“Maybe look under your pillow, in case Santa Claus left you a gift.” said my father casually while he stood shaving at the sink.

It was Christmas morning and I had just woken up. I was 8 years old and had never received a Christmas gift before in my life. This is because I grew up a Hindu – in India; a country with only 5% Christian population. Christmas was a minor holiday for the majority of the country and in an era before the Internet or Social Media, we had very little knowledge about this Christian festival. Indeed my sister and I had only that year found out from reading in an Encyclopedia that there is an entity called “Santa Claus” who brings gifts to children around the world on the night before Christmas!

I chuckled and removed my pillow to humor my father, entirely sure he was making a joke. To my utter surprise, I found a white envelope with my name on it spelled S-W-A-T-Y instead of S-W-A-T-I.

“Wha…t?” Didi (meaning elder sister in Hindi), my elder sister who was almost 14 exclaimed as she removed her own pillow. No gift for her!

“So Santa Claus gave her a gift but not me?!!” she complained loudly.

“Maybe you have aged out!’ said my mother, her nose crinkled, obviously pulling her leg.

“So what did Santa Claus get you?” Didi asked, her tone a mix of envy and curiosity.

Still shocked from the unexpected turn of events, I opened the envelope, it had a milk chocolate that was clearly not a regular Indian one, and a couple of postcards – from Finland. And a hand-written note.

“Go on!”, Didi egged me.

I opened the letter, written in curly hand-writing with a lot of flair, it said “Dear Swaty (spelled with a “y” instead of an “i”), you have been a great daughter, sister and student this year. You deserve good things. Love, Santa”

What a compliment! I started crying. Didi who was still sitting on the bed next to me, gave me a big hug. Then said with a complaining tone “So does it mean I have not been a great daughter, sister and student?”

“You have just aged out!’ repeated my mother, laughing.

That year began the tradition of Santa’s gifts for me. Every Christmas morning, I would wake up and look under or around my pillow. Every year I found something. As I got older, the gifts got more interesting, things I had really wanted that year. My wish list was simple; books, journals, pens. Santa’s note always had the same handwriting, the same flair and the same wrong spelling of my name! Somehow Santa knew me all the way from Finland but couldn’t figure out the correct spelling of my name spelling it SWATY with a Y at the end!

The year I turned 13, Didi got into college. For 10 days spanning Christmas and New Year, she had to be away on a college trip. “Don’t open Santa’s gifts until I get back on the 2nd…if you can hold it that long”, she had ordered me before taking off.

On Christmas Eve my parents and I had dinner together, watched TV, and then I went to bed. I used to be a heavy sleeper in those days, my mother used to joke she could beat the drums and I won’t wake up. So I only woke up vaguely when I heard my parents in my room, whispering, opening & shutting closet doors, apparently searching for something. And I only vaguely felt the crinkle of the gift wrapper from the gift being placed under my pillow.

I woke up on Christmas morning, my father doing his usual morning routine and asking me if Santa Claus had left me anything. I removed the pillow and saw my gift! But as soon as I touched it – the penny dropped. Suddenly it was all clear to me – it had been my parents the previous night looking for the gift in my room and it was them who had placed the gift under my pillow.

I burst into tears. The magic was over. There had been no Santa Claus, it had always been my parents. They let me cry and then took me out to change my mood. The next day my father sat me down and told me that there is no Santa Claus and that I was old enough to accept that.

Fairly depressed, I went to my mother. “What are we going to tell Didi when she gets back?”

My mother remained silent for a few minutes. Then she looked at me in the eye. And somehow I knew.

I left my gifts unopened as per Didi’s instructions. She arrived as scheduled on the 2nd of Jan. My father brought her home from the train station. She came directly to our room and asked me in her usual loving bossy way “And?”

“All the gifts are here.” I told her. “Let’s open them together!!” she said.

I do not recall at all what the gifts were that year. What I recall is this: At the bottom of the gifts was a note I had written for my sister, in an envelope that said “To My Santa”. Didi looked at me stunned. “Go on” I said. Didi read my note and started crying.

The year we had read about the existence of Santa Claus in an Encyclopedia; when I was 8 and Didi was almost 14, I had wished that Santa would bring me gifts, and she had decided she was going to do that for me. She had enrolled my parents into it; saving postcards from my father’s trips abroad and going to special shops in Delhi to find those international looking gifts. She had packed the gifts and written the notes in an unfamiliar handwriting. The year she had been away for her college trip, my parents couldn’t remember where she had hidden my gift and had to search for it in the middle of the night!

My note to my sister thanked her for being my Santa all those years. It ended with the words. “Dear Santa, you are a great daughter & student. And you are the BEST SISTER in the world. You deserve all good things. Love, Swaty” – spelled with a “Y”!

More than a filmmaker/storyteller, Swati turns ideas into experience. She is a loved wife, sister & mother – of cats as well as two daughters; her miracle-children. She is an immigrant to the United States and also an environmentalist. She can be reached via Linkedin and swati@TiredAndBeatup.com