A Christmas in Delhi

I hadn’t been looking forward to Christmas in Delhi especially. For the first time in my life I would be spending Christmas Day by myself. Loved ones were 10,000 miles behind me, and even though I was in a city of 26 million I felt alone. I tried not to think too much about Christmas, hoping the day would pass as painlessly as possible.

There were a few signs of approaching Christmas; in Khan Market, an area which combined slightly grotty buildings with high end shops, fancy restaurants offered Christmas menus. There were pigs in blankets, “wellington” (though not beef), and hot buttered rum and mulled wine. Artificial Christmas trees had sprouted in unlikely corners. And from one or two shops tinsel, wreaths, Christmas hats and twinkling fairy lights spilled out onto the street. On Christmas eve, I bought two lengths of tinsel to pimp up Chris and had to fight my way through a crowd of people to get to the cashier.

Yet on the streets, in the windows of houses, in the newspapers, there was little sign of Christmas and indeed on the day itself the atmosphere around Delhi was unchanged. The roads were filled with traffic and people went about their business as usual: shopping, chatting, dropping off goods, and arguing over a motorbike blocking a parking space. There was none of the special hush of a Christmas morning, nor the jollity experienced on Christmas walks.

And yet I found Christmas in Delhi to be a much more enjoyable, and much more Christmassy, than I had anticipated.

An early start for Chris.

I got up early. Not, as in previous years, to wiggle my toes into the contents of my stocking with barely contained excitement, but to blearily pull on my cycle shorts and pedal across foggy smoggy Delhi in the dark. After a twenty minute cycle a Father Christmas emerged from the fog. He was astride a fat-wheeled bike. He greeted me with a “ho-ho-ho” and pulled from his red felt satchel a KitKat. “Merry Christmas!” he chuckled. Within a few minutes there were twenty cyclists and – after the many obligatory “clicks” (photos) – we set off. We rode north, through the acrid fog, to the Catholic church in New Delhi’s centre. Curiously, it was closed – barricaded off and guarded by police – the sign saying the reason was Covid-19.

Santa and his helpers.

The cyclists had organised a van filled with paranthas and chai to give to the homeless, and soon a long line had formed. They also gave out grey and white striped blankets, but for these valuable items scuffles broke out. More photos were taken – of the cyclists, by the cyclists, and of the homeless people queuing.

We cycled down the road to a temple (which was open) and repeated the process. After drinking chai ourselves, we dispersed in our separate directions, though my progress back to the hotel was thwarted by a road closure. Armed police blocked the way, as car after jeep after saloon roared past for a full five minutes. I could only assume the top man had importance business which didn’t stop for Christmas.

After this, a gentle run took me round Lodhi Gardens, a park filled with tombs from the late Moghul period. It was like running round an open-air museum. It being Christmas, I decided to finish my run at my favourite coffee shop and indulged in not one but two flat whites. I thought this might have been a time of quiet melancholy reflection, but again, no. I met Prianka, an Indian-Australian who had arrived the previous night and was flying on to her parents in Jammu later. She showed me pictures of the glorious sunrises she enjoyed on her morning beach walks from her home in Sydney. It was a brief human connection, telling each other what made us happy; it was all the more special because we knew would never see each other again.

Two hours later I found myself outside a grand whitewashed house, watching a yellow and black metal barrier swing up high, and was greeted by the strong handshake and highland face of a Ghurka. Two minutes later I was sipping a G&T with Alex, the British High Commissioner in India. I had met him several days earlier, and to my surprise and delight, he had invited me to Christmas lunch at the Residence. It was an unexpected dose of British Christmas, as we helped ourselves to turkey, gravy, roast potatoes, sprouts, and Christmas pudding. There were even crackers to finish. Alex had invited another family and their golden retriever played with Alex’s puppy, chasing each other in frenetic laps of the dining room, leaving the Christmas tree teetering at one point. Feeling warm and thick from the food, drink and company, it was with a measure of reluctance I got in an uber to head to my final location of the day.

Christmas lunch done and dusted.

The traffic was also thick. The 35 kilometre journey took almost two hours, and at points the smooth highway disintegrated into red earth and potholes.

When I finally arrived at my destination in south Gurguram – a satellite city of 6 million, filled with shopping malls and stocky yet spacious homes – I was surprised to see a horse and carriage outside the house. The horses trotted off and somewhat discordant, though very enthusiastic, Christmas carols burst from the carriage. From the inside of the home came the sound of catchy Bollywood hits and against the wall rested a giant inflatable darts board, from which stuck several furry balls.

It was Poonam Bagai’s house, and the formidable yet kindly chairwoman of CanKids (our partner charity in India) made sure I was having a good time. “Luke, have you eaten? You must eat more! And make sure you get a ride on the horses.” It was her grown-up sons who orchestrated the party –“they wanted to fill the pool with inflatable balls,” Poonam tells me, rolling her eyes – and though there were no inflatable balls, they had certainly done it in style. The bar was well-stocked with hot toddies, buttered rum, fruity cocktails and straight spirits, and a barman, which no doubt helped fuelled the enthusiastic dancing to hindi bangers and Miley Cyrus’ Wrecking Ball from enormous speakers.  I contributed in my own way, bringing in Queen and Nirvana. They seemed as Christmassy as was necessary.

Boogeying to Bollywood

I got chatting to several of the partygoers – most in their twenties, nearly all educated abroad. “We’re not Christians, but we love an excuse to celebrate,” one told me. India – past and present – has been famous for its inclusivity. People of every faith celebrated the festivals of every other faith and it was heartening to see this continue, even as certain elements in India promote a Hindu-first nationalism. This remark reminded me of what I was told on my second day in India by Ganesh, a programmer on workation in Amritsar. “In India, every 100 miles you find different food and faith and clothes. A true Indian – in my opinion – is someone who is tolerant to different religions, cultures and languages.”

It is this tolerance which marks out India at its best. And it is India’s inclusivity which welcomed me to celebrate Christmas not alone, but in a community of warm and open spirits.