{"id":335,"date":"2024-03-27T23:23:37","date_gmt":"2024-03-27T23:23:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/?p=335"},"modified":"2024-03-27T23:44:08","modified_gmt":"2024-03-27T23:44:08","slug":"to-my-santa","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/to-my-santa\/","title":{"rendered":"To My Santa"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe look under your pillow, in case Santa Claus left you a gift.\u201d said my father casually while he stood shaving at the sink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was Christmas morning and I had just woken up. I was 8 years old and had never received a Christmas gift before in my life. This is because I grew up a Hindu – in India; a country with only 5% Christian population. Christmas was a minor holiday for the majority of the country and in an era before the Internet or Social Media, we had very little knowledge about this Christian festival. Indeed my sister and I had only that year found out from reading in an Encyclopedia that there is an entity called \u201cSanta Claus\u201d who brings gifts to children around the world on the night before Christmas!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I chuckled and removed my pillow to humor my father, entirely sure he was making a joke. To my utter surprise, I found a white envelope with my name on it spelled S-W-A-T-Y instead of S-W-A-T-I.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWha\u2026t?\u201d Didi (meaning elder sister in Hindi), my elder sister who was almost 14 exclaimed as she removed her own pillow. No gift for her!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo Santa Claus gave her a gift but not me?!!\u201d she complained loudly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe you have aged out!\u2019 said my mother, her nose crinkled, obviously pulling her leg.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo what did Santa Claus get you?\u201d Didi asked, her tone a mix of envy and curiosity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still shocked from the unexpected turn of events, I opened the envelope, it had a milk chocolate that was clearly not a regular Indian one, and a couple of postcards – from Finland. And a hand-written note.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGo on!\u201d, Didi egged me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened the letter, written in curly hand-writing with a lot of flair, it said \u201cDear Swaty<\/em> (spelled with a \u201cy\u201d instead of an “i”), you have been a great daughter, sister and student this year. You deserve good things. Love, Santa<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What a compliment! I started crying. Didi who was still sitting on the bed next to me, gave me a big hug. Then said with a complaining tone \u201cSo does it mean I have not been a great daughter, sister and student?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have just aged out!\u2019 repeated my mother, laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That year began the tradition of Santa\u2019s gifts for me. Every Christmas morning, I would wake up and look under or around my pillow. Every year I found something. As I got older, the gifts got more interesting, things I had really wanted that year. My wish list was simple; books, journals, pens. Santa\u2019s note always had the same handwriting, the same flair and the same wrong <\/strong>spelling of my name! Somehow Santa knew me all the way from Finland but couldn\u2019t figure out the correct spelling of my name spelling it SWATY with a Y at the end!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The year I turned 13, Didi got into college. For 10 days spanning Christmas and New Year, she had to be away on a college trip. \u201cDon\u2019t open Santa\u2019s gifts until I get back on the 2nd\u2026if you can hold it that long\u201d, she had ordered me before taking off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On Christmas Eve my parents and I had dinner together, watched TV, and then I went to bed. I used to be a heavy sleeper in those days, my mother used to joke she could beat the drums and I won\u2019t wake up. So I only woke up vaguely when I heard my parents in my room, whispering, opening & shutting closet doors, apparently searching for something. And I only vaguely felt the crinkle of the gift wrapper from the gift being placed under my pillow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I woke up on Christmas morning, my father doing his usual morning routine and asking me if Santa Claus had left me anything. I removed the pillow and saw my gift! But as soon as I touched it – the penny dropped. Suddenly it was all clear to me \u2013 it had been my parents the previous night looking for the gift in my room and it was them who had placed the gift under my pillow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I burst into tears. The magic was over. There had been no Santa Claus, it had always been my parents. They let me cry and then took me out to change my mood. The next day my father sat me down and told me that there is no Santa Claus and that I was old enough to accept that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fairly depressed, I went to my mother. \u201cWhat are we going to tell Didi when she gets back?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My mother remained silent for a few minutes. Then she looked at me in the eye. And somehow I knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I left my gifts unopened as per Didi\u2019s instructions. She arrived as scheduled on the 2nd of Jan. My father brought her home from the train station. She came directly to our room and asked me in her usual loving bossy way \u201cAnd?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll the gifts are here.\u201d I told her. \u201cLet\u2019s open them together!!\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I do not recall at all what the gifts were that year. What I recall is this: At the bottom of the gifts was a note I had written for my sister, in an envelope that said \u201cTo My Santa<\/strong>\u201d. Didi looked at me stunned. \u201cGo on\u201d I said. Didi read my note and started crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The year we had read about the existence of Santa Claus in an Encyclopedia; when I was 8 and Didi was almost 14, I had wished that Santa would bring me gifts, and she had decided she was going to do that for me. She had enrolled my parents into it; saving postcards from my father\u2019s trips abroad and going to special shops in Delhi to find those international looking gifts. She had packed the gifts and written the notes in an unfamiliar handwriting. The year she had been away for her college trip, my parents couldn\u2019t remember where she had hidden my gift and had to search for it in the middle of the night!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My note to my sister thanked her for being my Santa all those years. It ended with the words. \u201cDear Santa, you are a great daughter & student. And you are the BEST SISTER in the world. You deserve all good things. Love, Swaty<\/em>” – spelled with a \u201cY\u201d<\/strong>!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

More than a filmmaker\/storyteller, Swati turns ideas into experience.<\/em> She is a loved wife, sister & mother \u2013 of cats as well as two daughters; her miracle-children.<\/em> She is an immigrant to the United States and also an environmentalist<\/em><\/em>. She can be reached via <\/em>Linkedin<\/em><\/a> and <\/em>swati@TiredAndBeatup.com<\/em><\/a><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It was Christmas morning and I had just woken up. I was 8 years old and had never received a Christmas gift before in my life..<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":336,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"chat","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-335","post","type-post","status-publish","format-chat","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-reflections","post_format-post-format-chat"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/335","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=335"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/335\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":344,"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/335\/revisions\/344"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/336"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=335"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=335"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.tiredandbeatup.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=335"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}