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Journalism of Courage
BACK when we were kids and Santa was real fat, real red, and, well, just plain real, Christmas in Goa began when December did. But the goodly feeling of eating suckling pig, crafting Lilliputian crib figurines, and trying to remain awake during Midnight Mass carried us through the wintry dreariness of the forthcoming 11 months.
The season commenced with the change of weather. Boxes of Christmas decorations were brought down from cupboards, dusted, and refurbished. Baskets of fir cones were painted silver and gold. The Star of David, cut out of paper and embellished with beads, was hung over the balcao where it twinkled nightly in the wind.
The glory lay in creating the Christmas tableau from scratch. Purchasing ornaments for the tree was a grave sign of sloth, and the pursed lips of neighbours was warning enough to never repeat the mistake.
If buying ornaments was a sin, then store-bought sweetmeats were the ultimate evil. My grandmother, right until she became bedridden, made her own bottles of syrup and platters of layered bebinca, crackling neurios, creamy nankatai and rich plum cake infused with brandied fruits. The aroma of brown sugar and icing sweetly cooling into hardness enveloped the senses.
As the great wooden doors on the Rua de Bernardo Costa swung wide open till dusk, innumerable relatives, some of who lived in the far North, came bearing gifts8212;squares of handmade lace, Portuguese linen, book coupons for the little ones8212;and often stayed long after Venus came out to play.
Grabbing snatches of time, our family would also make the rounds with plates of sweets, and on arrival were plied with something similar along with hot tea. The predictability of it all spelt peace and calm, and resulted in that fatty feeling some get when our eyes are bigger than our stomachs.
On Christmas Eve, we awoke in time for midnight mass and dressed in new clothes of silk. Mass was a religious and a spiritual experience. It could also get kind of painful, being the only time of the year naysayers ventured into the House of God, appropriating all the good seats. Women scented with perfume, men reeking of pomade, excited children. Everywhere the smell, sight and low whispers of the devout.
When we returned home, the lights were blazing, food had been whipped out, and the young ones ferreted under the tree for packages bearing their name. This universal ritual hasn8217;t changed, yet times were different. There were not as many novelty gifts to buy, and those rapacious industries speedrolling roomy red stockings, ribbons, and apple scented tea-lights were still a glimmer in the eye of the Hallmark contingent. Gifts were a token of love, not expected to fulfil a year8217;s worth of avarice. One Noel I lovingly handed my six-year-old cousin a roll of typewriter ribbon.
Christmas Day continues to be quiet, a somnolent air permeating the town. A copious lunch is followed by a siesta. At dusk, when the air smells most headily of mangoes and sea breeze, the celebrations reignite. Family dinner comprises traditional delicacies prepared by a platoon of cooks, many hired for the day from neighbouring villages.
With friends and revellers from out of town there are other options. Dancing to a band beside the swimming pool of a five-star hotel. Staff in Santa suits, professional nannies for the kids, a Christmas Queen contest some women collect those gold tiaras, and roast turkey, chicken, fish and duck slathered in cranberry or cream sauce.
For the latter, times haven8217;t changed. Christmas is still as placid or hedonistic as it once was. Sure, Santa has more clones to give children the exact, extravagant present their parents have paid for. The band still sings Karma Chameleon and Thriller. Christmas trees come in four sizes, with a free bag of envy-green baubles thrown in. The raves are harder, and you can have hummus and pita for Christmas lunch served by an Israeli in an Israeli shack.
But for those who knew Christmas then and celebrate it now, the tinsel feels as though it has tarnished. Christmas is another day, but one that leaves you more tired, feeling fatter, nursing the guilty depression of an airy wallet. But something about Goa does not allow this fairy story to have an unhappy ending. Something about the people and their faith, about the weather, the ways.
For, walking home one evening, you will pass a small crumbling home which cannot have much by way of a Christmas treat. And outside you see the Star of David crafted by a loving hand, and peeping inside espy a shabby tree. You hear the family snug in prayer. And somewhere in the starry distance, the tolling of a church bell. And it is in that quiet solitude that you realise that whatever else may begin or conclude, in Goa the Christmas spirit will never die.
