Colombo’s December heat does not apologize. It sits on your shoulders like an affectionate cat and purrs loudly. Snow exists only as an idea you keep in the freezer for guests. Still, at the park near the lake, Christmas arrived with drums and confetti and volunteers who believed climate is not the boss of joy.

The children came in waves—tiny avalanches of sandals and anticipation—invited from shelters and communities where need is the primary language. The organizers had promised “a magical carnival,” which is a dangerous sentence unless you intend to make it true. They intended.

Fifty Santas assembled behind the main stage: fifty red suits, fifty cotton beards trying their best, fifty bellies varying in sincerity. Some volunteers were bankers who had never sweated this much on purpose. Some were students who discovered goodness is a sport. One was a grandmother who had raised six children and felt qualified to manage chaos in any costume.

When the music swelled, the Santas poured into the crowd like an exclamation point. Children froze and then detonated into laughter. It’s one thing to meet a Santa; it’s another to be surrounded by the idea of Santa multiplied until doubt has nowhere to sit. The game became guessing which one was real. The answer, of course, was yes.

They handed out ice creams that raced the sun and lost deliciously. They distributed toys chosen by people who remember what it’s like to want the red one desperately. They listened to requests that weren’t about presents: Will mum get a job? Will my brother’s cough stop? Can my dad come home? Santas are trained, informally, in answering the unanswerable with presence.

A girl in a blue dress took a Santa’s hand and dragged him toward the carousel. “You,” she said, “you are the right one.” He laughed and asked how she knew. “Because your eyes look like a nap,” she said, and he understood: she meant safe.

As dusk put fairy lights on everything, a choir of older kids sang carols in Sinhala and English, the harmonies finding common ground. One Santa—sweat and joy having shaken hands on his face—looked out at the crowd and thought about how belief scales when people conspire for good. He had come to give; he was leaving with perspective.

The event ended the way good days do: untidily. Sticky fingers. Lost hats found on statues. Volunteers limping in boots they would not recommend. The park returned to ordinary, except for the part that doesn’t anymore. Magic leaves residue.

Backstage, a little boy approached the cluster of Santas, hand behind his back like a spy. He produced a paper crown and held it up. “For you,” he told the nearest red suit. “You are king of today.”

The Santa bowed. “Only if you are prince of tomorrow.”

They traded crown and hat and laughed until it was too dark to keep pretending they weren’t crying. The organizers counted leftover sweets like blessings. Somewhere far away, someone argued online about whether Santa should be this or that. Here, he was plural, generous, and absolutely real.

The next morning, the park workers found one red hat left on a bench. They kept it on a peg in the shed, a reminder that the weather report is not the only forecast. Love is also climate.