carol practice, lunch sitting content in our stomachs. Canteen gossip, parents discreetly sitting together at another table while we gab. We keep our voices low, worried we'd be caught, even today.
Sunset saunters to familiar beaches, exchanging notes on the occult and the crabs, on spirituality and movies. Visits to the house of the oldest, grumpiest, most frustrated spinster and breaking into a rousing chorus of 'Joy to the World.' Watching her face break into a smile remembering what we looked like as children. Posing for pictures dutifully, having our cheeks pulled at.
Walking to church for midnight mass, the only wine we drink all year. Waking up temporarily in the middle of the sermon to join the choir, starting at a pitch noone can hit, hitting it anyway. Stumbling into the dark, cold evening rubbing at mosquito bites. Trying to cognitively get into the right vehicle to head home. SMS'es: I'm done, I'm home, I love you too, good night.
Forty seven cups of tea every Christmas morning. Cognitive recognition that there are women I could've been in another life, houses I could've stayed at. The tea I refuse to drink on any other day reminds me of famines and generosity, of trips that changed my life though nothing changed.
Running back to the rest at the first opportunity - homecoming, mothership calling, back to the start. It's like background music - the adults who're used to chiding us like we're ten, while we giggle and the little children look at us in wonder. The sudden solemnity of rituals, the silence of the river, birds calling outside. A four-year old stifles a yawn and sticks his tongue out in rebellion. We stifle smiles, remembering when we were his age. Our fathers' voices sound like gentle rumbles in the distance, like God speaking. Continuity. Tradition. Family. Life.
We exchange goodbyes, knowing they're 'see you later's' and feeling better about them than if it were otherwise. Dance hops in the night and voices raised in song. The Italian man smiles at us. He looks even better by moonlight. Our day's made. Little Christmas traditions. I wish I could be there. I need to exchange notes on so much we left hanging. Closure. Laughter. Moving on. Getting your priorities right. Christmas. For the first time, I'm homesick in Hyderabad.
Sunset saunters to familiar beaches, exchanging notes on the occult and the crabs, on spirituality and movies. Visits to the house of the oldest, grumpiest, most frustrated spinster and breaking into a rousing chorus of 'Joy to the World.' Watching her face break into a smile remembering what we looked like as children. Posing for pictures dutifully, having our cheeks pulled at.
Walking to church for midnight mass, the only wine we drink all year. Waking up temporarily in the middle of the sermon to join the choir, starting at a pitch noone can hit, hitting it anyway. Stumbling into the dark, cold evening rubbing at mosquito bites. Trying to cognitively get into the right vehicle to head home. SMS'es: I'm done, I'm home, I love you too, good night.
Forty seven cups of tea every Christmas morning. Cognitive recognition that there are women I could've been in another life, houses I could've stayed at. The tea I refuse to drink on any other day reminds me of famines and generosity, of trips that changed my life though nothing changed.
Running back to the rest at the first opportunity - homecoming, mothership calling, back to the start. It's like background music - the adults who're used to chiding us like we're ten, while we giggle and the little children look at us in wonder. The sudden solemnity of rituals, the silence of the river, birds calling outside. A four-year old stifles a yawn and sticks his tongue out in rebellion. We stifle smiles, remembering when we were his age. Our fathers' voices sound like gentle rumbles in the distance, like God speaking. Continuity. Tradition. Family. Life.
We exchange goodbyes, knowing they're 'see you later's' and feeling better about them than if it were otherwise. Dance hops in the night and voices raised in song. The Italian man smiles at us. He looks even better by moonlight. Our day's made. Little Christmas traditions. I wish I could be there. I need to exchange notes on so much we left hanging. Closure. Laughter. Moving on. Getting your priorities right. Christmas. For the first time, I'm homesick in Hyderabad.
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