1.

To: candy_bal@hanselandgretel.com CC: mothergothel@rapunzel.com, evilqueengrimhilde@snowwhiteandmanydwarfs.com, eirlysnyx@sleepingbeauty.com  BCC: rudolfthereindeer@merrychristmass.com Subject: SOS Dear ladies,  This might be the last communication to you wonderful lot, from my side. Mostly because it is tough to type out emails on your smartphone while you are stuck in a chimney. Especially when there is no obstacle preventing you from popping out, other than your fast-extinguishing desire to live. Okay, I stand corrected. My fast-expanding belly may also be the reason I am stuck. And yes, Grimhilde, your magic mirror did foresee I would suffer from morbid obesity. But Candy Bal kept sending me those goodies plucked off her cottage, and I could not resist munching them all day. I end up eating too much when I am stressed. And stressed, I am. I suppose you girls already know the reason. Just twelve hours to go to Christmas morning. And what do I find, when I am about to jump out of the chimney of the first house for the night? I find a whole lot of presents, packed in the shiniest wrapping paper, occupying half the room! It does not take my discerning eye more than a couple of seconds to know the contents. A PS5 Play Station for little Jo, a shock pink dressing table with ‘baby-friendly’ cosmetics for Ann, an iPhone for the lady of the house, and a microwave oven for the man. That is the entire wishlist of Christmas presents meant to be delivered by Santa! Myself! Only, I have had nothing to do with it!  I might as well be dead! I actually contemplated suicide.  But I have limited options while I’m stuck up here in the chimney, overlooking the apartment of Lil Jo and his family. A family that does not wait for Santa on Christmas Eve. So here is my last letter to you, my girls. My fairytale run seems to have ended. The world does not need Santa anymore.  If only, you’d help me answer two questions, I would die in peace. First, who delivered those Christmas presents? And second, how do I get out of the chimney? Rudolph, my anchor, seems to have dozed off. Maybe, you could awaken him and ask him to give a little tug to extricate me?                                                                                                       Yours dejectedly,                                                                                                      Father Christmas.

*** 2.

I’ve mailed my goodbye, but I decide to watch the drama for a bit, just to see when exactly the family would realize my absence. It suffices to say I have been typing away with my sweaty fingers for a quarter of an hour which roughly translates to at least a hundred years, if you take into account the lightening speed at which I and Rudolf hop from one chimney to another on Christmas Eve. And no one seems to have missed me.                                                                                                                                 The lady of the house is cleaning up the kitchen for the day. The man is slumped on a sofa, scrolling his phone. The kids are glued to the television set. Abominable family, if you ask me. No Christmas baking? But there are cookies galore! Just not at the end of my tunnel- no cookies, no eggnog for Santa. I feel less than welcome.  I am about to climb up the chimney, dragging my sackful of meaningless gifts behind me, when little Jo begins bawling. “What is it, Jo?” “Monsterwheels!” “Look, we have had this discussion, you cannot have a four-wheeler like grown-ups. It is not safe for you. You are only five.” “It is meant for babies!” “Still.” “I wanted it for Christmas, Daddy. I told you. Bawl!” “But look, you got so many presents! Let us open them!” “No! Monsterwheels! BAWL!” “Jo! Santa said ‘NO!” The lady of the house lies, without blinking. Now, I take offence. Because I never said ‘NO’. I have a humungous monster wheels truck snuck in my sack just for such bawling emergencies. “The gifts have already been delivered, Jo! Do you think Santa has no better work than watching you throw a tantrum? Do you think Santa lives up our chimney all night, to deliver gifts at your whim?”  I tremble, slightly. Why do I get a feeling the lady is accusing, not Jo, but someone else for ruining her Christmas Eve? I detect a similar shudder in the man. He picks up the kid, who is now punching him and bawling and sets him on the sofa. Looking the boy right in the eye, he begins, “Jo, do you…” By now the other kid, Ann, has pumped up the volume of the T.V., which blares - “The countdown has begun! Only eleven hours to go till Xmas! Have you ordered your gifts yet? Santa is at your command!” I stare at the animated Santa caricature, my caricature, jiggling his belly as he prances around the screen. A bubble pops from his footsteps, which blinks, red and green- Delivery by Rudolf Plus Delivery Services, at no extra cost! Order with the Santa App! Now! Jo points his bony finger at the T.V. screen, “Look! Santa is waiting! Order, order!” “A Barbie for me! With nails and nail paint!” Ann chimes in. “Order, order!” Jo wails. The man of the house stares at the screen. I do the same. Our jaws tighten, in unison. “No!” We both say.  “Order!” Both the children bawl. Jo walks up to the tree and kicks the pyramid of gift boxes. The gaudily wrapped boxes topple.  “Just order it!” The lady of the house throws her hands up in surrender. The kids, who are bawling, stop midway and acknowledge the sudden tipping of scales in their favour. “Give in to their demands, honey? Do you really want that for Christmas?” The man looks incredulous. “All I want for Christmas is a little peace. And a nice family dinner, with no one squabbling!” The lady stomps away. “All I want for Christmas are monsterwheels!” Jo again kicks the fallen pyramid for effect. Then, stomps away, after his mother. “All I want for Christmas is a Barbie. With nail paint.” Ann  stomps away, only to return, “And all the other gifts.” I curl myself into a tight ball. Does she know I am listening? A quarter of an hour later, the house has fallen silent. The man has been scrolling through his phone. He keys in a password, makes an order, and waits with his thumbs tapping the smartscreen. I inch down slowly and peep into the room. The T.V. is still on, running on mute. For the millionth time, the Santa caricature is waddling across the screen, throwing confetti around! How lame!  Ting! The man’s phone shows a notification.  I see instant relief in his tensed features.  The gifts have been ordered. The man retires to his room. He forgets to switch off the TV! I clench my teeth, again. And again. Each time I watch my doppelganger on the screen. A Santa who can be ordered around. A muted Santa who delivers plenty of gifts, and no joy. Ten hours to go! Santa At Your Doorstep, powered by Rudolf Plus! Order now! * Please read the SantaClause properly: Terms and conditions apply. I curse, just as my smartphone screen flickers with a notification. I open the email in a jiffy.

