Santa Claus descends from his chariot. It’s that time of the year again. He looks down at the list of all the children who will be receiving gifts tonight

Silent night

Holy night

All is calm

All is bright

Santa Claus descends from his chariot. It’s that time of the year again.There’s a warm feeling in his heart.He looks down at the list of all the children in the world who will be receiving gifts tonight.

santa claus1 The Day When Santa Lost Faith in Himself

All is calm

All is bright”

A screechy voice sings. Santa looks up.A small brown egg head is glaring at him. 

Eyes as black as the christmas eve night look at him almost with hostility. Eyes piercing through his existence .Santa shivers. Unusual reaction.His rotund beer belly normally elicits gurgling giggles from all tiny creatures. Never mind. He tugs at his cotton ball beard and shouts pompously,”Ho Ho Ho” , hoping this would elicit some christmas spirit. Or at least dim that shiny fervor in those eyes.

The egg head starts to speak. A high-pitched breathy voice unable to mask the lack of years of the egg head. “You’re back again”. His weak underdeveloped voice is almost accusing. “Well yes my child, it’s christmas time. I bear gifts from the passage of time.”

Father Christmas peers through the list for a mention of the brown egg head. But no brown egg heads on this list for sure. “Oh don’t worry I’m not on the list”says the little brown egg head , this time letting out a contemptuous giggle. Egg head with so much darkness,The saint wonders. “Those naughty helper elves,slacking off again. But no worry my child, I’m here.Today you’ll be put on the list.” Nicholas is magnanimous today. Egg head looks unimpressed.Boiled almost.

I don’t believe in you.”he announces. “Well child, I’m in front of you.Why don’t you believe in me ?” “ I don’t believe in you in the same way as when help is offered,I’m taught to distrust.I stare at the face of kindness to look at the wrinkles of ulterior motives. I see you kindness but I don’t believe in you.” Santa is baffled,must be those extra chicken pot pies with gravy Mrs Klaus baked last night.Or is it the little egg head speaking the truth?

Well child,what can I do to make you believe me?” Santa asks the brown egg.He notices the unsightly blemishes and lines on the brown egg’s hands. Almost as if his hands belie an ancient age. “I want you to shower me with gifts without asking. I want you to feed my ego with the same vitality as gilded flattery. The more you flatter me, the more you shower me with gifts of appreciation,the more I’ll believe in you. But the moment you stop feeding my hunger and ask for my value, You’ll become invisible to me.Like love shatters the moment the harsh reality of truth hits it” Santa looks at the brown egg head again . He’s tiny,frail and fragile . But those eyes.

“I’m sorry,my pet. I don’t know your name so I can put you on the list to give you gifts. I need to know your name and your father’s name before I can do anything for you.” “Why do you need to know my name to be kind to me? Why do you need to classify me into a group before being kind to me. Isn’t it enough that I ask for help? Will it make a difference if my name is Adam,Aman or Abdullah?”

“ I need your name so that I may divide you into naughty or nice, impugnant child” “ Who are you to decide the morality of my actions? Shouldn’t you be concerned about the consequences on your morality once you deny me. Or are you looking for a reason to justify your lack thereof ? Are my mistakes an excuse for yours?” He looks up from his list .

A perfect calligraphy illustrating the childhood beginning of the judgmental failures. The world (at least the meagre part which still believed in him) is divided into the perfect nice and the devilish naughty. An oversimplification.

Didn’t wait for you,did they Dante?” the brown egg whispers. His perfect eyes suddenly cloud over . The black of young innocence is tinged with the gray cataract of old age. Santa wonders if it’s the conversation or something more sinister. Any-ho He’s tired as well.He listens to the far away voices of revelry with the familiar warm fuzzy smell of a christmas afar. He wants to escape this freakish old child brown egg.

The brown egg suddenly shivers and falls to the floor.Father christmas falls with him. He takes the ugly brown egg in his arms. The shining black eyes look moth-eaten now. The saint recoils with disgust. He throws the brown egg away from himself.

Do you want to leave me?” the brown egg asks. Santa looks embarrassed. He didn’t know his discomfort was so transparent. “The cold harsh ugly reality is me. Yet you recoil from me.You want to escape into the warm fuzz of exaggerated happiness.You see someone dying on the street. You race away. The flight from reality is heady.”

The Saint cannot stop the flood of hate that surges through him with these words. He’s the manifestation of human benevolence. How dare this ugly little egg taint the varnish ? He leaves the ugly reality dead on the street. Like we do . Again and Again. No time, We’re busy. There’s a christmas we have to celebrate.

KEEP Silent night

Holy night

All is calm

All is bright

By: Bhavna Sharma

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