The festive season is a trick we play on time. For a few brief weeks, we pretend that generosity is the default, that family is always functional, and that tomorrow will be better than yesterday. It is a lie, of course. A beautiful, necessary, life-affirming lie.
Psychologists call it temporal disorientation —a deliberate break from routine that resets our mental clocks. When you string lights across your living room in the middle of December, you are not just decorating. You are building a fortress against the monotony of ordinary time. Of course, no honest feature on the festive season can ignore the shadow side. For every table groaning with roast turkey or latkes, there is an empty chair. For every perfectly curated Instagram reel of matching pyjamas, there is a family argument brewing in the kitchen over politics or parking spots.
This is the season’s cruel genius: it demands joy, and in doing so, reminds us of every joy we have lost. The first Christmas after a death. The Diwali where the phone doesn’t ring. The New Year’s Eve where the countdown feels like a funeral bell.