Father Christmas Eve

Abstract

The first visit to the moon by the Americans as recorded by myself when in
India at a town where I was waiting to catch a train to Bombay,
strangely rehearsing my French, as it turned out I met a Frenchman
on the train who guided me on to Goa for a magical three months by the sea.

Father Christmas Eve

Magical cures on Christmas Eve. An Indian sky where the moon crescent shines.


Attracted by shadows in the dark blue air, the production of a powerful hurricane lamp, I find 
a man selling magical cures. It is Christmas Eve, in a strange land.  the town's name is
Bhusawel in Maharastra. I arrived at dusk, depart later in the night.


Christmas Eve, those flickering shadows jumping at the night from Jhoti Ram's circle summon me.
On this evening I will allow myself the treat of watching Jhoti Ram's magic.


The hurricane lamp is atop three packing cases, overlooks a neat array of mysterious bundles
and heaps. The man in the moon is being encircled by three American men. The light of 
the lamp and the moon combine for Jhoti Ram's production of MAGIC ON CHRISTMAS EVE!


Naturally the kids are at the front of the circle of wayfarers watching.  They sit cross-legged
or rest on their haunches.  Under the stark lamp light are piles of woods and twigs, stones
threaded into bracelets, conch shells shining with brittle perfection, powders in jars, others 
wrapped in triangular pieces of paper. Then there are paper bags full of grasses. A collection
of Krishna pictures is spread out on the white sheet bordered by red, seen under the dark 
night of stars and crescent moon. The brightest lights are in the eyes, never turning away, of men 
watching, watching as Jhoti Ram talks seated, emphatically sweeps with his arm, bangs his 
chest, points at a man, spreads his hands, talking, always talking.


Jhoti Ram is Father Christmas for me this year.  He is giving his special performance of 
entrancement, presents, miracles contained in the earth's sticks and stones. Magic does exist -
in India - on Christmas Eve.  Jhoti Ram of the Joseph Stalin moustache, ear-ring ear and square
face earns his living selling patent medicines, I see Jhoti Ram the bringer of hope and belief
in the unknown on this one night of Christian wonder.


Christmas Eve. I sit down closer to Jhoti Ram beating the air with controlled smoothness. Not one 
pair of eyes move from his spellbinding.


He is mixing and cutting powders and twigs, sprinkling some of this bottle onto some of that bottle
and Jai, jai, Sita Ram some of this very special powder.  The hurricane lamp fades, Jhoti Ram
has to hold his audience's attention without his formidable array of props, temporarily disappeared from
sight while a man pumps at the hurricane lamp, tries to reachieve its stunning brightness.


He holds their attention. And mine.  He is selling his elixir cures to the watching crowd.  With all these
different, beautiful in their wooden variety, woods and powders perhaps he is a real magician,
a magic curer.


He is sympathetic enough to diagnose his audience's need for sincere drama.  Jai, jai, he 
sweeps his hand suddenly up, his assistant has little packets of the just prepared powder ready.
They're offering one rupee notes all round.  Seems half the roadside crowd is buying, under a 
hidden moon. It lights the edges of clouds forming a bright canyon between dark masses, the sight 
is cold and distant. I hope it is not a sign the Americans have copped it, gone suddenly cold.


Jhoti Ram has dispensed the packets to the eager crowd. His assistant is talking, unconvincingly,
sweat pouring down his temples.  The crowd in the night drawn by the lamp continues to watch,
their wide eyes show fascination for drama.


All over. The assistant fails to sell any powder.  Jhoti Ram starts to pack up, still retaining the strong,
life-wise face crowned with the walrus moustache.


I feel a joy. Two hours of entertainment, many people happier with their miracle tonic. Me? I have
found my Father Christmas, quietly far from home Christmas has happened. I ask Jhoti Ram his name.
'Jhoti Ram', and a penetrating look.


Well, it's the first Christmas there's been people up there. The light from the hurricane lamp goes out,
only the riding crescent of the moon lights us, an Indian and me, fellow Christians, our hands shake
and thumbs give a special squeeze. On Christmas Eve brotherhood in the name of Christ.


 Bhusawel, Maharastra, India, Dec 24, 1968


From  The Conjunction of the Sun and Moon
www.kozmikhoroscopes.com/poetry6.htm