"The Boy Who Wrote to Santa: A Christmas Wish from India"

I was 12 years old when I first heard about Christmas and Santa Claus. It was during lunch break at school when my friend Rohan, who came from a Christian family, told me about the festive season. He described a jolly old man with a red suit and a long white beard who brought gifts to children who were good all year. It sounded magical, like something out of a dream.

I grew up in a small town in India, and we celebrated festivals like Diwali, Holi, and Navratri. Christmas wasn’t something my family observed, but I was fascinated by Rohan’s stories. He told me how he would write a letter to Santa every year, place it in a sock, and hang it by the window. Santa, he said, would read the letter and deliver the gift on Christmas Eve.

That day, I went home with my mind swirling with thoughts of Christmas and Santa Claus. Could Santa come to someone like me, even if I wasn’t Christian? Rohan had said Santa loved all children, and I decided to test it for myself. I wanted to believe in the magic, in the possibility that someone, somewhere, cared about my little wishes.

I found an old notebook and tore out a page. My handwriting was shaky as I began:

“Dear Santa,
My name is [Your Name]. I am 12 years old and live in India. I heard about you from my friend, and I hope you can read this letter. I don’t want anything big. Just a small gift to make me smile. Maybe a storybook? Or a cricket ball? Thank you, Santa. I’ll be waiting.
Love,

The letter neatly, found an envelope, and wrote "To Santa Claus, North Pole" on the front.

My family didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t tell them. It felt like my little secret, a bridge between my world and the magical world of Santa.

The next day, I asked Rohan how to send the letter. He laughed and said, “Just keep it under your pillow or in a sock. Santa knows where to find it!” That night, I slipped the letter under my pillow and lay awake, imagining Santa flying through the skies in a sleigh pulled by reindeer.

The days that followed were filled with excitement and hope. Every morning, I would check under my pillow, wondering if Santa had come. The letter remained there, untouched. By Christmas Eve, my excitement had turned into doubt. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe Santa only visited children in other countries. Or maybe he didn’t exist at all.

That night, I sat by the window, watching the stars. My heart ached, but I didn’t want to let go of the magic. My father noticed me sitting quietly and asked, “What’s wrong?” For a moment, I hesitated. Then, I told him everything – about Rohan, the letter, and how I had been waiting for Santa.

My father listened patiently and smiled. “You know,” he said, “Santa isn’t just a person. He’s a feeling, a spirit of giving and love. Sometimes, Santa works through people around us.” I didn’t fully understand what he meant, but his words gave me some comfort.

The next morning, I woke up to a surprise. Under my pillow was a neatly wrapped gift.

My heart raced as I opened it. Inside was a storybook with bright illustrations and a cricket ball, just like I had wished for. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How did this happen? Did Santa really come?

Later, I found out that my father had secretly read my letter and arranged the gift. At first,

I felt a pang of disappointment that it wasn’t Santa. But then I realized something: my father had become Santa for me. He had gone out of his way to keep the magic alive in my heart.

That Christmas, I learned that the true spirit of Santa wasn’t in the gifts but in the love and kindness we show to one another. Even though I was just a 12-year-old boy, it was a lesson that stayed with me for the rest of my life.

Now, every year during Christmas, I remember that magical time and try to be someone else’s Santa in small ways – a smile, a kind gesture, or a little gift. Because magic doesn’t always come from the sky; sometimes, it comes from the people who love us.