*** 3.

From:  candy_bal@hanselandgretel.com To: hohoho@merrychristmas.com  CC: mothergothel@rapunzel.com, evilqueengrimhilde@snowwhiteandmanydwarfs.com, eirlysnyx@sleepingbeauty.com  Dear Nick a.k.a Santa, We have all had a nice little discussion and have unanimously agreed to declare two things upfront:

1. That we stand with you in solidarity, at this difficult time.
2. That you must stop whining and come to the point at once, if you expect help from us at any level, henceforth. 

There is no doubt these are dark times. The general diminution in faith in Santa goes very much hand in hand with the loss of belief in fairytales in general. And who would be more worried about the relevance of fairytales than us, the vamps? And that is precisely why we need to act. In fact, this was exactly what I was yelling into your deaf ears for years- we need to ensnare the kids once again! But you and the oh-so-gentle witches of yore shrugged off my warnings as my desire for kids for food! And this, after I swore to veganism centuries ago, because of my digestive system issues. I, rather, we, as a collective, recognise the urgency of the situation, and so, propose the only solution- That we go ahead with our plan ‘REKINDLE’, the same way as it had been planned before you and the other hags turned all mushy and aborted it midway.  We, the witches, eagerly await a green signal from you. Reply immediately, in brief. And do not cry. We are running short on time. Yours truly,  Candy Bal.

*** 4.

REKINDLE? No! That was an extreme plan from the start. I count the number of gift boxes strewn under the Christmas tree. I watch the glow-in-the-dark candy canes tremble ever so slightly as I let out another sigh. And I finally accept it- ‘The Silence of the Night’ is not going to play anytime soon. Gone are the days of singing Christmas carols. Gone is the holly on the windowsill. The pine needle and red berries garland at the fireplace is fake. There is no fireplace, so to speak, since they don't light fires any more. Santa, the jolly old fellow, is outdated. Outnumbered. And outcast. I could breathe my last in this very chimney, and disappear for good, and no one would notice.  The baubles on the tree glint in the light of the T.V. The Santa-on-amphetamines is bobbing still, popping up every ten minutes, reminding folks across the world of the gifts they never felt the need for, but must buy for it to feel like Christmas. Nine hours to go, he farts. No! Bloody thug! He is stealing from people. He is raking in the moolah, yes, but he is stealing a lot more. He is out to rob the Christmas spirit! And Santa ain't gonna let that happen! I inhale deeply, and the first button of my trousers pops. I pull in my tummy, and grin. Widely. Wickedly.  Let us REKINDLE Christmas. I type away furiously on my keypad-  “The plan is ON.”

