Spring came and went, a rather cold one, then the thunderstorms. Today, the monsoon moved in, fog floating in from the plains bringing with it a thick, heavy rain that descends like lead. No wind. We are now where we hoped to be since the beginning: The state closed to outsiders, but open inside. Our town has taken on a new face, the small town it was 20 years ago, absent of tourists from the plains. People play cricket in the street, and friendly shopkeepers offer all kinds of takeaways. There is a profusion of vegetable sellers, all hotel owners turned to other occupations, who talk about their Israeli guests with a tinge of nostalgia.
Dechen said she didn’t want to miss out on revisiting her childhood haunts, something impossible in normal times due to the tourist traffic, and we do a weekly excursion to a beautiful spot. Last week it was to the Baghsu Nath water fall, where the children found clear pools to bathe in while we drank chai and made friends with the goats.Last week was birthday week, Yiga turned 3 on the 18th and Losel one two days later, on the 20th. We ordered a very fancy pink cake from Moonspeak, the owner went all over town looking for the strawberries. Losel had a blue cake from Woser Bakery and a display of matching cupcakes. We had balloons and toys that they will have to share. No one is going anywhere, for the moment at least, with China still closed. We don’t know how long this state of things will last, but we all feel safe here, with time in suspension. Knowing that nothing is up to us, waiting has a certain feel of comfort to it. Hope that India was being bypassed by covit-19 has now evaporated. Beyond Himachal’s borders, five hundred kilometers south in Delhi, hospitals are overflowing, and patients being turned away. Reading a Tibetan biography, we realize how people less than a century ago lived with the reality of epidemics, while we never considered they could also be part of ours.
Yesterday, Covit-19 came closer than ever with the death of a friend. Tendrol la was only a few years older than me, born in Tibet, raised in Switzerland. Our families had known each other for years and when our children were young, we would visit them in Switzerland. In the early 90’s Tendrol came to see us in India, and she told me she was quitting her job as a nurse and starting a project in Tibet, a hostel for orphans and children in need. We had in common this drive to do things that people admired but felt were risky and somewhat unreasonable. She began splitting her time between Tibet and Switzerland and within a few years, had built two thriving hostels, one in her husband Gyazur Lobsang Tsultrim’s area, Gyethang, and another near Lhasa, and had created a whole network of sponsors to support both. Sochoe and Dechen visited several times, and in 2018, Tendrol came to see us at Norden Camp with her husband and their son, Songtsen, who had settled in Gyethang and built his life and business there. Tendrol la was full of energy and we spent happy hours catching up.
Yesterday, a friend in Gyethang told us the news. She and Lobsang Tsultrim had both been ill in Switzerland, but she had not made it through. She was the younger and stronger one, another of this pandemic’s mysterious antics. I just wanted to remember her and let her family, her husband, and sons Songtsen and Gala, know that we are all thinking of her, of their loss, and the moments in our lives spent together.
The days slide by, Monday slipping into Tuesday, and suddenly the week is gone. We are now in our 7th week of lockdown. Tomorrow, the second round ends, and the third round, announced for two weeks, begins. We are considered an orange zone, so still no vehicles, and a curfew of sorts. The policemen are more relaxed, and some have become creative, donning extravagant robes to direct the covit-19, mostly pedestrian, traffic during the non-curfew hours. More shops are opening and yesterday, we found cheese. Around us, the weather is growing warmer, the cicadas and barbets louder, and the violent thunderstorms, precluders of the monsoon, more frequent. Mango season is here, we are getting increasingly creative in the kitchen, with Tenor making a whopping chocolate cake, and my trying my hand at smoothies and banana tea bread. The children are happy, finding new games, being artistic, inventing birthdays, and organizing treasure hunts.
On the news, we see the pandemic plateauing, people becoming restless, hopes for a vaccine rising, finger-pointing, and people still dying in frightful numbers. We feel safe in our little haven and in the back of our minds, wonder what will happen when it all starts again, not like before.
