 Away in a manger
by Jeannette Cabraal
There was much activity and
excitement in the Children’s Home. The kind of thrilling atmosphere that
pervades it perhaps a couple or so of times in the year. At Christmas,
Wesak and the Sinhala and Hindu New Year.
Christmas being essentially a children’s festival connected with the
birth of the Christ Child and the connection with St. Nicholas or Santa
Claus bringing gifts for children, was naturally appealing.
 And the shops and pavements overflowing with toys, varieties of
sweets, colourful trinkets and balloons, decorations and tinsel in
eye-catching gorgeous colours evoke an answering sparkle in the eyes of
children. Children of all ages and sizes ranging from toddling two year
olds to fidgety twelve year olds frisked around blowing balloons,
blowing bubbles, colliding into one another in joyous camaraderie;
sharing the gifts and other goodies that came their way in this annual
splurge of people sharing their joy and bounty with the less privileged.
Screamed of laughter, jollity reverberated in the merry atmosphere of
the season; jaws moved, sucking sweets, munching biscuits and chocolates
and chewing gum.
It was heaven on earth for these orphaned children, orphaned for
various reasons, finding companionship, in their common predicament.
Some forsaken by their unwed mothers, war orphans, innocent victims
caught in the crossfire that ensued in the border villages.
Children given over to households for the parents to maintain
themselves, grossly abused by their masters and mistresses and sent to
the Home on court order. Alone in an infinitely unfriendly pitiless
world but for this haven. The caretakers looked on sharing the joy of
their proteges on this eve of Christmas. They were all well into the
mood of Christmas. In a corner stood a giant Christmas Tree glittering
in all its splendour the magnanimity of yet another affluent donor.
In the midst of all this jollity around, a four-year old, a recent
addition, sat apart, a rejected Teddy at her side vacantly staring into
space, not at the vivacious activity around her, rejecting all offers of
friendliness, scared over the noise around her she sat engrossed in a
world of her own. Some of the children lit sparklers. Then suddenly
there was a powerful burst of crackers and like a dormant volcano that
unexpectedly erupts, there was a convulsive burst of hysterical screams
from the little four-year old. She screamed and screamed running round
and round in circles, sheer fright registered on her face. She ran
screaming into the night pursued by the girls who looked after the
children.
Having caught up with her, they coaxed her to enter the adjoining
church to distract her. The sporadic burst of crackers brought on a
convulsive shiver and one girl carried her and took her to the crib
prepared for the celebration pointing out Mother Mary and the other
figures. Something clicked within the little girl. This seemed somehow
familiar to her.
The semblance of a hut, cattle around and a protective man, and a
woman to protect her child. They were life size. Slipping down from the
girl’s arms, she crept in. She who had rejected the large Teddy Bear
clutched the baby Jesus tight to her bosom and huddled in the hay close
beside Mary, her eyes closing in the sheer exhaustion of her trauma, as
though she had found the familiar surroundings she had been searching
for, since her traumatic experience way back in her village. This was
home. |
