Memories of my first Christmas is wrapped in blurry recollections. The old times and new times have been shading them fast with only faint traces where I could locate myself in dry December evening of which my faculties is not dull enough to forget the date.

But the year, I cannot remember anymore. I cannot remember for sure which one it was, my third or fourth.

But it was after my passing the KGB(Not the Russian SS) annual examination. Should I blame old age as man does to hide his weakness? That was a long time ago in Tamenglong district, where I was born.

I remember my sister and I went to choose the young tree, for Christmas tree, which overnight would change our home. We decorated with balloons, colour papers and small silver stars which our dad bought for us.

On the top of the tree we planted the big red star that hardly glows. No lights. Electricity was not regular for such indulgence. The beautiful tree was an annual accessory not everyone could afford.

Even our decoration was poor. We were fortunate the tree could not complain. Historians tells us that indoor Christmas tree tradition came from England or Germany.

Another imported culture we have been trying to ape with difficulties to bargain with our kind of economy.

I remember we listened to Boneym and Jim Reeves Christmas album. The family loves them so much. The song was one beautiful thing that I love so much about Christmas.

They sang of White Christmas, snow, and Santa Claus. My sister and I would dream of them, wishing it snows in our place too.

Never knowing if it does our population would be shivering on Christmas day. I realized the foreign influence was strong indeed. Even the age of innocence was not free from them.

But the songs are still beautiful. I realized the good folks from my mother's side did not have Christmas songs like the Hmar's does. They rarely compose Christmas songs or any kind of songs for that matter.

As if fearing they would change 'The Word' or the course of Bethlehem if they do. They have a market bigger than ours who follows the same religion. Besides, they also love songs too.

Maybe it has more to do with talent, creativity and the true love for it. In Tuithraphai,Churachandpur, alone we churn out beautiful songs/albums like the Indians did to its populations. It's just multiplying.

But the songs are more beautiful than the ugly populations dragging along pale caste differences, blaring religious overtones, and ethnic prick.

On Christmas day all the kids wear new clothes. That used to make it merrier. There must have been many amongst us who could not afford to buy them.

Our innocent eyes must have been blind to the reality of all sorts of miseries. I remember my parents bought me a black 'naughty-boy' shoes from Bata store with an eye that it will be more useful for the next year in school.

I was too happy, for it was new on Christmas day. My mother would lead us to the big and old Tamenglong Baptist Church, beautifully situated on the top of the hill that runs in chain with many other hills.

The hills used to be our playground after the service. It was the age when the Christmas sermons were boring and long.

I also realized that unlike the Hmars, the good folks from my mother's side had built big and beautiful churches in their spaces. When my dad was transferred to Tuithraphai,Churachandpur, I was too surprised to find very small church buildings/structures dotting the town with sick mindset reflecting " groupism".

To this day they still count themselves to be "pure"(Tui pawllo). I really don't know which one is without the water in the milk. And I don't know which one is with water in the kerosene. The black or the white is confusing.

But they all look unhealthy gray. I still hear them say "pawl"(denomination) is "kohran"(church) and "kohran" is "pawl". That is when I don't want to be a member of any "pawl" or "kohran".

But my memories are still true. The buildings/ structures aren't getting any bigger. They are still squeezing each other, pulling and pushing the flock outside the green pasture.

But fortunately, there is, still, Christmas every year. I hope it's not about the tradition or the feast. But we still need the birth of the Son of Man.

I remember it was quite a white Christmas, not with white snows, but with a white pant fitted out of my dad's out-of-date elephant- pant. It was the most beautiful age where black toy pistols and red firecrackers were wedded with Christmas.

We just cannot imagine a Christmas without them. They did not come in the forms of accessories. They are actually Christmas necessities.

We beg for them as if they were what Christmas is all about. The boy with a more sophisticated toy gun, bigger and longer, is believed to have a more wonderful Christmas.

We used to play all sorts of game that involves the good and the bad man, wild goose chase, lots of shoot-out, hide and seek, and finally feigning a dead man.

The game used to be beautiful in the midst of big trees and dry yellow leaves that must have fallen long time ago to prepare the ground for our play. I remember the game under the moonlight, where we used to run with our shadows looming tall before us. In the beautiful game we chase Christmas away unconsciously.

I do remember the sounds of many small feet's running over dry leaves. There was joy. Memories will forever weds them. Memories will always wades them too.

A very wrong marriage though, for which I still cannot have a reason. The toy pistol was very western. We did not make use of bullets, but the Chinese invented the burst in our pistols. And the crackers were imported from the heartland of Hindustan.

The day was a child from Bethlehem. The celebrating culture must have seeped inside us with an influence from the Diwali celebration. A culture that really did not define Christmas.

Neither us.

It should not. The leftover crackers and pistols of Diwali flooded the Christmas market.

We, kids, fell in love with it. It has been faithfully with us till today. Now the big boys are playing with real guns and bullets. Even on Christmas day. There is no feigning anymore.

If they are shot, they have to bleed or die. During our days when we toy the guns I used to play the German soldier.

The other group used to be the US. We belonged to nation states.Global powers. Now the big boys belongs to the feared local KSF,HDP,or ZVC.Some KCPTRF.

I don't know. Some of them tested their big guns during Christmas. It isn't beautiful anymore. They walk the streets trampling our dry fears that are turning yellow.

The yellow leaves have rot. While their barrels glisters under the moonlight, we shiver wondering if there would be another new day.

But God is too good.

Christmas is here again.

Happy Christmas!