The smell of wine decanting fills the olfactory senses, welcoming the Christmas season.
A cool breeze brushes past the rubber plantation, flowing through the doors and leaves us with the crisp, chilly Christmas air. In Kerala, the cold is not dramatic enough to be called winter, yet it’s enough to warrant socks on as the family heads to church for the morning mass. No one’s even sleepy anymore, contrary to the common belief that cold air makes you drowsy. Instead, everyone is wide awake and excited for the day ahead.
The morning mass is finally over, and the rush back home is accompanied by drooling mouths, eagerly anticipating the delayed gratification of appam and chicken stew. It’s not just a fancy phrase trying to sound profound; the 25 days of fasting truly create a sense of delayed gratification, making the first taste of meat all the more satisfying.
It’s not an emotion, really — it’s simple, but it’s the waiting, the aura of the festivities, that transforms the entire perception of the meal.
The tender chicken, slow-cooked in flavorful, creamy coconut milk, what we call chicken stew, paired with slightly sweet, soft appam or sweet bread, perfectly defines a Christmas breakfast — at least in Rose’s household.
And, as the common myth goes, there’s always a special drink in every Malayali Christian household. Regardless of age, everyone is offered a glass of homemade wine or scotch — perhaps from the previous year’s batch, carefully fermented and aged to be company for this Christmas.
After breakfast, it’s a trip to the tharavadu (ancestral home), to visit Ammachi (grandma), the family’s great-grandmother. Every family member would have already marked their presence, as coming together for the Christmas lunch is one of the core traditions.
As if a trigger has been stimulated, the women gather around the kitchen to cook the elaborate lunch. Unlike the usual cooking, today’s meal is prepared over a traditional wooden fire, with the biggest vessel in the house used to create a feast. During those hours, you truly understand what they mean when they say, “excruciating and exciting go hand in hand on days you await.” Okay, fine, maybe I made that up, but that’s how it feels—waiting for supper to be laid out, waiting for hungry hands to grab hold of it, tearing it away bit by bit, each morsel coated in the warmth of Christmas flavoured with rich masalas.
The table is filled with everything from chicken dry to chicken curry, beef ullathiyath to beef roast, duck roast, and fish molly — a personal recommendation and a true feast for the mouth, with fish dipped in coconut milk — yes, coconut makes its way into Christmas too — and prawns fry paired with “ghee- soaked” rice which is garnished with nuts and cashews. Just looking at the spread is enough to make a grown man cry.
The dining table is filled to the brim, leaving only spaces for empty plates to be filled. The air hums with the growls of children and adults alike—hungry, eager creatures awaiting their turn to pounce on the delicious spread. Thoughts swirl in every direction: some focus on the indulgence of the festival—food, drinks, decorations (perhaps for Instagram?), while others reminisce about the true meaning of Christmas, hoping to dive deeper into the yuletide ether, embracing the season’s spirit.
There’s an unspoken hierarchy when the food is served. Initially, the elders in the family dig in, savouring the feast, followed by the parents, and then the kids, who spread across the verandah, finding a spot as their dining table and eagerly diving into the food.
The desserts are a true highlight, with cakes and brownies lovingly baked by the Chechis, each bite a warm embrace of sweetness.
Instead, they carry the charm of imperfection—the cake, slightly uneven, with a golden crust that crumbles just enough to give way to a moist, tender interior; the brownies, rich and gooey, almost too soft to hold together, yet undeniably satisfying in their messy, melt-in-your-mouth goodness. These treats may not adhere to the rules of precise baking, but they are no less irresistible, bound to soothe even the most insistent of sweet cravings.
The spotlight is usually drawn to the plum cake, decadent on frosting dripping on each side of the soft, warm cake, rich in flavour, and the result of months of fermentation, made with fruits that have soaked in rum and wine for what seems like an eternity. The evening supper is pretty much the same but with an imposter on the menu — Porotta instead of rice. That’s level two of testing if the villi in our intestines are ready to do their job, as I am mine.
I reel back into myself as Rose paints a vivid picture, describing her family’s ideal Christmas day each year. And with each story, I listen intently, weaving my mental images through her swirling memories, feeling as though I’m there with her, experiencing each moment. The emotions begin to weigh on me, and I find myself lost in thought, unsure of what exactly I’m yearning for—am I nostalgic for the childhood days when Christmas was the one day at school when you could flaunt your ostentatious dresses? When the announcement of winter vacation brought a rush of pure joy? Or am I melancholic about the absence of that Christmas spirit in these present years?