Our animal visitors are more rare, busy elsewhere in areas neglected by humans. For more than a month, we had an old macaque rhesus monkey visit our terrace every afternoon. He was small for his age and had a lame leg. He limped his way up, then found a peaceful spot to nap. If I came out, he would retreat into a corner and look at me in a pleading way. A few times, I gave him the leftover spoils of Losar, khapses, and he ate them leisurely. Then he stopped coming. The langurs didn’t show themselves for over a month, Each year, the Kachnar tree in our garden blooms, an explosion of exuberant white flowers tinged in pink. Everyone loves these flowers, more to eat than to look at, and in usual circumstances, I don’t get to see them in their full glory. The gardeners climb the tree to collect a sack or two and the langurs take care of the rest unless a hailstorm does away with them. This year I wondered if they would come and go undisturbed, but the day before yesterday, the langurs were back. From early morning, the ladies and babies feasted on the flowers, while the teenagers jumped about the terrace, upsetting the chairs. They took a noon nap in the trees, then spent the afternoon frolicking on the lawn before discovering the children’s plastic pool. It soon became like a waterhole in the jungle. By evening they were gone, and all was calm.
The birds are singing louder, the nights are quiet except for the dogs barking, the langurs have almost stopped coming, probably because they now have the whole town to themselves. Walking several kilometers for groceries and making lines is the new normal. The air is clear, there is more time to think, and though we are busy all day, there is a new calm, a ‘whatever comes, comes’ attitude. This is our life under lockdown, how we see it affecting us and our immediate environment, though we can imagine how the confinement of humans is affecting nature in the rest of the world.
On Earth Day, I think of Earth, and how she is getting a break, amazed at her capacity to rejuvenate and capitalize on the slightest retreat from our nefarious activities. I can’t help but reflect on our obnoxious behavior, fueled by arrogance and sense of entitlement. Let’s be honest; homo sapiens is a despicable, dangerous, and destructive creature. Those with a conscience may worry that we are ruining the earth, that we will be destroying it if we don’t change our ways, but no one can make the sacrifices to stop, not even slow down the huge machine that has been put in motion, as that would result in scraping the income of those at the top and deprive the ones at the bottom of basic necessities. And life goes on…until the limit is reached and Earth hits back. I feel we are presumptuous in thinking that Earth will let us destroy her. This is a losing battle, where we shouldn’t worry so much about Earth, she will take care of herself, but rather about the survival of our species. The pandemic may have changed the way we think, brought in new realities, new priorities, but when it is over, which may take some time, what will be the new normal? Will we go right back to where we were?
Earth not only deserves but commands respect. For Jews, Christians and Moslems, she is God, for Hindus, the Universe, for Buddhists, the law of cause and effect, for animists, Mother Earth. We cannot escape the reality that we are reaping what we sow, though we can redeem ourselves by reducing greed and acting smartly and selflessly. If we want to remain on this Earth, we need to show more empathy, compassion, and an understanding of the meaning of happiness.
My father was also an accomplished storyteller endowed with a prodigious memory. He was born in 1909 in Salonica, then a part of the Ottoman Empire, now Greece, and would sometimes tell me stories on Sundays, the only day I spent time with him. I loved hearing of his childhood and he reminisced his pranks and sibling rivalries, summer fun, the awful French school, but also the loss of his father, the fire that destroyed the city in 1917, and the near-famine they experienced thereafter. There were tales of companionship, adventure, endurance and privation but also of a loving family, all told to me in riveting detail.
In these days of pandemic where we are all at home, I thought the following story, depicting an incidence of cholera that took place in 1913, would be relevant. My father was only four, and his child’s view of the events offers a slice of life of a long-gone era tinged with present significance.
My first awareness of death came a few months after the takeover of Salonica by the Greeks, in 1913. It was difficult getting used to all the changes, and people were continually reminiscing about the good old ‘tiempo del Turco’, or Time of the Turks, under which the Sephardim community had been living for the past five hundred years. By this time, we had moved upstairs, to the middle floor of our building, with my Aunt Boulissa above and another family downstairs. One day, a member of that family became very ill. The doctor arrived, recognized the unmistakable signs of Cholera and called in the Greek sanitary services. Their reaction was swift, though we thought of it more as a calamity brought by the Greeks. They put us all in quarantine and brought in a string of gendarmes to watch over us day and night, making sure we didn’t leave the house.
There was but one way to get supplies and I enjoyed the process immensely. From a window, we would lower a hamper tied to a rope, with money inside. A bandanna covering their mouths, the pluckier greengrocers, leading donkeys saddled on both sides with baskets laden with victuals, would fill our hamper.
From the window, I could watch day after day, the sidewalk across the street being sprinkled with quicklime, poured out of a watering can. It was a whitish liquid that turned yellow after a time. The next day, it would be sprinkled with plain water until it recovered its pristine white color.
I was jubilant; I was no longer left alone with my mother all day long. Everybody stayed put at home, and it was like a holiday. I could not understand what it was all about as I had the word ‘calado’, down with a cold, mixed up with cholera. Father nervously rolled cigarettes, my brothers rehearsed their German lessons and my mother complained that the grocers took advantage of the situation by putting inferior goods into our hamper.
