Remember when you were five or six and you couldn?t wait for Christmas to come? Not because you knew the religious significance of the festival but because Christmas simply meant magic?

I?m not even talking about the pile of presents that was carefully stacked underneath the Christmas tree by some thoughtful soul (even though, to be honest, the presents were a great incentive to the magic) but because you believed in something that was ultimately and resolutely good. How I wish I still believed in Father Christmas! How I wish I could still trust in someone as wholeheartedly as I used to trust in Santa Claus! I guess that?s what faith is all about.

I had faith. I religiously, and clumsily, wrote my list every year to give to my parents who would post it to Santa. (They wouldn?t tell me the address in case I wrote an unsupervised list and made unreasonable demands.) Then they would come back to me after a few days to inform me that they had to report on my behaviour (because Santa asked and no one lies to Santa) and I might not get everything I asked for. I?d then go to my room to cry my heart out, promising God or whoever was listening that I would be such a good girl next year and to please forgive me. And to please convince Santa?

But Santa was not to be convinced. «He is fair but firm. He is good but is no fool.» My father used to lecture me whenever I tried to blackmail him emotionally to get him to put in a good word for me to Santa. And true to his word, Santa would miss out a few presents from my list and I would sulk for a few minutes before falling in love with my lovable Santa Claus again. The joys of opening gift-wrapped toys!

Some twenty years later, I still go around asking kids about their letters to Santa. They look at me as if I?m from some other planet. «He doesn?t exist, you fool! Didn?t you know?» they reply irreverently. Undaunted, I still try to convince them that their friends lied to them and Santa does truly exist. That?s usually when they turn away and walk out on me.

It breaks my heart every time I hear a child who should still believe in magic; say defiantly «Santa does not exist. Only silly people believe in him.» What?s the rush? I ask myself. Don?t they know that the older you get, the more disillusioned with life you get? How can anyone be in such a hurry to lose his or her illusions?

I still remember with a pang of sorrow how upset and angry I was to discover that Santa was just a lie. That?s the day I decided God didn?t exist because if he did, he wouldn?t break a child?s heart so callously. It didn?t matter to me then that he gave me 8 years of magic?

But I regained my faith. The world may not still be what it used to be but some things do not change. I learnt to believe. To believe that good things always come out of bad things, that there will always be light at the end of every tunnel. And this is as true as the sunrise that comes after every sunset. You see, the magic is still there?