It doesn’t stop there. I’ve come to realize that everyone has their ether—a fabric that helps create their unique universe, adding new elements along the way. It serves as a foundation and, in a way, a veil, grounded in your experiences, thoughts, beliefs, and visuals.
The festival brings warmth to the ether, infusing it with light, joy, togetherness, and a sense of personal, liberated comfort. To say the least, every ether differs—billions of them existing in billions of subconscious minds, each one shaped by its distinct elements.
This is Rose’s ether.
Christmas forms an ether for her, one that includes family dinners, chill mornings, delicious food, and moments of bonding and connection.
For me, Christmas has always been fantasised as cosy and warm, but at the same time, it's about losing myself in decorating your apartment to the max. If it doesn’t look like Rudolf barged in here, it isn’t right.
As for Emily, She also shares her snippets of the usual Christmas. She says it follows the same routine as Rose’s house, a tradition that every Malayali Christian household seems to follow. But Instead of having dinner at home, they spill out onto the lawn, where a thattukada (food stall) is set up. Everyone is just happy to be there, filled with energy, as the crispy dosas and flaky porottas sizzle and cook at the counters.
The wait in line to get your share of the aromatic food is well worth it, and soon everyone is munching on seconds, thirds, fourths... it just goes on. The appachans (elderly men or grandfathers in the family) walk around with a tawa in one hand, flipping dosas and porottas, and a glass of scotch in the other — the classy way to enjoy it — while others soak in the lively atmosphere, nibbling on the delicious food.
It’s just a lot of joy, and the Christmas spirit is at its peak as everyone holds a drink in hand — glasses clinking together. This is truly an Achayan (Affectionate term for elderly uncles) way to celebrate Christmas. The ether forms, adding creative elements of food and games — classy, serene, and yet semi-chaotic in its formation. And it goes on.
The Christmas stories don't stop there; Neha adds her share of Christmas tales too. Here, Christmas is taken very seriously. Neha ensures that every nook and corner of the house feels Christmasy. The decoration goes the extra mile since her birthday falls right on the same calendar page, often going beyond mere extravagance.
Passing by garlands on every door, the smell of freshly baked cookies, and the exuberant red-themed colony that Neha lives in, everyone joins in on the spirit. Every house twinning on the colour code yet differing in the pattern of decoration, reflecting every individual's creative projection. It's teamwork of sorts, with everybody collectively joining in for the celebration. It was an Olympus. The food and drink flow endlessly, starting from their house and continuing at every home they visit as part of tradition.
While Neha’s Christmas takes the high road, Ankit takes a more Caribbean pirate voyage. There’s tree decoration, although he admits he “messed up.” It’s his ritual to buy a cake and drench it in rum, ultimately creating a dessert for Santa while making him slip off the chimney too. And to mention, Santo chimes in, explaining how bursting crackers in his household mark the ultimate sign of a joyous Christmas celebration. He goes on to say that Christmas is all get-togethers, digging into a lot of food, and singing carols — something taken very seriously in Kerala. People go around the houses in exchange for chocolates, pennies and smiles.
Each one forms an individualistic ether; it varies. It's vast, it's unending, and a personal universe. It begins from the first visual grasped, the first memory you cherish to date, the first taste of your favourite delicacy, and the list goes on—an endless papyrus.
The elements come together to create core values, memories, and experiences, allowing me to visualize a vivid picture of all of them. I guess, in the end, stories like these are what Christmas is really about. The Christmas stereotype does not do their stories justice. My experience of Christmas is vastly different than that of Emily's or Rose's, yet it remains a core special snowflake of a memory in my ether.
It isn’t just a humongous, ostentatious tree. It isn’t just wine, cake, and fancy dinners.
But it’s the feeling—the soft glow—that draws you into a completely new environment, where families come together, and drinks are shared. Everyone is fully present, absorbing the year's final moments while setting the stage for the best one yet to come. (Or, in Emily’s case, the best next wine.) Each year adds to the formation of that red and white arena of an individualistic ether where each little Christmas decoration, each Christmas meal, each favourite dress of the day all the factors constitute this. the Christmas ether.
So, I turn and walk over to the edge of my hallway with a golden ball in my hand, and hang it on the illuminating green branches.
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