Christmas is Thanksgiving for me

When the rest of the world celebrates Christmas and New Year with pomp, there are a people from Asia to Africa who slosh through a tsunami of sad memories, and yet some others who observe them as a season of Thanksgiving.
On Boxing Day 15 years ago, the world watched in horror as giant breaking waves tore through the shorelines of 11 countries, killing more than 230,000 unsuspecting tourists and residents. December 26, 2004, will thus remain a red-letter day which brings surges of emotions to thousands of families and to some of us who had a providential escape.
Our journey to the jaws of death happened due to our newfangled urge to be on the move. To travel is in the blood for the Chinese who plan their holidays months or years in advance. Living in the midst of them for over a decade, we learned to go with the flow, never missing a chance to hit the road. But unlike the Chinese, we always travelled on impulse. I would come home and, like a platoon leader on the war front, shout the order, "Let's go." In a few minutes, I would either be behind the wheel or on a bus to exotic Malaysian destinations.
The December 2004 trip was a tad different as we had all the hotel bookings but no travel arrangement. On a bus from Singapore, our first stop was Malacca, a historical place in Peninsular Malaysia. Since the waters of the Malacca Straits, the busiest shipping route in the world, were muddy with oil and dangerous with the presence of toxic box jellyfish, our stay was all about pool time and visits to street markets and historical places like the ruins of St Paul's Church atop St Paul's Hill.
St Paul's Church, regarded as the missionary headquarters of St Francis Xavier, is a must-see for any Indian who knows the Jesuit priest's connection with Goa, where he first arrived from Rome on May 6, 1542. It was from here the body of St Xavier, who died on Sanchian Island of mainland China in 1552, was shipped to Goa's Basilica Bom Jesus.
For me it was an inner call to visit the church, pay obeisance and photograph its ruins. And I returned with one of the best snaps I have taken - a shabby vagrant playing the guitar in the backdrop of the timeworn walls of the 1551 church, the oldest in Malaysia and South-east Asia.
After a three-day sojourn in Kuala Lumpur, our second stop in the voyage, we travelled to George Town, the capital city of Penang, the second smallest Malaysian state. The next few days of our stay in an ocean-fronting resort in George Town were the cliched sun, surf and sand. While the swimmers mostly kept off the scummy waters, people rode the waves on water scooters. I felt a heavy wave of fear as my son raced out into the sea.
"Let's go home tonight," I said in the morning of December 24 while hanging out in the Jacuzzi beside the pool bar.
"Dad, don't be a spoilsport. We just started to enjoy. What's the hurry?" children screamed amid the hubbub rising from the madding holiday crowd.
"I want to be home for Christmas. Orchard Road is the best place to be for Christmas and New Year."
"There's a lot more to see here," chorused children.
"Let's go to Kek Lok Si Temple, Butterfly Farm and Batik Factory before catching a coach to Singapore tonight."
"Dad, listen to voices of democracy," pleaded wifey.
"I don't get Christmas and New Year holidays every time. Isn't this the first time? We are leaving tonight. Period."
Back in Singapore on Christmas Day, we were in awe of the great Orchard Road, which had turned into a luminous wonderland. We soaked up the festive cheer as light, sound, colour and communal vibe permeated the world-class shopping arena.
And when we woke up the next morning, the world had changed. At 7.59am, a 9.1-magnitude earthquake - one of the largest ever recorded in history - ripped through an undersea fault in the Indian Ocean, propelling a massive column of water towards shores across two continents. The deadliest tsunami ever recorded wiped out islands and towns in a matter of hours.
When the tragedy unfolded around us, we watched in horror footages of people and places being sucked into the ocean. It was agonising to watch young children, who pranced on the beach on the bight Sunday morning, disappear in the surge of waters. The 10-minute long quake 31 miles below the ocean floor released as much pent-up power as several thousand atomic bombs.
Our hearts were in our mouths when we watched the tsunami clips from Penang. Waves crashed over the pool and swept through the lobby of the hotel where we had stayed. We were splashing and splurging in that pool a few days ago. Every morning we were lazying around that lobby waiting for our call taxi. Not long ago, my son was surfing in the sea. Memories that would haunt us to the grave.
Christmas has since been Thanksgiving Day for me. Every Christmas, I think of the vagrant guitarist at the Malacca church. He's my Santa Claus, ringing the bells of life.
suresh@khaleejtimes.com