Longings of a heart

‘I never went to religion to find comfort. I always knew that a bottle of Port could do that. If anyone wants to come to religion to find comfort, I would certainly not recommend Christianity.’-C.S.Lewis December always brings with itself an air of celebration. During my childhood, the last month of Roman calendar would bring new clothes, long leisure and cosy winter wear. The season of Christmas was always associated with gifts and fern trees decorated with cards and bells.   25 th December is a holiday with no school and good food. Though my mom would say that it was not about Biryani but Christ who was born for us, it hardly sustained my attention beyond the confines of the carols and cathedral. In my college, I began to understand what Christmas was really about. Every year I read through the pages that are called Gospels. And each time I read new and radical themes come forth. These thoughts, cause unrest and joy in equal proportion. This year on the Christmas Eve

The MRI room no 11 buzz with activity at 4:30 in the evening. I monitor a 2 year child with development disorder in the globular contraption that scans his brain. He is the 10 th child we drug to unconsciousness that day. Life becomes monotonous and dreary as a PG registrar. There is no time for Alice and our temperament begins to strain. So we decide to escape.  It is 4 in the morning on Saturday.  Ours is the only light illuminating the corridors in the annexe. We wake up in a jerk, pack the backpack and get down for an auto rickshaw. We get into a terrifying 3 wheeler that picks the rough spots on the road for us to tumble. We reach the bus stand for a bus to Chennai. As the vehicle starts, Alice falls asleep. I watch the majesty of NH 4 as my ears are plugged to Don Moen’s tunes. The bus races past the 120 kms in two hours. The green country side gradually gives way to the metropolitan bustle with universities, hospitals, real estate villas and restaurants filling the land