One morning, I discovered that the door leading downstairs to the cholera-stricken neighbor’s apartment had been left unlocked. From the landing, I caught sight of my little neighbor, Estrellica, who was chewing on something and, looking up at me said, “Do you want passicas, raisins? Come down, I’ve got a pocketful.” I climbed down and she gave me a handful. I had started eating them when I heard my mother’s imperious voice calling, “What are you doing downstairs? Get up here this minute! But what is this you are eating?” “They’re passicas, Mamica; Estrellica gave them to me.” Holding her cheeks with both hands, I heard her uttering a fearful “Oh, my God!” I thought that she was going to faint. Everyone came running and stared at me in consternation as the news of my escapade spread through the whole building like wildfire.
The passicas were soon thrown down the toilet and my hands were washed in alcohol. “All we needed was this rascal Maïrico making us all croak with cholera!” was the general outcry. Father kept his composure and firmly opposed the request of all our neighbors that I be closeted alone in a bedroom to await the outbreak of the dreaded disease. My mother, as any mother would, declared that she would not hesitate to be closeted with me if necessary.
From that moment on, I became an object of great curiosity. Ten times a day, family and upstairs neighbors would inquire if I felt any bellyache or dizziness. I had never been the center of such attention and to further boost my importance, I went from one to the other just to state that I felt no bellyache at all, nor had I had any dizzy spells; and I enjoyed watching them all raise their gaze to heaven.
Our neighbor died after a few days. Her body, soaked in quicklime, was removed by the special services. From the window, we watched the solitary hearse moving away.
As we enter the third week, 7:30 PM has become news time, when we switch on the BBC news and anxiously watch the developments that are unfolding beyond our gate. The pandemic is spreading at alarming rates in the whole world. We saw it appear, then catch on like a raging fire as it is in Italy, Spain and now the US. China is returning to normal, Yidam said it feels almost too normal, with everyone going about as if it never happened. Will it come back?
In India, the numbers are rising. Until two days ago, Himachal had still not gone beyond the original three cases, their families having been tested negative. There was talk of ending the lockdown on the 15th of April while keeping the state lines closed. A two-week quarantine is imposed on returning Himachal residents, pictures showing them lying listlessly on properly distanced cots in a barn, waiting… Now there are more cases, in another district, emanating from a Muzzamidin in Delhi group of Muslims who held a celebration last month and spread it among themselves then outside and beyond. All we can do is wait. The valley below us is silent, save for the few cars and bikes that circulate when the curfew is lifted. They are becoming scarce as petrol is now off-limits.
Police cars blow the occasional siren and blare our news no one can comprehend from handheld loudspeakers. Supplies are coming in fits and starts so that shopping is still possible. Arrests are made every day. People jumping the curfew, others selling goods at inflated prices, or smuggling items that had been discontinued “Do you want meat? Alcohol?” Tenor is approached as he races home like Cinderella before the last stroke of midnight. Alcohol and cigarettes are banned, the police beating people trying to get into the shuddered liquor stores, and cigarettes are sold singly on the sly. We thought about all the alcoholics, smokers, and drug addicts whose supplies have been cut, of the meat-eaters who will miss their daily fix. We are almost vegan as cheese is only available in the upper parts of town, closed off to us. Some of our children have declared they are sick of our daily rations of rice and dal, and Jampel la and Tenor have been making pizza until the existing cheese supply runs out.
The biggest challenge with the children is screen time. Baby D’s online classes start early, especially with the difference with China time. Tibetan requires endless memorization that she finds challenging. Math demands writing out circles and squares spelled out in Tibetan and there is Chinese on top. Dechen remembers her own study of Tibetan as a child, and reflected on how strongly it is based on memorization. She hovers over Baby D like a Japanese mother, beaming when she gets a virtual star or a line of praise from her teachers thousands of miles away on the Tibetan Plateau. The day is punctuated with tears and tantrums. She worries about getting back. India is closed and now China. If China opens, but India doesn’t? Meanwhile, Yiga is fighting for attention, wanting to stick to Ama at all times. She only relents when put in front of the IPad. We have exhausted Peppa Pig, and now it is Baby Bushwing. Dechen limits it by getting Norzin and Baby D to play with her, and pays them in screen time. I play with her one hour, but yesterday couldn’t wrench her away from the screen, which resulted in a drama that lasted the rest of the morning. I spend an hour with Norzin each day, though more for quality time as she has gone back to her online classes with Andrew, who teaches her from LA. We read my father’s biography, events that took place a hundred years ago, with cholera quarantines, girls and chaperones, silent movies, arranged marriages, French and Italian schools, Turkish soldiers, and a raging fire that devastated the town of Salonica.
