December 25th, 2004 in Bangalore, India, felt more like Christmas than any other time. There were no evergreens, or nativity scenes, tamales or luminarias. But I felt Christmas on my skin like moisture in the air, draping my body with little droplets of radiant condensation. Christmas dew rolled onto my arms and tapped my silver bangles, which sounded like bells jingling.
I became a Christmas antenna, outstretched, seeing ornaments in the colorful, gold-lined decorations that dangled from the shoulders of sacred cows and snowflakes in the patterns of the Indian children’s chalk drawings on the sidewalk. I tasted delicious green chilies in the burning rasam soup. I felt the warmth of family radiating from the bodies of people I had never met before, whose names I could not pronounce. They gathered together and sang devotional songs, carols to Shiva and Vishnu.
The Indians had out-Christmased Christmas, even if they had never heard of the holiday. The hallways were always decorated with chains of brightly colored animals, beads and shiny bells. Fuchsia and iridescent green powder, remnants of a religious ceremony, covered the city streets and tinged the bottoms of golden silk saris.
But the most memorable part was the warm sensation of interconnectedness that embraced me, the inability to stretch out my legs in a hot room without accidentally hitting somebody else’s, the apologetic head tap prayer, the sweet song of children, beggars and sages that penetrated the room, melting my heart. And after I taught a group of new friends Jingle Bells, they taught me: Guru Brahmaa Guru Vishnu/Guru Devo Maheswara/ Guru Saaksaat Param Brahma/ Tasmai Shri Guruve Namaha.
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