*** 5.

From:  candy_bal@hanselandgretel.com To: hohoho@merrychristmas.com  CC: mothergothel@rapunzel.com, evilqueengrimhilde@snowwhiteandmanydwarfs.com, eirlysnyx@sleepingbeauty.com  Santa, We are going to slay it, my boy! Now, listen up. I am repeating the plan because your rusty old brains will need some rekindling of their own.  Act 1: Grimhilde, the Evil Queen will poison all the apples. That practically means all the rich kids would be bereft of their fancy smartphones and iPads at one go! Ah, Santa, you drama Queen! Don't worry, she is equally good at poisoning androids. She’s got bugs for all of them. Overnight, all those devices will turn into nothing more than a bag of rotten fruit! Act 2: Mother Gothel, the original Goddess of isolation,  now locks up all the transmission towers. No internet in any corner of the world. No cable connections. No telecom transmission. Nada. She assures me, she has the required geographic coordinates and just needs to activate the preplaced jammers. Let us leave the technical part to her. She insists we just let down our hair (like Rapunzel? Hehe!) and chill! Act 3: Now comes in the Queen of the sleeping curse, Eirlys Nyx. She has been practising her spells on reel-watching zombies for months now. Just in case they behave differently. She is confident she will manage to wake the world exactly four hours before sunrise on Christmas Day. That would give these pithy humans, especially the kiddos, enough time to get over their dead devices. Act 4: Finally, I, the witch with the gingerbread cottage, come to ensnare the kids! How? You place a replica of my gingerbread house in each of these gizmo-deprived homes. I’ve sent my house layout plan to the elves already. The miniature replicas will be ready for you in a couple of hours. Don’t hold your breath, Nick! I see you getting worked up every Christmas Eve. None of your beloved kids know, that the ‘HoHoHo’ is not a merry laugh at all, it is you gasping for air after a panic attack! (Hah! That was wicked, even for me!) But you get the point. Just let Rudolf loose, so the elves can load the enchanted gingerbread houses onto the sleigh. And you, stay put in that chimney and keep an eye on Lil Jo. Exactly two hours from now, consider our jobs done. The world should float free of all internet! The elves should be able to deliver the gingerbread cottages by then.  Now you begin distributing the gingerbread houses, and the tidings of joy, to each sterilized house. Sterile of all entertainment gadgets. All the best, to us!                                                                          Wo ha ha ha (Come on, we are witches, after all!),                                                                           Candy Bal. P.S. This will be our last communication. Once the plan goes into action, there would be no internet, remember?

*** 6.

I exhale as I finish reading Candy Bal’s mail. That woman has the worst sense of humour. But the best leadership skills.  Mr Santa Twinkletoes, struts on the screen blowing a bubble that reads- Only Six Hours to Go!  I cock an eyebrow and mutter, “I will raise a toast of eggnog. To your death, you scamster!” Rudolf is awake, at last. He must be checking his mail, because I see he has given a thumbs-up to the mails. Not a word of comfort for me. He is probably chuckling as he hears me sob. Once I get done with this Christmas, I am going to rechristen him Rude-dolf, I decide. And then I smile. I am feeling a bit like myself already. And a bit like Christmas. Time flies now, or is it the sleeping spell in the air? But I blink (or doze off) and the next thing I know, the gambolling Santa is announcing it is four hours to Christmas morning. I bite my lip and a quarter of my moustache with it. Lo and behold! Rudolf is already back, loaded with enough gingerbread cottages to spell the world! He drops the first teeny-weeny cottage into my cupped hands. I grab it tenderly and push myself out of the chimney. Turns out, a night of fasting has already begun narrowing my waistline. Plop! I land on the floor, softer than a snowflake. I must set the house right under the Xmas tree, but there is a finishing touch to be put. With a flourish, I conjure up a teeny-weeny nameplate that says Lil Jo and Ann. I press it into the firm gingerbread on the door of the cottage. It sparkles with fairy lights. The roof has toffee tiles. There is frosting all over. The fruit-cake walls smell of hope. There is candyfloss coming out of the chimney. Nice touch, Candy Bal! I set up gift packets for the children, and the ungrateful adults as well. The gaudily wrapped boxes have disappeared. Was that part of the plan? I seem to have forgotten the finer details, but Nyx has a sleeping spell customized for each household, and one can only expect thorough action from her.  There is one more thing to do. I walk over to the T.V. and tap on the screen. I look the phoney Santa in the eye and say, “The real Santa does not announce his presence with a doorbell.” And just then, the television screen dies. I nod in approval. The internet, at long last, is dead. I look at my wristwatch. It is still four hours before daybreak. Because that is just how fast I am! But the household is already stirring awake. The spell is about to break.  I decide to climb back into my chimney hole and watch. Meanwhile, a million other Santas have landed softly through a million chimneys. There will be a gingerbread house under each Xmas tree, with a personalised nameplate. And gifts for everyone. Wrapped with a holly leaf and berries for a bow.  And a million Santas will watch from the chimneys as the household awakens, before dawn break, to rediscover Christmas. I can be at all places at the same time. Because I am many Santas, as many as there are snowflakes!

