A seasonal tale

‘Tum bhi kismis rakhta hai?’ Asked my domestic help as he finished the day’s chore. ‘Kismis?’ Where did he find kismis in the kitchen? I hadn’t used raisins in my cooking recently. Or had I? I jogged my memory and concluded, almonds, yes. But raisins? No. ‘Kismis…?’ I grimaced. ‘Kismis…kismis, woh pedd,’ he said, pointing at the Christmas tree in the living room. ‘Ah!’ I exclaimed. A swift chuckle replaced the initial grimace and I fought hard to suppress it. ‘Pehli baar rakha hai. Acha hai na?’I asked. ‘Haan acha hai,’ he said casually. His voice was devoid of any appreciation. I felt as if all the labour of putting up the table top tree had gone in vain. He must have seen bigger and better trees in other homes; this for him is piddling, I thought with dismay. Then, after a short silence, he struck the final nail in the coffin. He asked, almost mockingly, invalidating all my education, ‘Madam, tum kismis nahi samjhtha?’ I waited for the shock of the sudden affront to pass and said firmly, as if to make a point. ‘KISMIS NAHIN, CHRISTMAS.’ ‘Haan, wohi. KISMIS,’ he said with added emphasis. A little, ornamented Xmas tree some feet away must have laughed in its sleeve at this odd, Boxing Day bout between an illiterate man’s blameless conceit and an educated woman’s bruised pride. I am thinking of this cute confrontation now as I toss down a piece of delicious fruit cake that my neighbor gave. Christmas. Kismis. Fruit cake. Together, they seem to make some odd sense now.

(Like this story? Follow my blog by clicking on ‘follow’ and leave your e-mail address to get notifications every time I publish a new post here)