A Gift In Time..

Christmas Eve. Oxford Circus underground station was starting to get crowded with commuters returning after last-minute Christmas shopping. The people around us were all carrying shopping bags from department stores and toy stores. A couple of women next to me looked exhausted, tottering on their high heels, barely able to stand, loaded as they were with heavy bags.

 “Expensive time of the year,” my companion grinned. “Ok, if you are loaded – and I don’t mean with shopping bags,” I muttered.  My flatmates back at the university had spent the last two weeks constantly complaining about being out of pocket because of all the presents they had to buy. “I hate this season!” one of them had declared.

Well, don’t buy so much then. Just give everyone some cards.

But that is impossible! Christmas is the time of giving.

Well,  why just material things? Wouldn’t good wishes be enough?

Ha! But we receive presents and so have to reciprocate.

Seemed like a vicious circle. Paula, the sensible one had said, “How lovely if we all just stopped buying each other presents and donated some money to the homeless!” Everyone had agreed it was a good idea, but they couldn’t really be the ones to stop giving gifts. Their families expected presents too and would be sorely disappointed. All the students had worked overtime in their part-time jobs making as much extra money as possible, so they could spend on as many gifts as possible. They were now physically and financially exhausted. Then there were all the cards to be bought, signed, addressed, stamped and posted. What a drag! They continued to look gloomy. The weather didn’t help. It seemed like the season was not entirely of good cheer. Or of goodwill and never mind the charity.

 It was different for me. I was a Hindu and Christmas only meant feasting, midnight mass, carol singing which I loved and a city that took on a magical atmosphere. The streets were sparkling with bright lights and the shop windows were beautifully decorated. Cheerful Christmassy music could be heard everywhere. The atmosphere was festive. But the same glum looks were reflected on the faces around me this wintry evening on the cold and wet platform. Those with free hands had them stuffed in their pockets for warmth. Most wore gloves, overcoats or raincoats, and boots. Some were reading the evening newspapers or novels, waiting for the train due in a couple of minutes.

From the corner of my eyes, I saw a couple of street people, tramps as they were called, lumbering towards our end of the platform. A man and a woman, and both seemed to be carrying all their worldly goods in sacks over their shoulders. They were dressed in a motley collection of clothes, old, faded and very dirty. Very smelly too, I thought as they came closer. I saw the man was drinking from a bottle and the woman, maybe his wife, dragged her feet behind him, crying as she hurled abuses at him. He did not seem to hear as he kept walking ahead and drinking. I could not see his bearded face as it was almost hidden under a brown cap. But the woman, equally unkempt, looked young and thin, and her face was careworn and had a desperate look about it. She had a pretty face but dirty matted hair. Her clothes were not only filthy, but torn and her feet were bare. I could hear her muttering and crying as she came near me.

 Suddenly, the woman leapt from the edge of the platform onto the tracks. Ahmed, my friend, and I stood petrified, electrified. Others around us must have felt the same as no one moved. I jolted back to life and yelled at my friend to do something.

He stared at me and stammered, “What? What can I do?”

Do something! Pull her out!!

How? The train will be here any moment!

Wasn’t that why something had to be done, and fast?

I looked around me and what I saw staggered me even more. The people around me either looked away or stared into their books and newspapers. No one wanted to know. “What kind of people are these?” I urgently tugged at my friend. Since he seemed equally incapable of thought, let alone movement, I said if he didn’t, then I’d jump down and pull her out. Terrified for the woman – and me – I ran to the edge of the platform, but my chivalrous friend came to life. He squatted on the edge of the platform,  stretched out his hand and screamed, “Come on! Grab my hand!”  We both  screamed. The woman seemed to come to her senses. The fall must have shaken her into sobriety. She grabbed Ahmed’s hand and he pulled her onto the platform, with what little assistance I could give.

 What could drive someone to do something so drastic, so final? It could only be extreme despair, such bleakness that the future held no glimmer of hope, I thought. Reeling with the shock of what could have been, I felt it was not enough just to save a woman’s life only for her to jump under the next train. Being students, neither Ahmed nor I had much money on us. I dug my hand into my bag and came out with a £10 note. I thrust this into the woman’s hand and quickly walked away.

Looking back, I saw the woman staring at the money. Stunned. Then she started dragging her feet and following us. She had a sort of beatific smile on her face. It was gratitude mixed with tears. Already embarrassed, we quickened our pace to get away but the train arrived. As we jumped in, the woman followed us into the train. She stood staring at us with the same dumb look of gratitude which embarrassed us. We’d dived in to help because we had no choice, but now we wanted to be left alone. We got out at the next station and hurried a few doors into the next carriage, grateful to put some distance between us and the woman.

 It was only after a few stops that the reaction set in. Ahmed started giggling thinking of the scene we must have created. The tramp and the two foreigners – all three “outsiders” creating a scene! It must have made the viewers most uncomfortable! But I was still angry thinking of the other people on the platform. My mind was buzzing. How could they continue reading as if nothing had happened? Were they really prepared to allow a fellow human being to be run over by a train in front of their eyes – even if they were averted? It was scandalous! What  was worse? Creating a scene as we did or simply ignoring a woman’s tragic plight? And it was Christmas!

I was ranting, “Where was their spirit of goodwill towards other human beings or sense of charity? Was Christmas simply about gifts and Father Christmas? What do they teach their children? To believe in myths like Santa Claus and not care about real people?”

 Ahmed giggled even harder listening to my indignant spluttering. This didn’t help my ire at all. “I’m going to write about this to the papers,” I fumed! “Well,” he gave me a hug and chuckled, “at least the tramp may have a better Christmas. She might even believe in Santa Claus.”

 Finally, I had to smile. Even if the smile was tinged with sadness.

Rani Rao Innes is the senior partner and lead trainer of Link Communications, a specialized communications skills company based in the UK. She has regularly presented courses and training workshops for private and public business sectors as well as students and teachers in the UK, Belgium, Malaysia, Japan and India. She has also been active in theatre for 30 years and was the director of Canterbury Players in Kent for eight years.