Intense winter. White fluffy snow. Glittering lights. Ringing bells. People with loads of gifts and small children spending sleepless nights waiting for Santa to fill their socks. All reminds us of Christmas and its joy and glamour.
My story of my Santa Doll starts not in Christmas but rather way before it. Our school used to make small children do crazy stuffs. They would order little babies to make, create, draw whatever they wished to see and show. That summer, a long long ago, when I might have been in third or hardly in fourth standard, the school art society ordered the children to make something creative in the name of the most terrible “SCHOOL PROJECT”. I was a small kid with little CREATIVITY to satisfy the speculating eyes of my teachers. So generally I went up to my art teacher (who used to come to my home once a week to teach me some sort of art) and asked him to put some of his creativity into mine. He came up with an idea of making cork dolls and we both agreed upon the fact that a Santa would make the perfect fit.
It was a badminton cork folded in red velvet with beard of cotton and eyes of black paper along with a sweet, generous smile of red over cotton, standing on a blue sponge platform. The finished art piece looked amazing and something that you could blindly call CREATIVE. Of course I knew that if I took it to school and showed my teacher he would understand without a delay that the doll was the work of some expert hands. So when my teacher asked about the doll, as a very dear and honest child I said it wasn’t me. It did not bother the teacher much. I had little hope to get the doll back as I knew the cruel teachers used to throw all the handworks in some corner. I went away.
After a few days, I was just moving to my class while I saw all the artworks were piled in a little corner. My Santa was there too. Slyly I picked it up and ran at my utmost speed for I had fallen in love with the doll and I knew I had to save my Santa (oh yes, I saved Santa). I brought it home and put it on my little shelf and watched it everyday.
Both my parents used to work. I used to be alone all day at home and talk to my Santa. Of course I never got a reply but I knew he used to listen to me and all my chatter. Whenever I used to be sad, I used to cry to him and guess what, magical though it may seem, but it is true that he used to help me out. Once I was feeling too lonely. Talking to Santa I said him so. I had no plans for the day. All my friends were busy. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a friend appeared on my door saying that her work has been postponed and she has time to play with me. My Santa did all he could for me.
Two years ago I had to leave him in our old house while we got shifted to a new city. I miss my Santa so much. I wish he would be there safe and sound while I go back again. The Santa doll, I used to see all day stays no more in front of my eyes. I still think of him. Is he safe there?