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In excelsis deo
Dec. 26th, 2006 02:34 amThe Christmassiest thing I did today - stay up until two am with Pedar watching The West Wing. Christmassy, because the last one we watched was "In Excelsis Deo." At which Pedar turned to me and and asked what that actually means - obviously, it's a contracted version of "Gloria in excelsis deo", but I never realised I didn't know what that meant until just now. Probably "glory in the height of God", or something.
My flist has not been a thing of joy this afternoon. It seems to alternate between itemised lists of what people got, telling me the really, truly, this time it is definitive meaning of Christmas - God? family? Amazon gift certificates? - and complaining about family, pine needles, food, or that no one else gets what Christmas is actually about, it's really secular/Christian/midwinter pagan, and everyone who disagrees with me is a heathen, OMG.
O tidings of comfort and joy, etc. I am clearly a horrible person.
Anyway, where was I? I managed to miss most of today, to be honest, by sleeping through until three, at which point my mother appeared with much noise and yelling to tell me we haven't packed, we haven't bought anything, was I planning to waste the rest of my life in bed, etc. She wanted me to make lists. I stumbled around the house and made lists. I meant to go for a walk with Pedar today, down to the beach, because we've done that before on Christmas Day and it's magical - on the one side, the ground is frozen hard and there is no mud, no rotten leaves, and you come to the beach and there's silence and seabirds, no footprints and nothing moving in the estuary, just you and the sky and sea. On the other side, you can walk for miles, past houses and gardens and through past the level crossing, and see no-one. It's astonishing and faintly surreal. But by sleeping till three, I missed the daylight. By half three it was too dark to read inside. I was supposed to make something vaguely festive for dinner, so I ended up roasting a metric tonne of vegetables with olive oil whilst my mother waved lists at me.
I don't know how she finds the energy, myself; both my parents are on call tonight, and my mum disappeared at seven to do the long night shift, bemoaning loudly the expected influx of Christmas drunks. For her sake, I do hope no-one's bottled themselves or whatever; she's in surgery and hating it. I'm expecting her to wander in vague and blood-spattered round about nine. And wielding lists.
Argh, what was I talking about? This was all meant to be a prelude to my talking about Rang de Basanti, which was on tonight again, so Pedar and I sat down to watch it once my mother had gone (along with half the metric tonne of veg). It's my second-favourite Hindi film of all time - er, let's face it, there are only two Hindi films I like and it's one of them - and it's probably the least Christmassy film ever made, so it made good viewing. And I was watching it, and later TWW, and thinking, well, I know lots and lots about Western culture. I know about Christmas. I know the story. I know there weren't necessarily three wise men, and I've seen The Gift of the Magi, and I've been in Christmas choirs enough to know the words to In The Bleak Midwinter and when I was five, I was in the nativity play. (I was the donkey. It was a traumatic time in my life.) And that's not to mention the many years for which people have sent me cards, given me gifts they didn't have to give, tried to make me a part of their festival, and for which I am truly grateful.
But, you know what? People don't know about my culture. Now this isn't to say I know, myself, which culture I belong to - this is the source of many years of existential emo, indeed - but I have an idea, sort of. I mean, I don't know what I mean. Something. Look, I am not Christian and I am not (only) British and I will not apologise for that. I am a Hindu, and while I'm not entirely sure what that means, I have an idea. For a start, it means that my name is not Iona, the name of a Hebridean island from where St. Columba brought Christianity to Scotland. My real name is Pragya, which is derived from a Sanskrit word meaning "wisdom", and was chosen according to the position of the stars at the second I was born. Minus the five-and-half-hour time difference between Liverpool and New Delhi, of course, and of course I don't use the name, but that's still true. It happened.
I'm from an old Brahmin Hindu family, and "Brahmin" is a word referring to the old caste system, of which, I'm afraid to say, my family were at the top. Brahmins were priests, scholars, writers, and once upon a time, they were advisers to kings. Which meant nothing by the beginning of the last century, but it amuses me to note that even so, post-independence, my paternal grandfather was a civil servant of the federal government. And part of that old thinking lingers in my family, which values academia above all other things.
I guess that's the plan, really. That's what I was taught to believe when I was growing up. My family has a puja place behind the kitchen door, with flowers and fruit and a light that never goes out, and it has a bowl of sultanas perched on it, because, well, fresh fruit goes off. Every morning for the seven years I lived in this house, my mother said goodbye to me at the door and pressed one of those sultanas into my hand. It's what's called aashirwad - blessing. For me, religion is like that, sweetness and bright colours and light and flowers, and joy - so an interdenominational Christian school was a shock. I remember that so, so clearly - the greyness of it all, the endless litanies about Jesus (who was who? and did what?) - and that first Christmas, which was the first Christmas after I started school. I remember being four and wanting very much to be an angel in the play, because the tinsel they got to wear in their hair was so pretty. (All the years afterwards, I was the narrator.)
But it was a huge, amazing culture shock, and I'm pleased to be here so many years later and feel like I not only survived, but became part of what was so alien then, but I don't know, maybe I've lost something. No, I know I have, and I haven't gained enough to replace it, because I am not, and will never be, a person without qualifier, a person who can stand up and say this is my place and these are my people. I can't go back, and I can't go forward, I've lost the right to belong in either place.
