A Wooster Christmas at the D’Souzas

 

I began reading P. G. Wodehouse in school, at an age when one does not entirely understand why English gentlemen of leisure appear so earnestly committed to doing nothing, but instinctively recognises that they are on to something important. Bertie Wooster, forever mildly baffled by life, and Jeeves, forever prepared for it, stayed with me through the years. They travelled with me through airports, lounges, hotel rooms, and long-haul flights, where Jeeves’ calm competence felt like a reassuring antidote to boarding announcements and lost luggage.

So it came as no surprise that this Christmas season, now firmly ensconced within the four walls of our Pune home, I found myself slipping quite naturally into Bertie’s role. Absent-minded, reflective, faintly uncertain about what one is meant to feel at festive moments. Meanwhile, an inner Jeeves, upright, composed and unmistakably disapproving of slack standards, waited patiently for me to get on with it.

“Jeeves,” I said, gazing into the verandah garden with the thoughtful expression of a man hoping inspiration might arrive unannounced, “this Christmas feels a bit… tentative.”

“Christmas is never tentative, sir,” Jeeves replied. “People are. Christmas merely observes their behaviour.”

Alka was already seated outside, wrapped in a shawl, watching the evening arrive with the quiet attention of someone who has learned that rushing rarely improves matters. There was a time when Christmas in this house involved guests, noise, music, conversations colliding mid-sentence, and food arriving faster than it could be eaten. The dining table would strain under the weight of mutton biryani, fish tukdya, kolambicha kaalvan, salads, chapatis and dahi wadas, while Alka moved calmly through it all, ensuring everyone had a plate, a place, and the feeling of being noticed.

She seldom danced at those gatherings. She organised. Which, Jeeves would no doubt point out, is a far more taxing contribution.

After her stroke, Christmas grew quieter. Not by design, but by circumstance. Now it is largely the two of us, sitting in the verandah garden, occupying the present without making too much noise about it.

“Shall we attend to the tree, sir?” Jeeves asked.

The tree is plastic, compact, and faintly apologetic. It has never pretended to be anything else. Dressing it has always involved enthusiasm exceeding skill. I opened the box of decorations, releasing a small avalanche of bells, baubles, and souvenirs collected during years of travel, when buying Christmas ornaments abroad seemed like a sensible and necessary activity.

“Careful, sir,” Jeeves said sharply, as I reached for a delicate baby Jesus. “That piece was acquired in Jerusalem. History suggests you and fragile objects are best not left alone together.”

“I am merely admiring it.”

“Admiration is safest when performed without touching.”

Alka smiled as I attempted to hang a bell and succeeded mainly in undermining the tree’s confidence.

“You appear distracted this evening, sir,” Jeeves observed.

“I am reflecting.”

“You are hovering,” Jeeves corrected. “Reflection usually arrives with conclusions. You are merely circling the subject.”

The tree, once dressed, leaned slightly, one light blinking as though reconsidering its commitment, but it looked presentable enough.

“In earlier years,” I said, stepping back, “we relied on rather more decoration.”

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves replied. “Excess was once persuasive. Now it simply gets in the way.”

We settled into our chairs with tea and a modest slice of plum cake delivered by Swiggy. It was not ambitious, but it was reliable, which seemed appropriate.

“Jeeves,” I said, “I trust you have laid out the pale yellow cotton kurta for tomorrow.”

“It has been laid out, sir. Aired, aligned, and encouraged into cooperation. Cotton responds well to firm but respectful handling.”

“Splendid. One must maintain appearances.”

“Pune notices appearances, sir. Quietly. And remembers.”

I nodded, then felt it only fair to raise a grievance of my own.

“May I point out that the Times of India this morning was insufficiently pressed. One does not expect wrinkles at breakfast.”

“A fair observation, sir,” Jeeves replied calmly. “I allowed the paper too much freedom. It mistook this for permission.”

“Slipping, are we?”

“Seasonal, sir. Entirely seasonal.”

Encouraged by this admission, I pressed on.

“And Jeeves, might I suggest that sev–batata puri could sit rather nicely alongside the red wine? One cannot sip thoughtfully on an empty stomach.”

“An excellent suggestion, sir. Wine encourages contemplation. Sev–batata puri prevents excess contemplation.”

I poured a small measure of wine into the Jerusalem shot glasses Alka had brought back years ago. She took a careful sip and smiled, entirely present.

“That,” Jeeves said, “is quite sufficient celebration for one evening.”

We sat quietly for a while. The garden breathed. The tree blinked intermittently, as though satisfied with its efforts.

Later, as the lights were switched off and the evening settled into place, it occurred to me that Christmas had arrived after all. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But politely, as it often does when invited without expectations.

Jeeves paused before withdrawing.

“If I may say so, sir,” he said, “you have handled this Christmas rather well. You worried less than usual, interfered minimally, and allowed Madam to enjoy the moment.”

High praise indeed.

“And sir,” he added, straightening an imaginary cuff, “should you ever feel tempted to improve upon this arrangement, I strongly advise against it. Some things, once suitably modest, are best left alone.”

With that, he departed, leaving Bertie to admire the tree, the quiet, and the small competence of having done just enough.