Secret Santa

As Christmas approaches on my doorstep, I wish Secret Santa would come calling this year. Being located in the land where Jesus Christ got baptised, should give me some added advantage, I feel. And after living a boring sort of existence for half a decade, I fervently hope that my humble request is fulfilled this time around. 

Contrary to what everyone thinks, I have never got a secret Santa gift in my life. Not only that, in a school or college/university Carnival, I did not ever have any songs dedicated to me by a known or unknown admirer. I have not won a lucky-dip prize in any social gathering and in whichever game of cards that I’ve played; I’ve generally lost the most amount of money in the shortest period. It’s not fair, I know, and I’ve cribbed about it to all and sundry but not too many people have had the inclination to listen to me. 

“Have you ever been a secret Santa for anyone?” asks the voice in my head suddenly. Now, here is the inherent problem with entertaining these formless inner voices: They force you to take a good look at your own selves. While it is very well for me to complain about nobody being my secret Santa, the fact remains that I have never been one for anybody else too, other than the times when our daughter was growing up and hung a Christmas stocking by her bedside, happy with the knowledge that Santa Claus would fill it up with choicest treats at midnight. That was when I wore multihats and doubled up as a tooth fairy, Santa’s elf, magician, and clown, all rolled into one.

But besides that, I have honestly not strived to be a secret Santa. One of the main reasons for this is that I am unable to keep anything secretive for long. I don’t know how others do it, but I start getting a pain in my stomach and before long the secret, sort of, spills out of my mouth.

However, that does not stop me from wishing for a secret Santa who would perhaps get me a beautifully wrapped box of sweet lychees, all the way from wherever they are growing at the moment. Why lychees? Ahem, well, if you knew my obsession for the fruit, you would not ask this question. 

Soon I get busy decorating the Christmas tree in my garden, which I had planted two years ago. I also collect some woolens, blankets and socks and think of taking them for the Iraqi refugees in the nearby church. With a decent collection, I drive over to the place one evening. 

The prayers have just started and I stand on one side and listen to the melodious hymns. Afterwards I go to meet the head priest. Dressed in dark robes, he is a tall man with bright blue eyes and a white beard. 

When I hand him my package, he invites me to have a drink. 

“Wow! This wine has a lychee flavour,” I exclaim as soon as I take a sip. 

“Do you like it?” the priest twinkles. 

“I love it! Where did you get it from?” I ask. 

“We make it here,” he confesses. 

“Oh”, I mumble in disappointment. 

“Goodbye,” I say, getting into my car. 

“This is for you,” he hands me a box. 

“It smells of lychees. What is it?” I am curious. 

“Your secret Santa gift,” he smiles.