So there you go. That's my problem with Christmas. And I'm going to bed now.
("Glory to God in the highest" - that's probably what it means. I just thought. And I guess the "don't be bitter about it this Christmas" resolution just went straight out the window.)
My flist has not been a thing of joy this afternoon. It seems to alternate between itemised lists of what people got, telling me the really, truly, this time it is definitive meaning of Christmas - God? family? Amazon gift certificates? - and complaining about family, pine needles, food, or that no one else gets what Christmas is actually about, it's really secular/Christian/midwinter pagan, and everyone who disagrees with me is a heathen, OMG.
O tidings of comfort and joy, etc. I am clearly a horrible person.
Anyway, where was I? I managed to miss most of today, to be honest, by sleeping through until three, at which point my mother appeared with much noise and yelling to tell me we haven't packed, we haven't bought anything, was I planning to waste the rest of my life in bed, etc. She wanted me to make lists. I stumbled around the house and made lists. I meant to go for a walk with Pedar today, down to the beach, because we've done that before on Christmas Day and it's magical - on the one side, the ground is frozen hard and there is no mud, no rotten leaves, and you come to the beach and there's silence and seabirds, no footprints and nothing moving in the estuary, just you and the sky and sea. On the other side, you can walk for miles, past houses and gardens and through past the level crossing, and see no-one. It's astonishing and faintly surreal. But by sleeping till three, I missed the daylight. By half three it was too dark to read inside. I was supposed to make something vaguely festive for dinner, so I ended up roasting a metric tonne of vegetables with olive oil whilst my mother waved lists at me.
I don't know how she finds the energy, myself; both my parents are on call tonight, and my mum disappeared at seven to do the long night shift, bemoaning loudly the expected influx of Christmas drunks. For her sake, I do hope no-one's bottled themselves or whatever; she's in surgery and hating it. I'm expecting her to wander in vague and blood-spattered round about nine. And wielding lists.
Argh, what was I talking about? This was all meant to be a prelude to my talking about Rang de Basanti, which was on tonight again, so Pedar and I sat down to watch it once my mother had gone (along with half the metric tonne of veg). It's my second-favourite Hindi film of all time - er, let's face it, there are only two Hindi films I like and it's one of them - and it's probably the least Christmassy film ever made, so it made good viewing. And I was watching it, and later TWW, and thinking, well, I know lots and lots about Western culture. I know about Christmas. I know the story. I know there weren't necessarily three wise men, and I've seen The Gift of the Magi, and I've been in Christmas choirs enough to know the words to In The Bleak Midwinter and when I was five, I was in the nativity play. (I was the donkey. It was a traumatic time in my life.) And that's not to mention the many years for which people have sent me cards, given me gifts they didn't have to give, tried to make me a part of their festival, and for which I am truly grateful.
But, you know what? People don't know about my culture. Now this isn't to say I know, myself, which culture I belong to - this is the source of many years of existential emo, indeed - but I have an idea, sort of. I mean, I don't know what I mean. Something. Look, I am not Christian and I am not (only) British and I will not apologise for that. I am a Hindu, and while I'm not entirely sure what that means, I have an idea. For a start, it means that my name is not Iona, the name of a Hebridean island from where St. Columba brought Christianity to Scotland. My real name is Pragya, which is derived from a Sanskrit word meaning "wisdom", and was chosen according to the position of the stars at the second I was born. Minus the five-and-half-hour time difference between Liverpool and New Delhi, of course, and of course I don't use the name, but that's still true. It happened.
I'm from an old Brahmin Hindu family, and "Brahmin" is a word referring to the old caste system, of which, I'm afraid to say, my family were at the top. Brahmins were priests, scholars, writers, and once upon a time, they were advisers to kings. Which meant nothing by the beginning of the last century, but it amuses me to note that even so, post-independence, my paternal grandfather was a civil servant of the federal government. And part of that old thinking lingers in my family, which values academia above all other things.
I guess that's the plan, really. That's what I was taught to believe when I was growing up. My family has a puja place behind the kitchen door, with flowers and fruit and a light that never goes out, and it has a bowl of sultanas perched on it, because, well, fresh fruit goes off. Every morning for the seven years I lived in this house, my mother said goodbye to me at the door and pressed one of those sultanas into my hand. It's what's called aashirwad - blessing. For me, religion is like that, sweetness and bright colours and light and flowers, and joy - so an interdenominational Christian school was a shock. I remember that so, so clearly - the greyness of it all, the endless litanies about Jesus (who was who? and did what?) - and that first Christmas, which was the first Christmas after I started school. I remember being four and wanting very much to be an angel in the play, because the tinsel they got to wear in their hair was so pretty. (All the years afterwards, I was the narrator.)
But it was a huge, amazing culture shock, and I'm pleased to be here so many years later and feel like I not only survived, but became part of what was so alien then, but I don't know, maybe I've lost something. No, I know I have, and I haven't gained enough to replace it, because I am not, and will never be, a person without qualifier, a person who can stand up and say this is my place and these are my people. I can't go back, and I can't go forward, I've lost the right to belong in either place.
So there you go. That's my problem with Christmas. And I'm going to bed now.
("Glory to God in the highest" - that's probably what it means. I just thought. And I guess the "don't be bitter about it this Christmas" resolution just went straight out the window.)
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