We even had a different word for Christmas in my language

Host: The evening air smelled of cardamom and rain — a scent that lingered through the narrow streets of the old neighborhood, where the lights from paper lanterns trembled like shy stars. The city was dressed for Christmas, though here, that word carried different flavors, different rhythms, different languages.

From the open window of a modest apartment came the faint hum of Rabindra Sangeet on an old radio, mingling with the distant sound of carolers singing in English — two worlds touching, neither erasing the other.

Inside, the small living room was warm with golden light. Garlands hung alongside fading family photographs, a blend of tradition and improvisation. A little clay nativity scene sat beside a brass statue of Saraswati, both illuminated by the same flickering diya flame.

At the table near the window sat Jack, hands curled around a steaming cup of chai. Across from him, Jeeny was cutting up guava, sprinkling it with chili and salt — that effortless mix of ritual and rebellion she was known for.

The kettle whistled softly.

Jeeny: “Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni once said, ‘We even had a different word for Christmas in my language, Bengali: Baradin, which literally meant “big day.”’”

Host: Her voice carried the quiet awe of nostalgia — the kind that doesn’t ache, but glows.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Baradin… Big Day. I like that. Simple. Sacred without trying too hard.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it beautiful. It’s not about translation — it’s about feeling.”

Jack: “You say it like it’s something more than a name.”

Jeeny: “It is. Baradin isn’t just a holiday. It’s a season of remembering — of how we learned to hold two worlds in one heart.”

Host: Outside, a few children ran by, their laughter bright against the night. One carried a paper star, another a box of fireworks. The sound of Bengali and English intertwined as they chanted carols half in tradition, half in invention.

Jack: “You grew up celebrating Christmas?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not like in the movies. We didn’t have pine trees or snow. We had mango leaves, garlands, and the smell of coconut sweets. My father would hang tinsel across the balcony, and my mother would bake plum cake with too much rum.”

Jack: (laughing) “Too much rum sounds right.”

Jeeny: “It wasn’t about religion. It was about warmth. Baradin meant big hearts, not big gifts.”

Jack: “And you think that still exists?”

Jeeny: “In memory, always. But the world’s changed, Jack. We’ve turned holidays into deadlines. We rush to feel joy instead of letting it arrive.”

Host: The tea kettle hissed again; steam curled upward, blurring the edges of the room. Jack poured another cup for her, the sound filling the brief silence between them — a sound of care disguised as habit.

Jack: “You know, I grew up where Christmas meant snow, not sweetness. Everything was red and green, perfect, predictable. But your Baradin… it sounds alive. Messy. Real.”

Jeeny: “It was. The colors never matched. The lights always flickered. But somehow, the joy fit anyway.”

Jack: “You miss it.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Every year. I try to recreate it — the smell of my mother’s kitchen, the laughter in Bengali, the clatter of too many cousins in one room. But you can’t cook nostalgia. You can only remember its taste.”

Host: She took a slow sip of tea, her fingers warming against the cup. The wind outside whispered through the half-open window, carrying faint hints of roasting peanuts and incense from a nearby stall.

Jack: “You ever think about how language changes how we love things?”

Jeeny: “Always. A word can make something yours. Baradin wasn’t just Christmas translated — it was Christmas transformed. It belonged to us, in our rhythm, our tongue.”

Jack: “So it wasn’t borrowed faith. It was shared faith.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When my mother said ‘Baradin,’ she didn’t mean Santa or snow. She meant kindness. Light. Starting over.”

Host: The radio shifted to an English carol — “Silent Night.” Jeeny hummed along absentmindedly, then smiled when Jack joined in, slightly off-key.

Jack: (grinning) “See, that’s the thing. Holidays sound the same everywhere — but they don’t feel the same.”

Jeeny: “That’s because feelings don’t need passports.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet.”

Jeeny: “I sound like someone homesick for a word.”

Host: A silence followed — soft, not sad — filled with the glow of memory and tea. The rain had started again, faintly tapping against the windowpane, the kind of rhythm that makes time slow down just enough for the heart to breathe.

Jack: “You know, I think I envy that — having two worlds to call home. Two languages to name the same joy.”

Jeeny: “Don’t envy it. It’s not always easy. You spend your life translating yourself for everyone — never fully one thing or another.”

Jack: “But maybe that’s what makes you whole. You hold both truths at once.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe you just learn to belong to in-betweens.”

Host: The lights flickered once, then steadied. The room seemed to shimmer with quiet meaning — the scent of chai and rain mixing like memory and present moment.

Jeeny: “Baradin was my favorite time of year. Not because of what we celebrated, but because of what it made us remember — that joy doesn’t need uniformity. It just needs participation.”

Jack: “You mean sharing.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The act of giving warmth back to the world, however small.”

Host: She looked at him then, her eyes reflecting the small lights from the tree in the corner — not grand, just simple paper stars strung by hand.

Jeeny: “You know what my father used to say every Baradin?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “‘Joy is an act of rebellion.’”

Jack: “That’s beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Every time we choose to celebrate — despite distance, despite loss — we’re rebelling against forgetting.”

Host: The radio faded, leaving only the soft sound of the rain and the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall.

Jack lifted his cup slightly, in a quiet toast.

Jack: “To Baradin, then.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “To Baradin — the big day. The big heart.”

Host: They clinked cups softly. The rain outside softened to mist. Somewhere, a church bell rang, its tone carrying through the wet air like a memory from another life.

And in that small, glowing room, surrounded by mismatched traditions and timeless warmth, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s words found new life —

for Baradin, the “Big Day,”
is not about grandeur,
but about gratitude.

It is the gentle reminder
that language, like love,
doesn’t divide the sacred —
it translates it.

And in the end, no matter the word,
the meaning is always the same:
light, shared.