Further south, on the Indian plains where the heat will soon rise, horror is beginning to unfold. There was a four-hour notice before all local and regional transport closed down. Migrant workers, in the millions in cities like Delhi or Mumbai, were left jobless and unable to pay rent, with no options other than to walk home to their villages, hundreds of miles away. They took off on the traffic deserted roads saying the government had forgotten them, those nameless people whose labor keeps the cities ticking. Soup kitchens are building up, camps erected, and some transportation arranged, but the number who will fall through the cracks is doubtless in the thousands. They found the first case of the virus in the largest Mumbai slum, which is being cordoned off. I don’t even want to think about what will happen to those inside. Poverty and chaos lead to desperate measures that bypass regard for human life. In the meantime, bigotry is raising its ugly head, and rumors in Himachal are running that Muslims have brought the virus to Himachal, a predominantly Hindu state where the sale of beef is illegal.
In the world at large, the ripples caused by Covit-19 are growing, and with them the effects of faulty policies dictated by short term vision and greed. In our day and age, leaders, though they may be hypocrites who don’t practice what they preach, usually strive for an image of unity and rising above squabbles, encouraging the best in all. No longer. On one side of the world, we have a cockerel who convinces the poor that their interest lies in his favoring the rich and has brought vulgarity, bigotry, and divisiveness to the front lines. On the other, we have one who speaks for destroying the secular make up laid out by its founders, vital to the well-being of a nation that relies on a delicate balance between multiple ethnicities and religions.
I hope that people with the sense to rise above all that will prevail. It is not the time to blame and point at each other. We have a real enemy now, one common to us all, one we can’t see. We need unity and all the goodwill in the world to weed it out.
On the 21st, the borders to Himachal Pradesh’s borders closed. There were no declared cases as of yet, so I basked in the idea of isolation… within our beautiful state. I was holding a little class of five, with Norzin, and her friends Sangmo, Kunga and Rignam, whose schools had closed. It was a first for Norzin, who has been homeschooled all her life save for a short stint in the village school, to have more than two pupils in a class, and she loved it. We read books in English, played vocabulary games and talked about geography and Early Man. It was soon apparent that the regional border closure was a serious matter; parents going to neighboring Uttar Ranchal to pick up their children were turned back and no one was getting through. We spent the week shopping for more essentials and continued to stock on jam and coffee.
On Friday night, we heard two people in our district were confirmed positive one just down the hill, a Kotwali bazaar shop owner’s mother returning from Dubai. We decided to go into lockdown from the next day, and canceled all the usual visitors; nannies, cleaning woman, nurse, and the children coming for classes. That first day was strange, suddenly, it was just us, the extended family of twelve in two adjacent houses, and we readjusted with a feeling of duty, convinced this was the best we could do, and that we were lucky to live as we did. I began calling around, first my sisters in France and the UK and reconnected with elder cousins in various countries, then people around us. Tenor was deputed for the purchase of all perishable goods shopping and we made a run for the local general store to stock up on yogurt and dal. Sunday was to be a nationwide lockdown, from 6am to 9pm, interrupted by a mandatory cacophony of banging of pots and pans at 5 Pm, a show of solidarity to the medical workers. No one banged pots in our area, or we are too far from each other to hear it, but sarcastic remarks abounded, mixed with social media calls for providing them with protective equipment instead. Some rumors had it that this was a one time, 24-hour attempt at stopping the virus. We were relieved when it grew into a lockdown, and by the next morning we knew what we were in for; police on the roads, the hill we live on divided into sections, transportation to a standstill.
Within a day or two, we had turned inward, dividing all the house duties and keeping the children positively occupied. I realized that even after having greatly reduced my travel, how disconnected I was with my own environment and how much my mind had fixated on the outside, on matters that now gradually receded and appeared increasingly irrelevant. We organized ourselves for cooking and cleaning the house and dealing with waste. Baby D has her online school, Norzin classes with me and Yiga spent the first few days exploding in tantrums taking solace cuddling with Dechen or licking to bowl with the chocolate cake mix. We figured she was getting homesick, asking about her father, and enchanted by the cow that wandered into our garden. She must be missing the walks on the pasture with her nanny and her dzomo (yak/cow hybrid) that delivered milk from the source.
