A Goan Christmas remembered through dresses, carols and childhood rituals

When I think of Christmas back home, I don’t start with cake or carols. I start with my Christmas dress. Or rather, the annual mystery of what my Christmas dress would finally look like.

Every year, the dress was stitched by a local seamstress. There were two options. Aunty Genevieve, who lived right next door and therefore inherited all last-minute panic. And Edna, who lived much farther across town and was in high demand. Getting a dress from Edna required planning, foresight, and adult-level organisation. Naturally, I rarely qualified. Aunty Genevieve always did the job, usually while muttering about deadlines and children who spring fabric surprises on innocent women.

The delivery timing was always dramatic. Aunty Genevieve would arrive with the dress roughly five minutes before the church bells rang for midnight mass. Sometimes three. Once, I am convinced, the bells had already started their warm-up. There would be frantic changing, last-minute pinning, and a quick prayer that the zip would survive the evening.

Looking back, the dresses were spectacularly questionable. Lace featured heavily. Velvet made regular appearances, even in Goa’s mild December weather. Satin also entered the chat, often in colours that could be spotted from across the village. There was almost always a bow involved. Not a subtle bow. A declaration bow. Usually at the back. Large enough to qualify as festive décor.

One year, I decided I was ready for fashion. International fashion. Mini skirt fashion. The resulting skirt was… ambitious. My group of evil male friends wasted no time. They informed Aunty Genevieve that she had clearly kept most of the cloth aside for her grandchildren and left me with the scraps. This commentary was delivered loudly, joyfully, and repeatedly. Aunty Genevieve took it in her stride. I wore the skirt anyway, confidence stitched together with safety pins and teenage optimism.

Christmas also meant carol singing. Proper door-to-door carol singing. A gang of youngsters armed with enthusiasm, one guitarist who knew exactly three chords, and a Santa. Santa was always a guy. Always. At some point, gender equality briefly visited our group and I dressed as Santa once. The beard was questionable. The confidence was not.

We would sing our way from house to house, collecting sweets, coins, and unsolicited advice about singing in tune. The guitar carried us. The Santa did the ho-ho-ho duties. The rest of us sang with commitment that far exceeded our musical abilities.

Church activities were another serious business. Fancy dress competitions. Singing competitions. Carol singing competitions. If there was a stage and a microphone, I was involved. One year, I dressed as a tantrik-style witch, something between an aghori and a very committed drama student. The look involved dark makeup, intense expressions, and zero explanation. I won a prize. Goa has always appreciated commitment to the character.

The church carol competitions were equally intense. Practices were earnest. Arguments over pitch were common. Friendships were tested. Everyone believed their group deserved first place. Christmas spirit thrived alongside competitive instincts.

What this really means is that Christmas in my hometown was loud, chaotic, stitched together at the last minute, and deeply personal. It smelled of fabric shops and church incense. It sounded like guitars slightly out of tune. It looked like oversized bows and questionable skirt lengths.

Every year, I thought I was growing up. Every year, Christmas proved otherwise. And honestly, I wouldn’t change a stitch of it.