The Nights We Caroled: A Holiday Memory from Goa, Bombay and Bangalore

Photo by Saveurs Secretes-Pexels

There was a time, not so long ago in the measure of the heart, when Christmas in our Indian Christian communities was marked not by LED lights synchronized to smartphone apps or YouTube playlists of polished Western choirs, but by something far simpler and infinitely more alive. It began with a pickup truck — usually borrowed from someone’s generous uncle or a parishioner who trusted us far more than we trusted ourselves — and a ragtag orchestra of guitars, improvised drums, a jingling tambourine, and the legendary box bass, that mystical wooden creature whose single deep note could wake half the neighborhood and still make you feel the presence of God. In Goa, Bombay, and Bangalore, this was the sound of the season: unpolished, enthusiastic, and carried by the wind long after we had moved on to the next home.

Caroling in those years was nothing less than an annual migration of youthful energy. We would gather late in the evening and climb into the pickup truck with the kind of confidence only teenagers and stray cats possess. Wrapped in sweaters and scarves that the December weather did not actually require, we rode standing, sitting, leaning, and occasionally hanging off the side rails, our breath white in the night air — or imagined white, because the idea of “cold” in Bombay and Goa sometimes required imagination. What we lacked in temperature, we made up for in spirit. Our parishes would form groups, sometimes led by the choir, sometimes by whoever could play three chords on the guitar, and we would set off, a traveling band of cheer with lanterns, floodlights wired to car batteries, and an optimism that bordered on foolishness.

Each home on our route had its own character. In Goa, we stepped into “balcaos” decorated with bright paper stars and illuminated with such gusto that even passing fishermen at sea might mistake them for landmarks. In Bombay, we squeezed into compact yet welcoming living rooms where children peeked at us from behind sofas and cats stared with suspicion. In Bangalore, we stood on tidy porches scented with filter coffee and wet earth as residents pulled up chairs so they could sit and enjoy our singing — a kindness rarely extended to the performers themselves. We often began with confusion: which carol to sing, in which key, and who exactly was supposed to start. But somehow, after arguing like seasoned parliamentarians, we launched into a mix of English, Konkani & Hindi, harmonizing with surprising beauty given that half the group was distracted by the aroma of something frying inside.

The singing was only half the ritual. The other half awaited us immediately after: the treats. Every home had something unique to offer, a culinary fingerprint of kindness that made our nights deliciously unpredictable. Rose cookies dusted with sugar, kulkuls fried to a golden curl, slices of fruit-rich plum cake whose rum content varied wildly depending on Auntie’s hand that year, and the occasional choris pao or bhajias that vanished in seconds. And then came the jewel of all Christmas refreshments — the famous red homemade wine. That ruby liquid, brewed in kitchens and verandas with cinnamon, cloves, raisins, and more love than chemistry, was poured in tiny glasses with immense pride. “Careful,” Uncle would warn, “this year it’s very strong.” We sipped it with reverence, knowing that homemade wine was not merely a drink but a family heirloom in liquid form. By the fourth house, the shy girls were singing with newfound bravado and aiming for high notes normally reserved for angels or Mariah Carey.

Of course, not every motivation was spiritual. The Christmas Dance and New Year’s Eve Ball loomed enticingly, and caroling gave the young men the perfect excuse to socialize with the young women without invoking the wrath of parents or parish elders. Goan boys deployed their charm through harmonies; Bombay boys offered the best seats in the pickup truck; Bangalore boys gallantly carried lanterns as though escorting queens. And somewhere between “Silent Night” and “Joy to the World,” meaningful glances were exchanged, shy conversations blossomed, and invitations to upcoming dances were extended with courage born of music, moonlight, and maybe just a sip of Auntie’s wine.

What made these nights unforgettable was not simply the music or the snacks but the deep sense of community they nurtured. In Goa, even Hindu and Muslim neighbors asked us to stop by because they enjoyed the carols and the cheerful commotion. In Bombay’s apartment blocks, people leaned over balconies to listen. In Bangalore, entire streets lit their porches deliberately, a quiet signal of welcome. We, on rare occasions, even got invited into our neighbor’s homes to sample homemade or Nilgiri’s Christmas plum cake & Auntie’s homemade delicious wine. Caroling stitched together the social fabric of our neighborhoods, reminding us that Christmas was not confined to church walls but thrived in the open air, in shared smiles, in late-night laughter, and in the generous glow of hospitality.

Looking back now, with the perspective that age inevitably brings, these memories gleam even more brightly. They remind us of a time when joy was unmanufactured, when friendships grew in the space between verses, and when our biggest worry was whether the guitarist remembered the chords. Christmas was lived fully then — loudly, lovingly, and often off-key — but always together. Those chaotic, laughter-filled nights of caroling taught us harmony in more ways than one: musical, emotional, and communal. We may no longer climb into pickup trucks with the reckless enthusiasm of youth, but the stories remain, ripening like fine homemade wine, waiting to be shared every December.

And so, long after the melodies have faded and the box bass has been retired, the memory of those nights still sings. It sings of belonging, of courage, of community, of the unmistakable sweetness of homemade wine, and of the precious truth that Christmas joy, once shared across a neighborhood, never truly leaves you.