Three days ago, an elder Tibetan man coming from the US died of the virus in a Kangra hospital. The police complained that no one respected the norms and imposed a curfew. Now there will be lines for food during the few hours during which it is lifted, which defeats the purpose. In a way, I appreciate the precautions taken and hope they will stop the virus and avoid a possible disaster. The world stopping gives me a soothing feeling. We are lucky to be where we are, for the moment, though I think of all those who remain cramped in small spaces. We took it all from granted and this running everywhere finally is going nowhere and ruining the planet. Even here, the sweeping view from our terrace is clear again, just like it was twenty years ago.
On Friday the 13th, India’s borders closed. We imagined the pandemonium that must have created, but we were glad that something was being done. Monday came and reality hit. Early in the morning, Dechen prepared to leave for Delhi for her dentist appointment. Yiga was screaming upstairs, Tenor in the living room, car keys in hand. She felt uneasy, and messages from Noryang in Seattle began to come in, furiously telling her to stay put. After a few minutes, she relented, and by 11, the dentist called and announced they were closing that day. As the day rolled on, I spoke to Noryang who said things were chaotic in Seattle, the medical community in total confusion, no protective suits or leadership, the Health department bouncing off contradictory messages and tests largely unavailable. That same day, she had seen a patient with suspicious symptoms and sent her off to the one clinic that conducted testing. A few hours later, she learned that the patient had been sent home untested, as her Medicare Insurance did not cover the cost of the test and she didn’t have the means to pay for it. “They still only think about money” she said, feeling confused and disheartened.
By noon, the Indian decree used during epidemics was rolled out. All temples and places of worship, schools, and learning institutions were ordered closed, all gatherings canceled. It was forbidden for more than four people to stand together in public places. I began to wonder how these would apply to stores and restaurants since these didn’t appear to be closed…yet. Apparently, there was also a measure put in place against hoarding hand sanitizer. Toilet paper should remain plentiful as the population has other means, much more sanitary actually, for dealing with the matter.
We discussed stocking up. One never knows, if Himachal is cut off, they may block everything and since this state imports most of its foodstuffs from Punjab and beyond, better be safe. We discussed getting plenty of jam, marmite, cheese and beer, (I got scoffed at when I mentioned chocolate) then decided to get more serious and stock on essentials; rice, dal, flour, butter and milk, all items that keep for a long time if stocked properly. It may sound alarming to put butter in that category but this is Amul butter, the Indian national butter that doesn’t need refrigeration and that, though having the look of butter, behaves differently when forcibly melted. We decided to leave the heavy stuff for the next day and Tenor, Dechen, Baby D and I went to the petrol pump, which boasts the busiest mini mart-like store in town. I noticed the liquor had all been raided, but there was beer. We wandered around feeling lost, losing our focus. I didn’t find the jam I liked, the coffee was the wrong brand, but there was yogurt, and body wash. We couldn’t resist ice cream, with Baby D ate with relish, smearing her face with chocolate. We proceeded to Kotwali Bazaar, where we bought a roll of toilet paper to clean her face from a vendor near the parking lot. There seemed to be an ample supply. Most of the stores were closed, but it was Monday, after all, closing day. It was normal, calm, with people going about their business as they have since the first day I came 41 years ago. The fruit vendor conned us into buying mangos past their prime, probably in a hurry to get rid of them. It felt like the calm before the storm, with war declared and the enemy yet to arrive. In the meantime, people were still living and we decided to do the same and treat ourselves to a midafternoon snack in the busy little restaurant that boasts the best bazaar food. We ordered samosas to eat and take home, puri baji, lassi and delicious masala tea served in those little glasses. Our shopping expedition was rather poor, but the outing rich in appreciation of what a normal day can be not knowing what is coming next.
I began working with a Rolleiflex at the age of fifteen, and a year later, had my own. It was my favorite camera. I like street photography best, and though the camera was rather indiscreet and cumbersome, one didn’t have to aim it directly at the subject through a view finder which, to an extent and depending on the amount of discretion used, protected one from immediate notice. The large negatives delivered the crisp images I loved and minimized my endless blunders in the darkroom.
The Rolleiflex ended up being my only surviving analog camera. My father’s Leica was stolen in DC in 1977, when I left my car door wide open while asking directions for the Smithsonian zoo, the succeeding Pentax was sold in 1983 to a friend who had had his camera stolen in an Indian railway station and needed a new camera for a trip to Tibet. My two Nikons, which succeeded the Pentax, were left in a plane to Hong Kong by Genam in 2005. The Rolleiflex stayed put, and spent some time with Noryang though none of my children discovered its charms, preferring their 35 mm analog cameras.
