By Siddharth Dasgupta

In old Russian children’s books, every illustration
appeared as though it had been plucked out of
Christmas. Ogres, cherubic children, enchanted
forests, Baba Yagas—everything snowflaked into
a Christmas quilt, woven in those magical empires
of Raduga Publishers and Mir Publishers, Moscow.

I’m not sure why I’m thinking of this, here in this
café mulled by time and stilled by the crispness
of things being beautiful, if only temporarily.
Perhaps it’s everything this year has been,
and the hurtling need for innocence, the need
for a time when horses spoke of nigh horizons
and we didn’t keep losing our best to the tides.

Christmas is many things. It’s John McClane
going to great heights to hold on to the embers
of a crumbling love. It’s Bing Crosby and Dean
Martin, all December-sparkled and silver-tongued.
It’s Poona’s Cantonment Quarter, Irani cafés
and centuries-old bakeries selling the promise
of the world being light, fluffy, and rum-soaked.

It’s things that aren’t necessarily Christmas either,
but come mighty close—Roman Holiday, all
ciao bella and grazie mille; a Calcuttan Park Street
rife with migrant tongues; watching timeworn
Kishore Kumar films on stuttering reels,
their vital hilarity, the time-stamped zephyr.

The atmosphere in here this morning is just about
right, save for the music—mom ‘n pop jazz,
tasting like it was bought from a hapless Amazon.
Play me some Ella instead, some Nina Simone,
some Noor Jehan where voice becomes weather
—tumultuous, fermented in rich remembrance.

This year has swallowed so much. Suckled
Spring and discarded Summer. Maybe the star
that goes on top of the tree is faith. Maybe
the kiss that waits under mistletoe is that
of life—of wanting to be born again, despite
everything, of wanting to reach for the echo
and turn its damn viscera into a thriving song. 

I’m not sure why I’m thinking of any of this,
here in this café lulled by time and stilled by
the crispness of things being beautiful, if only
adamantly. Perhaps it’s everything this year has
been, and the hurtling need for a changed script.
The need for love, its migrant crescendos. And
yes, the vivid assurances of old Russian folktales.

Siddharth Dasgupta is a writer of Poetry & Fiction; he has written three books thus far. Siddharth’s words have appeared in Kyoto Journal, Lunch Ticket, Poetry at Sangam, Spittoon, Cha, nether Quarterly, Madras Courier, Bosphorus Review, the Bombay Literary Review, and elsewhere. Off-and-on, he also dives into elements of travel and culture for a gathering of publications—Travel + Leisure, Harper’s Bazaar, and National Geographic Traveller, included. Click here to find out more about him.

Banner image by Joanna Kosinska and downloaded from unsplash.com