I am writing this in July. Apparently, Christmas in July is now a thing, a little moment in the middle of winter where people enjoy Christmas flavours and celebrate the magic of the season. For me, though, this July feels like more than a trend.
This year, I have made a promise to myself that I am ready to meet Christmas and all its memories head on. To embrace the joy, the nostalgia, and even the ache that comes with remembering a time when the people who made those moments special were still here. Because Christmas has never just been about one day. For us, it has always been about a journey, a journey filled with familiar roads, favourite meals, family traditions, and the feeling of finally coming home.
For ten years, Chennai was home. It was the city where we raised our children, built our routines, made lifelong friendships, and created a chapter of our family story. But every school holiday, there was one place we always returned to Kerala. We spent an entire month there with Mom, surrounded by family, familiar food, and the comfort of a place that held so many memories. Those holidays were not just a break from school. They were a return to our roots.
And then there was Christmas.
Christmas had its own rhythm. Its own traditions. Its own beautiful predictability. Every year, in the early hours of December 24th, we would begin our drive from Chennai to Kerala. It was a journey we knew well, but one we looked forward to every single year.
Our first stop was Salem. It was always at Grand Estancia. After hours on the road, it was the perfect place to stop, stretch our legs, and recharge. The breakfast buffet gave everyone something to look forward to, and the children especially loved the playground where they could run around before getting back into the car for the next leg of the journey. It was more than just a breakfast stop. It was our first pause on the road home, a familiar landmark that told us Christmas had truly begun.
From Salem, we continued towards Kerala. As we crossed the Palakkad border, something always shifted. The scenery changed, the air felt different, and the excitement quietly grew because we knew we were getting closer. Lunch was always at Srichakra International in Palakkad. By then, everyone was ready for a proper meal after the long drive. It was usually a choice between a traditional fish curry meal or a plate of biryani. That first taste of Kerala after leaving Chennai always felt special. It wasn’t just lunch. It was the moment we knew we were almost home.
The journey was no longer measured in kilometres. It was measured in familiar flavours, familiar places, and the anticipation of seeing Mom waiting for us. And then, just as the afternoon began to soften, we would arrive home in time for tea.
Mom always knew we were coming, but she needed updates. A couple of phone calls would happen during the journey.
“Where are you now?”
“When will you reach?”
“Should I start the tea?”
She always wanted to know exactly when to put the kettle on. Because tea was never just tea. It was a welcome. It was comfort. It was home.
Christmas Eve meant dinner together and then waiting for the carol groups to arrive. Throughout the evening, different groups from the church, Sunday School, youth organisations and local clubs, would stop by, filling our home with songs, laughter and Christmas blessings.
Christmas morning at Mom’s house was something we looked forward to all year. Breakfast was a feast that belonged only to that day. There would be appam, chicken stew, egg roast, boiled plantain, rich fruit cake and a Christmas cake decorated with royal icing. But the food was only part of what made it unforgettable. It was sitting around the table together. It was the conversations, the laughter, and the comfort of knowing everyone was exactly where they were meant to be.
After breakfast, we would make our way to Freddy’s house in time for an elaborate Christmas lunch. There were cutlets, beef fry, chicken curry, fish fry, the works. Another table overflowing with food, stories and family.
Later that evening, we would get ready to attend the nearby church festival, the sleeba palli perunnal. It was one of the moments we looked forward to every Christmas. Like everyone else in the neighbourhood, we would line the fence with candles, watching them flicker to life as darkness fell. There would be stacks of firecrackers waiting, and the excitement would build as we waited for the procession to make its way through the streets.
The moment the procession passed, the night would come alive. Firecrackers lit up the sky, church bells rang, hymns echoed through the crowds, and the whole village seemed to celebrate as one. It wasn’t just a festival. It was a tradition that brought everyone together. Those lights, the music, the familiar faces and the shared joy became part of our Christmas story, year after year.
When we moved to Australia, we packed more than suitcases. We brought our traditions with us. Our home became the place where Christmas gatherings happened. Family and friends would gather around our table, food would fill the kitchen, and laughter would spill into every room. Without realising it, I was recreating the Christmases Mom had created for us.
But the last couple of years have been different. I found myself stepping back from hosting. I told myself it was too much. That organising everything was overwhelming. But the truth was something I wasn’t ready to admit. Christmas without Mom felt different. So many of the traditions that shaped our Christmases came from her, her cooking, her excitement, her phone calls, and her quiet determination to make sure everyone was together. Without her, there has been a quiet space that I have struggled to fill.
Yet writing this in July has made me realise something. The memories aren’t asking me to be sad. They’re asking me to remember. To remember leaving Chennai before sunrise. Mom calling to ask where we were and whether she should put the kettle on. Carol singers filling the house with music. Christmas breakfast with appam and chicken stew. Lunch at Freddy’s. Candles glowing along the fence. Firecrackers lighting up the night as the palli perunnal procession passed. Those weren’t just Christmas traditions. They were the threads that stitched our family together.
This Christmas, I think I’ll host again.
It won’t be the same, and I’m beginning to understand that it isn’t meant to be. Instead, I’ll put the kettle on. I’ll cook the recipes Mom taught me. I’ll fill the table with family and friends. I’ll tell the stories we’ve always told. And somewhere in the middle of the laughter, I’ll hear her voice.
“Where are you now?”
“When will you reach?”
“Should I start the tea?”
Only this time, I’ll be the one making the tea. Maybe that’s what family traditions really are. They don’t end with the people who begin them. They live on in the people who choose to continue them. The places that raised us stay with us. The journeys become stories. The food becomes memory.
And family, in all its changing forms, continues to find its way home.
