I was Mother Mary for a day. One day, every year for four years. At the mere mention of a fifth Nativity play in school a stay-still tableau discouraging the barest budge, I protested. It wasn-t the silence I minded as much as freezing for what seemed forever. "Please may I have another part," I asked, boldly for a shy kid.


The Paranjoti choir singing in this year-s Christmas concert at The Scots Kirk of St Andrew’s, Lion Gate. The 200-year-old Presbyterian church still follows the practice of draping white cloth on pews and has blue carpets - the uniform colours of Navy officers who frequented it. Pic Courtesy Sam Santosh

The drama teacher cast me as Cinderella in a parallel production, promising, "You-ll have so much movement in the ballroom scene." Except that my Prince Charming proved a disastrous dancer. Torturously twirled by him who was her, of course, at St Joseph-s Convent, my feet hurt bad in high heels. I waited to bolt off stage at the midnight clock strike, happy to shed a shoe as I ran.