I recently returned to my beloved Arambol beach, after a brief experiment in ashram living in Mysore, to discover the Grinch is trying to steal Christmas in Goa! Fearing further terrorist attacks, the state government has banned all beach parties between now and January 5. No Christmas celebrations. No New Year's countdown. No fireworks. Earlier this week, police even broke up the open-mic nights at local bars in the village, sending everyone home to bed by 8:30 p.m.
I read an editorial in the local newspaper today that said, "If the terrorists' goal was to spread fear and keep us from exercising our freedom, they certainly got their way."
Yesterday, a little fort-like structure made of sandbags appeared in the middle of the beach. I peered into it, wondering at its purpose. Was it a barrier to launch fireworks from? A makeshift DJ booth?
A Kashmiri friend indentified it immediately. "It's a banker," he said.
"A banker?" I echoed, picturing a professional-looking man in a suit approving home loans.
"Yes, a military banker." Oh, a bunker. For soldiers. With guns.
I wasn't sure what was more sad: that Arambol beach would need a banker/bunker or that my Kashmiri friends, who marvel at unfamiliar sights like the fashion models in my magazines or airplanes in the night sky, were so familiar with the appearance of military intervention.
Factor in continuing economic despair, the sabre rattling between India and Pakistan, and a head cold that's on its second week of residency in my sinuses, and it's tempting to feel a bit "Bah Humbug" about everything. At times like this, I try to take a lesson from the Whos of Whoville and remember that it doesn't matter if the Grinch hordes all your presents and parties in his cave, the holidays live inside us.
So, I walk around humming Christmas carols. I eat too many sweets. (One tradition that's easy to observe in any country!) I'm going to midnight mass on Christmas Eve at the chapel in the village. And I'm wishing you all a merry little Christmas.
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