Nativity in a Mumbai slum.

During one Christmas Eve, Sr. Maria, who was the head Catechism teacher and in charge of altar children, was orchestrating a major cleaning campaign in one of the big slum parishes of Mumbai. The church was silhouetted against posh multi-storey flats and a five-star hotel.

For the highly westernised parish, Christmas mainly meant an annual party, Christmas cake, whisky, gambling, yellow balloons, a shopping-spree and dress-up time. At the confessional one found a handful of grey-haired elders. The choir and carol parties, naturally, showed off their very best in the repertoire since it was a question of competition, prestige and applause. "But will one find here the spirit of the original Bethlehem simplicity, sacrifice and love," mused St. Maria, while she was giving the finishing touches to her mopping chore.

The serenity and silence in the church were suddenly interrupted by the mournful cry of a child from the adjoining large hall where altar boys and girls were busy preparing the Christmas crib. The supervisor, who was totally drunk, was mercilessly beating a child with his leather belt, whom he had found sleeping on the floor instead of sweeping the hall, a task he had assigned to her. Sr. Maria rushed to the spot, pacified the supervisor and led away the child to the church.

Natalia, the victim of child abuse in the sacred church premises, was a frail, dust-covered bundle of skin and bones in a dirty, tattered frock, undernourished and famished. Sr. Maria noticed her empty stomach from the semi-exposed midriff. On interrogation, Sister found out that the poor little specimen of a malnourished slum child had been starving for three days.

St. Maria had received some money from her superior for personal Christmas shopping. Totally forgetting her personal needs, she took Natalia to the parish cafeteria and bought for her a plate of piping hot tandoori chicken and a bottle of Coke. Before beginning to eat, little Natalia bowed her head to offer her prayer of thanksgiving. From the way the poor famished child was gulping down the delicious fat chicken pieces and draining the beverage, the nun knew that it was the very first time that she had eaten these ordinary middle-class delicacies.

Though the time was only 4:00 pm, real Christmas had dawned for Sr. Maria and her new friend Natalia. Her very name Natalia meant Nativity. With the nagging and gnawing pangs of hunger banished, a broad smile was etched on the face of the unknown guest. The good sister too spontaneously responded to the child's smile and satisfied glance, by imprinting a warm Christmas kiss on her face after an affectionate hug. The thought of Jesus embracing little children came to her mind.

St. Maria was anxiously watching her little friend carefully wrapping one chicken leg in the paper napkin she had given her to wipe her mouth. Curious to know why she was not eating the second chicken piece, the nun asked her what she was going to do with it. Pat came the answer: "It is for my dear sick Mom at home." Though the girl's hunger was insatiable, she thought of her beloved mummy, held captive by the octopus-like grip of an incurable tuberculosis, but still doing the scavenger's menial job to provide for her five children ...

SWAMI VIKRANT, S.D.B.

This piece is an excerpt from a longer article which originally appeared one year ago in India's magazine The Examiner.