In 2017, we found a stash of 120 film left by visiting photographers. The Rolleiflex found its way from Seattle to Ritoma, and I peeled it out of its cracking leather case. It felt light and comfortable in my hands, bringing back the comfort and excitement it had brought me for years. The old reflexes, discarded in the age of digital photography returned: The awareness of the limited number of shots, the challenge of catching the best possible moment and the long wait to see the results. The wait now was particularly long; in the past I would step into my darkroom and in a few hours had the film and a contact print. Now I had to wait to return to Delhi or Paris, where a surviving analog photo lab would develop the film, which I would scan or choose to have printed later.
On a sunny November afternoon, Norzin and I made our way to the kora, the merit building road that circles Ritoma Monastery. I took my first photos of the main hall, circumambulated by a few regulars, and a monk doing household chores to the side. A small yak came trotting along in the opposite way from that of the pilgrims. As I clicked here and there, Norzin reminded me each film only had twelve shots; “do you really want to take that?” By the time we had made our way around, meeting up with the returning herds of sheep, my film was gone, but so was the light.
Christmas was the most exciting event of the year. Until my sister Mimi moved to Shri Lanka, then Australia following her wedding in 1965, my three sisters, who were always away either in America or Spain would convene for a few days of fun. The food, the decoration of the tree, the bustle, the whispering, and the presents brought on a level of intense excitement, Christmas fever, I suppose. There were Christmas cookies in the shape of trees and Hansel and Gretel made with American cookie cutters and even food coloring bought from the American commissary. There was also Santa who showered us with gifts, until my friend Deirdre at school told me, just before the Christmas of 62, that Santa didn’t exist and that the presents came from one’s parents. It suddenly seemed so logical and would explain the toys I had seen hidden up in the closet, that accepted with no regrets and moved on. Germaine, my nanny, explained that Christmas was all mixed up, that Santa was an American fabrication borrowed from Belgian St Nicholas, the protector of children (there was a gory story attached to that which I can’t remember) who brought Children presents on December 6th. In Spain, by contrast, they did things late and it was the three-star gazing Kings who showered children with gifts on January 6th. “When I was little, she said, Petit Jesus came and put something in our shoes” and continued by deploring what Christmas had become; one big commercial party. My mother looked disappointed but resigned when I told her about Deirdre’s revelation, muttering that Deirdre could have waited until after Christmas. Then she went on to say how when she was a little girl in Mississippi during the great depression, they had a bar of chocolate for Christmas, and maybe an apple and some soda pop. My father said nothing, enjoying the moment and his family. Christmas was something he had only encountered in America during and after the war.
The curtain was lifted and I joined into the task of wrapping presents and disposing them under the tree. Beginning in 1966, we moved Christmas to our country house in St Maclou. After a year or two, I convinced my mother to buy a Christmas tree with roots, the after Christmas with the falling needles and dead tree just made me too sad. Everyone agreed and after some years, we had a little forest of Christmas trees in the garden.
Part of the fun around Christmas were the presents for everyone else. My pocket money didn’t go very far, so I made them. In the 70’s I had a darkroom, and made calendars for most members of my family, with a photo per month chosen from the ocean of negatives piled into a box in the upstairs closet. I made a big print, then glued it onto the top part of a large sheet of Canson paper and wrote the dates by hand. One year, I stuck too many calendars in a closed room, got high on the glue and was sick the next day.
On Christmas day, if the weather permitted, we would drive over to Deauville and walk on the beach and maybe have a coffee on an open café on the Planches. The family grew, and by 1971, Mimi and Louis came yearly over the channel in a ferry with their three children. Santa came back, acted by either of my parents. Little Louis, in awe, said to Santa that he ‘smelled like Mamouche’ his grandmother.
In 1979, I moved to India where Christmas was a religious holiday for Christians and since there were none in Himachal, Christmas was just another day. I didn’t try to export it and it remained in France. My sisters had their Christmas with their families and sometimes we joined in, the cookie cutters and the aged food coloring would find their way out of a tin and my children had fun with their cousins.
Now Christmas is everywhere. I first reconnected with it in Singapore and Malaysia in the 90’s then in Thailand where three of my grandchildren were born. It then moved on to China and the Tibetan Plateau, where waitresses in Santa hats served in Tso hotpot restaurants. In India in the age of globalization, it has become a time for parties and fun.