*** 7.

Dear Candy Bal,                          Merry Christmas! It feels wonderful to write to you the old-fashioned way. It is a pain that I cannot CC the letter to the other witch sisters. Rest assured, I am writing to them as well. That way, I will get some exercise. I want to keep fit, and not get stuck in chimneys at Christmas next year. Our plan proceeded perfectly. It took the kids a couple of minutes to grasp that there were no more phones, or any of the other funny devices, rather, vices. Ha, that was a good one, isn’t it?  Anyway, so the kids went, “Aaa…,” and “Oooo…,” and “Nooo…,” for a while. And then they saw your gingerbread cottage.  Hey Presto! There was this palpable change in them. Their eyes crinkled with joy, their teeth sparkled like those fairy lights. They spent an hour marvelling at the little creation, gently touching its delicate corners. Jo licked the frosting on the sly, and his eyes widened with wonder.  The adults stood shell-shocked, still wondering where their gizmos had disappeared. They seemed to find it a whole lot more difficult to not have a phone screen to punch their fingertips on, every two minutes. But their children’s good cheer rubbed off on them.  I watched them open their gifts together. Lil Jo stared at his present with his mouth agape. He had received a pair of roller skates. He ran his fingers over the wheels and they whirred. He broke into the largest grin ever and exclaimed the skates were better than the gigantic monster truck. His sister got the finest set of paintbrushes and colours and a canvas for a present. All of a sudden, she did not seem to care for painted nails all that much. And I went all misty-eyed, as Lil Jo remarked, “This has to be the real Santa. He gives the best gifts.” And a million Santas hiding in a million chimneys went misty-eyed too. Watching kids sit up and make garlands out of popcorn and cranberries, with nothing to distract them. Watching the elders fawning over the younger ones only the way one can when no stupid device is beeping to draw your attention. Watching the family sing ‘Red Nosed Rudolf’ together. The candles in the menorah cast a warm glow on their grateful faces. I for one, was grinning from ear to ear. Because Lil Jo laid down a plate of bourbon balls under the chimney. I was about to reach out to them when I checked myself. The myth of Santa must stay a myth. And I stayed put, exercising immense self-control, so much so that my eyes bulged and I held my breath for too long, and finally coughed with a muffled ho ho ho!... I remembered you, Candy Bal.  You were right all the way. About me writing painfully long sentences. About me forgetting to breathe when I am worked up. And above all, my wanting instant gratification all the time- the exact reason the world had fallen prey to the phoney Santa gifting app in the first place! So, I drew in my pendulous tummy, and my slackening willpower with it, and watched. Lil Jo’s mother brought out the festive chinaware. The family ate together, talking, laughing and licking their spoons in delight. The sight of the sticky toffee-pecan pudding made me almost dissolve my resolve! But I stayed put, mostly because I feared the taunts you and your witch sisters would have showered on me otherwise. And my patience was rewarded. As the family settled in the drawing room, around the Xmas tree, mugs of hot peppermint chocolate in hand, dawn broke, and it was Christmas morning! (Honestly, I had forgotten all about the countdown to Christmas.)  Ann, Jo’s older sister(remember?) raised a toast, “To the real Santa, for knowing what to gift each of us. He knows us better than ourselves!”  I know, Candy Bal, you must be sneering. But I am not boasting, all of it is true. Ask Rudolf, if you wish to, he was eavesdropping as well. The kids seemed to have accepted the new arrangement jolly well. You, my dear witch, are always right. Especially when it comes to children. Is that because you ate so many of them? HO HO HO! Just kidding. I know you turned vegan. Even that gingerbread house was vegan! Thank you, my dear Candy Bal, for giving me the best Christmas gift ever! You’ve gifted my fairytale a happily ever after!                                                                                                                          Yours truly,                                                                                                                          Father Christmas. Penmancy gets a small share of every purchase you make through these links, and every little helps us continue bringing you the reads you love!