The Christmas Miracle

25.12.2019

It was almost dark. The shadows were creeping upwards to engulf the sun. Slivers of golden-yellow rays scattered helplessly on the roads below, while streetlights sprang to life one by one, replacing the warm glow of sunlight with a colder, steelier version.

Passerby hurried home, only to wash and change before returning to the roads. Children waited impatiently for their parents to park cars and shut doors, and then propelled them with surprising strength to where a man dressed in red and a fake white beard stood handing out small items.

Sparkly red and green lights were entwined around every door and window in the area, lending a kind of overenthusiastic cheerfulness to the otherwise damp and sweaty late evening atmosphere.

These were Jonathan Kutty’s thoughts as he walked home from work. He loosened his tie and flipped over his wrist to look at his watch. Six thirty.

On an ordinary day, he’d never be caught dead going home at such an hour. No, on an ordinary day, he’d get at least another three hours of work done at the office and then he would go home. He shook his head gloomily. These new project managers didn’t know how things worked. Men like these, who did crazy things like send employees home early on Christmas Eve should never be hired. It was bad enough that nobody was allowed to work on Christmas. A whole day lost. And now the evening of Christmas Eve as well!  

Dusk had fallen; the stars were slowly becoming visible in the sky overhead, like actors of a play taking their positions on the stage.

These too were part of Jonathan Kutty’s thoughts as he walked home. He definitely had a way with words. Maria Rani had always thought so. She always said if he was given any number of words he could make them do his bidding. A wordsmith, she called him. He agreed. He liked words. As a young boy, he would always skip school to write poetry. After college, he worked for a few months at a library. That was where he met Maria Rani.

She worked as a private nurse and would often come to the library to borrow books for her elderly patients. He was attracted to her almost at once. She was tall and older than him, and her eyes were those of a wise woman’s. They spent a few evenings discussing poetry by the light of an old streetlamp, sitting on the steps of the library after closing hours.

In less than a year, they were married. She continued to work as a private nurse in people’s homes. He, meanwhile, outgrew the library, and started work in a small factory, as head clerk. Three years later, she was still a nurse, but now working in the nearby hospital. He had joined a small company, a startup. His hours became longer and longer. Her work became more and more demanding.

But everyday, whenever they could, they sat on the steps of their little house, under the light of a dingy streetlamp. He in his favourite veshti, that had yellowed with age, and she in an old saree. He would recite some poetry and she would hum along, and then they would turn and smile at each other. They were happy.

Six more years passed. He was promoted several times. She juggled private nursing with the work at the hospital. The moments of togetherness, poetry, and music they used to cherish, became few and far between. Soon, they stopped all together. Neither realized. They were still happy.

One morning, Maria Rani stopped him before he left for work and asked him if he had written anything in the past few months. He said that he hadn’t. She nodded and turned away. That angered him, and he said some harsh things, that eluded him later, when he sat down and tried to recall that morning’s incidents. All he remembered was saying that he had no need to write anymore now that he was successful. She then smiled a sad sort of smile, and there were tears in her eyes. After a long moment, she spoke. She said that maybe he felt that there was no need to be happy now that he was successful.

When Jonathan Kutty came home that night, the house was dark and lonely, and Maria Rani had gone.

He walked faster, willing the memories to go away. But they did not, they never did. They always replayed in his head. As did the sound of Maria Rani’s voice.

A group of children bumped into him, as they ran to join the growing crowd. They called to him to join in. He shook his head and turned to walk away. Everybody was celebrating. Everybody except him. He did not want to join them; he did not feel like celebrating. He never celebrated anything. He simply didn’t have the time. But out of curiosity, he turned and followed the children.

It was a procession of people of all ages, walking up and down roads, singing. Jonathan Kutty remembered what the songs were called. Carols. It had been years since he had heard one.

He joined them and found himself humming along, even though he did not know the words. For nearly two hours, he went with them, from house to house, singing and singing. He felt something familiar stir within him, a feeling that he had slowly lost touch with, over the years. That feeling was happiness.

The procession moved towards a familiar road and to a familiar building. It was the library where he used to work. It was busy and bustling, groups of people came out, laughing, and joined the procession. But Jonathan Kutty stopped by the front door.

There was Maria Rani, sitting on the steps, a stack of books in her lap. She looked up at him. For a minute, the words stuck in his throat.

And it all came flowing back. “I have thought of some verses,” he said, looking down at her. It was true; he had, at that very moment, after many years.

“Tell me,” she said, patting the worn step next to her. He sat down slowly; she shifted to make space. And under the light of an old, broken streetlamp, they smiled at each other.