I Killed Santa
Claus
by Amit
Parmessur
It was the
time when I was a busy teacher, though I’d
like to think cheater would be more apt. I was
having a busy Christmas Eve tutoring a couple of
children. They were so desperate that I had
promised their parents to make them work until
Christmas, not that I wanted to be the Santa
Claus of enlightenment.
I wanted to
keep my evening free to buy gifts for my son, but
how could I know that the desperate
children’s parents would ring me for a
surprise party to thank me for my patience. And
you wouldn’t believe, the party was so
excellent that I forgot my own son.
To make the
story sound more interesting, I should add that
my wife was the kind of quiet woman who
wouldn’t do anything save breathing within
four walls. I came home.
"Father?
Will Santa Uncle come tonight just like each year?"
asked my son. I almost died.
I stammered.
I slurred.
Then I lied.
"You know son, the news has just gone by.
Santa Uncle has been killed."
"Santa
Uncle killed!" My son was so innocent that
he remained quiet for some seconds. "This
means that no child will have gifts this year."
"Right.
Masked bandits chased him when his chariot landed
in our town." I paused. "They attacked
him and stole his gifts. First they cut his beard
to see how he appears. Then, they removed his hat
to see if he had real hair."
"And they
killed him," my son continued.
"Right."
"Haven’t
the police done anything?"
"I
don’t think they can," I stammered. I
was at a loss. I realised I would be worse when
my perplexed son would be looking at his
friends’ Christmas gifts.
During the
conversation I couldn’t understand my wife.
As if she wanted to say something. When I met her
afterwards, she said there was no need for the
lie. She had bought several gifts. That was a
first. Was she finally emancipated? Or an
astrologer, who knew I wouldn’t buy the
gifts? That Christmas was proving slightly
different.
I questioned
the astrologer in my wife. "You think our
son will be asleep at midnight?"
"He’s
disappointed. When he is, he sleeps," she
said. That wasn’t certainly astrology.
"So, we
can keep the gifts near his bed and tell him in
the morning that miraculously Santa Uncle is
still alive," I said.
"That
will be fine," my wife concluded shyly.
Midnight. I
slipped into my son’s room. Alas! He
wasn’t there. We searched everywhere. No
trace of him. Forget emancipation. Forget
astrology. My wife was now a wild mother. And to
appease a wild mother is some job.
I rushed to
the nearest police station. I filed a case. But
as I came out I saw a policeman and my son, with
a big ice-cream. Maybe it’s the quickest
solved missing case of all.
He ran to me.
"I came here and criticized everyone for
their handling of Uncle Santa’s case."
|
