(I had been meaning to write since Good Friday but lack of time and the availability of laptop - Mira uses mine for her lessons, so I just about managed to file reports for my portal in the little time I get - have meant that what I actually meant to write then is no longer in my memory. The husband is hopeful that school will go fully onsite soon and he doesnt need to invest in a third laptop and spoil the kids rotten.)
For us Kerala Syrian Christians, Good Friday is the holiest day when even the most lax and doubting Thomases of the church make an appearance for the day-long Mass (Orthodox Mass is probably the longest and most painful, though I enjoyed the pain and torture of the service in the intense April heat). Even dad and (late) uncle came to church on that day, willing to watch the spectacle of the Bashan bulls. But then, dad always took care to offer memorial services for the dead members of the family - he always had a fascination for visiting the terminally ill and attending funerals - so the annual memorial service for Jesus was not off the mark. (This year, he is happy that there are dedicated TV channels relaying the service to worshippers in their homes.)
For me, as a kid GF meant going to church late in the afternoon, long after granny had gone in her starched and ironed chatta-mundu, with mom. Those were times the church did not give kanji payar after the service for the fasting congregation, and mom would carry biscuit and milk for us. My childhood memories of those days are about holding on to mom's sari folds or pallu. As I grew older, I started going with granny at 9 am, sang the special hymns with gusto and took part in the procession around the church barefoot gingerly stepping on the red-hot pebbles.
While working in Chennai, I had the embarrassing task of asking for a day's leave on busy Fridays which was often not well-received by an atheist boss. Coming to the Gulf, we have been lucky as Fridays are always holidays here. I also reasoned that going to church on Friday instead of Sunday was fine as Jesus died on a Friday.
Our 3000-family strong church in Dubai swelled in numbers that one day in pre-pandemic times, and finding place to stand or sit was sheer luck. About 10k people came including bachelors from other communities desirous of enjoying the kanji-payar-papad-pickle free sadya after the service. In my first year here, I almost had one leg on my neighbour's lap as I squatted to partake the hot meal. That simple meal had a taste that was unrivalled by the best restaurants in town. The scene was the same in the other emirates' churches too.
But since last year, we have missed the chorukka or bitter juice that precedes the meal, given in remembrance of the last drink the soldiers fed Jesus on the cross. This year too, the service was fully online. The good thing was that it got over much quicker than at church since the crowds meant everything took longer there - the worship of the cross or kurishu kumbideel, the funeral march, burial procession and the meal offering.
I kept food half ready before logging in at 10 am (some 3 hours late), took breaks but faithfully and un-self-consciously did the frequent kumbideels (going on one's knees and kissing the ground the way the Pope does). Mira later told me I looked very funny being religious!
A restless Ash kept asking when it would get over. By 1:30 we were done, and soon gathered at the table for the kanji fare.
Just the day before, Ash had asked me why we had to follow these rituals every year.
"We need to experience at least a little of the torture Jesus endured," I told him.
p.s. We broke our fast on Sunday with home-made appam chicken stew, and a bhai-veetu biryani from Royal Biriyani. Our expected guest, a cousin who lives in a bachelorpad, couldn't come in the end.
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