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Spirits of Christmas
Oh holy night
The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of our dear saviour’s birth
Long lay the world, in sin and error pining
'Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth
MR LAL’S spirit looked down at his body lying in the hospital bed. The words of O Holy Night, his favourite Christmas song, played in his head. Christmas was coming and he was dying.
In his mind’s eye, Mr Lal surveyed the small white room. Around him were the blinking lights of machines keeping him alive; the quiet whirring sound they made, strangely comforting. Occasionally, a nurse checked on him. He could hear movement as medical professionals bustled about their work. The sound was muffled, as if under water. In his mind’s eye, he observed all of this, floating between the present and his past.
Mr Lal thought about his life. Alone, surrounded by people he did not know, rejected by those he loved. Or at least had tried to love. He wondered why the coming of Christmas should matter, since long ago he had decided he did not like this time of year. In fact, he had stopped celebrating Christmas, refusing to partake in any festive rituals.
It was not always like this. As a child, his parents made a fuss for him and his brother and sister. There was always the beautifully decorated Christmas tree, presents, music, laughter and too much food.
His mother loved the Christmas song O Holy Night and, gradually, it became his favourite as well. Their family was not rich, but they were comfortable. His father was a doctor and his mother a teacher with a passion for baking. At Christmas time the house would be filled with the smells of her creations. Mr Lal’s father would complain she was making him fat. His mother would say he did not have to sample so often. Then he would blame her for having a sweet hand. And so they would go, blissful in the little world they had created for themselves and their children.
Then, one Christmas, Mr Lal’s world crumbled. His sister was hit by a drunk driver. As she lay in hospital, he begged for her life. But his pleas were not strong enough. That year, his mother stayed in bed. There were no smells of wonderful baked goods, no banter between his parents, no laughter.
The smiling face of his sister floated into his view. “Aye, big head. What wrong wid yuh? Is Christmas.” She would often come to him in his dreams, asking why he chose the life he did; why he used his mathematical brilliance to associate with underworld characters and take revenge on the driver even though she had forgiven him. Or why he would not talk to their brother. Mr Lal opened his eyes to tell his sister to mind her own business, but her face and smile disappeared into the walls and whirring machines of the small white room.
After his sister died, Mr Lal’s mother suffered a nervous breakdown from which she never recovered. His father passed a few years later. Heart attack. His heart literally broke, people used to say. Mr Lal meanwhile concentrated on his financial success. Luxury cars, palatial home, 20-foot-high barbed wire, bodyguards and multiple arrests became his reality.
A rare spinal condition forced Mr Lal into a wheelchair. The complicated legacy of his past life made his health worse. His wealth had disappeared. The irony – stolen from him by people he had trusted. He heard his brother had married a lovely woman, a teacher, and they had three children. But Mr Lal was too ashamed to pick up the phone.
As he floated between his present and his past, Mr Lal heard his mother’s favourite Christmas carol playing in his head. “O holy night, O night divine!” A nurse gently shook him awake and pointed to the open door. There in the doorway stood his brother and family, his wife cradling a new-born baby. It was their singing that he had heard in his sleep. For the first time since his sister died, Mr Lal cried. He thought of the power of humility and the importance of forgiveness. He thought of the few times at Christmas he longed for his family.
Mr Lal looked into the eyes of his brother and smiled. He closed his eyes and his spirit floated away to the songs and memories of Christmas. He was at peace.
Dara E Healy is a performance artist, communications specialist and founder of the NGO, the Indigenous Creative Arts Network – ICAN
The post A song for Christmas appeared first on Trinidad and Tobago Newsday.