Frost, Festivities, and Family: Allahabad’s Magical Winters
As a schoolboy growing up in Allahabad, the winter holidays were pure magic. Around Christmas, North India was usually in the grip of a cold wave—foggy mornings, drizzle that made clothes cling stubbornly, and icy winds that made every fire, every steaming cup of chai, and every warm kitchen feel like a small miracle. Life in the Railway Colony slowed down, shifting to the rhythm of anticipation. Schoolbooks were temporarily forgotten, streets became playgrounds, and every corner hummed with excitement for Christmas. Everyone walked around in layers—thermals, cardigans, coats, scarves wound like tourniquets, and the legendary monkey cap perched like a crown. We didn’t bother with matching gloves—any pair that kept our hands warm would do.
The streets were alive with bonfires. Groups huddled around them, warming hands, gossiping, and complaining about the cold as if it were a personal enemy. Tea stalls overflowed with crowds slurping steaming hot chai, while at home in the colony, tea and pakoras, sweets, and salted meat were practically mandatory. Hot food never tasted better—winter made even the simplest fry-up divine.
Music blared from houses—carols, Bollywood hits, pop songs you couldn’t name—and nobody cared about volume or harmony. Friends and relatives dropped in at any hour, unannounced and uninvited, often staying until late. Spot us outside? “Chalo, let’s go inside for tea.” And in they came.
The ladies’ tailors stitched clothes at home, always secretive, hiding their work from prying neighbours. Shops roared with business in Civil Lines, Chowk Market, and Katra Market—material shops, toy shops, bakeries—all packed with shoppers, bargaining, laughing, stocking up. Rickshaw-wallas pedalled through the streets in Santa hats and costumes, wobbling hilariously over puddles. Few people had cars; cycles, cycle rickshaws, and doolies made of wood and mesh were the main transport.
In the week before Christmas, the dhobi and cobbler were in huge demand. Everyone rushed to the dhobi to get clothes ironed, and the cobbler worked overtime, resoling and polishing shoes that would be proudly worn on Christmas Day. Unlike today, shoes were repaired and reused until they practically became family heirlooms.
At home, the kitchen became a warzone of sweets and snacks—shakarpara, namakpara, rose cookies, kulkuls, murukku, and salted meat—all competing for the title of “most devoured.” Dry fruits were chopped for the Christmas cake, filling the house with a smell that was December itself. Boys ran around hunting for branches to make Christmas trees, and those trees—well-decorated in each home with ornaments, tinsel, and twinkling lights—gave the colony a magical shimmer. One cousin inevitably got tangled in the tinsel, creating fits of laughter. Christmas cards arrived by the bagful—25 to 50 per family—and were proudly strung around the mantle piece, turning living rooms into glittering galleries of greetings.
Sometimes, family members arrived from hill stations, the UK, or Australia to spend Christmas in Allahabad. Their sudden appearance added excitement, laughter, and a touch of glamour, as cousins reunited, stories were swapped, and everyone tried to impress the visiting relatives with the best food, decorations, and festive cheer.
Of course, there was the must-do midnight Mass at every church. Despite the cold, drizzle, or mud underfoot, people trudged along on cycles, rickshaws, or just their legs, arriving to see candles flicker, bells ring, and the whole town united in music and cheer.
Christmas Day itself was a parade. The postman, telegram man, household helpers—all arrived to collect their goodie bags. Snacks disappeared as fast as they were fried. Evenings meant parties everywhere, music spilling through the colony, and club dances where adults attempted foxtrots and jives while children tried desperately to look grown-up.
The true highlight of Christmas Day was opening gifts. Almost every house had its own Santa—usually a willing uncle or elder brother—disguised with a hat, a fake beard, or a booming voice. The thrill, laughter, and sneaky attempts to peek at presents made it a day everyone remembered long after the last card was read or the last cookie eaten.
Christmas wasn’t just for Christians—it belonged to everyone. Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Christians—all joined in, ate sweets, laughed, danced, and celebrated together. The whole town became a festival, bursting with joy, chaos, and warmth.
All small towns like Allahabad had very similar festive rhythms. Everybody knew everybody. Between Christmas and New Year, and well into early January, the wedding season kicked in. Invitations arrived in string-tied envelopes, and suddenly every street was a blur of music, lights, dancing, and enough food to feed a small army. Every wedding was another excuse for merriment, more snacks, more music, and, naturally, more mischief.
It was also a magical time, when friendships deepened, laughter was shared, and young romances quietly sparked in the festive air.
Those were fun times. Simple times. Good times.
The cold winds, hot chai, pakoras, salted meat, music, Christmas cards on the mantle, twinkling lights on well-decorated trees and houses, midnight Mass, doolies, rickshaws, fires on street corners, bustling tailors, cobblers, dhobis—all of it blended into a warm, sparkling tapestry. Most of all, it was the family gathered together, teasing, laughing, sharing stories, helping each other, eating, dancing, celebrating—every moment wrapped in love. Those winters were more than holidays; they were a reminder that life’s simplest joys—togetherness, laughter, and festive cheer—leave the deepest memories.
That was the real magic of an Allahabad winter, and of every small town where the holidays meant hearts full of warmth, laughter, and love that lingered long after the season ended.
