By Christina K Sangma
As I walked past the bakery opposite my office, I sensed a familiar smell, the warm, buttery scent of plain cakes. It hit me so suddenly that for a moment, I stopped in my tracks. In that instant, I was no longer in a noisy city. I was home, waking up on Christmas morning to the smell of simple butter cakes and freshly fried sticky-rice pithas.
Growing up, Christmas had never been about parties or plum cakes. It was about slow mornings, wood smoke in the air, the beat of drums echoing across the fields after church, and family gathered around meals cooked with love. My parents were both from different regions so Christmas was a year in Assam and the next in Garo hills. Different places but it shared the same Christmas feeling and spirit. But somewhere between growing older and moving to a new city for work, those memories had become faint. My colleagues would chatter excitedly about gift exchanges and themed office parties, and though I smiled, none of it felt like Christmas to me.
That night, after dinner, I fell into bed exhausted.
Sometime past midnight, a soft voice whispered my name. I opened my eyes to see a small glowing orb floating inches from my face, bright like fire, but cold when I reached out.
“I’m the Spirit of Christmas,” it said gently, flickering like a candle about to go out.
I’ve been weak lately.
I stared, speechless. This can’t be real.
Oh, I’m real, it said, sounding almost amused. “But you’ve forgotten me.”
Before I could argue, the spirit swirled upward, and suddenly the room dissolved. I found myself standing in my hometown years ago. There I was, a younger version of me, laughing, running around the courtyard, cheeks glowing from the winter cold. A bright light shone from my chest, warm and alive.
That, the spirit said, “was when you were full of Christmas.”
The scene shifted. I saw myself packing for college, then moving to the city, then working late nights in tiny apartments. With each passing year, the light inside me dimmed. In the present, it was only a small ember.
You stopped appreciating Christmas the way you used to, the spirit said softly. And if your spark disappears, I might fade forever.
The idea of losing it, losing the part of me that still belonged to home , terrified me. But before I could speak, everything melted away, and I sat up in my own bed, heart racing.
Maybe it was a dream.
Maybe it wasn’t.
Either way, I knew exactly what I needed to do.
Before the fear of work or money could stop me, I booked the first ticket home. Holiday prices were high, but some things are worth more than money.
When I reached my native village in Kharkutta, the air itself felt different, colder, cleaner, and familiar. The smell of pitha frying, the sound of laughter, the drums echoing from the field, everything felt like a piece of myself returning. As my family gathered around me, I felt warmth spreading through my chest, slow but steady, like a light glowing back to life.
And I knew.
My Christmas spirit hadn’t died. It had simply been waiting for me to come home.
Christmas may be celebrated differently across the world, but at its heart, it is the same, a feeling of belonging, warmth, and love. And sometimes, all it takes to find that spirit again is to remember where you first found it.
