Winter's Tale - Three Carolers

I admit from the start, I'm very sensitive when it comes to carols and carolers. I have a weakness that, if it were human, would walk around wearing a red fez and whistle "Oh, what wonderful news!". Obviously, weaknesses are speculated. For me, often. During the pandemic there was silence, unwanted, carols were silenced, or rather, they moved online, where you couldn't open the door to them, but you could close your laptop. But now, when the world has returned to life, or at least that's what they think, carols have returned, transformed like everything that escapes storms alive: with more speakers, less voice, and much more audacity.

This year, the first "collision" with carolers did not bring me emotion, but amazement, a rare feeling at my age, when I am amazed by extremely mundane and easily evaluated things.

The first caroler: a gentleman who was quickly approaching my age, so he no longer fit the "young - hopeful" category. He sang in silence. He shook a bell so seriously that it seemed he had a contract with Santa Claus and had to reach his hourly rate. I, inattentive, kept waiting for him to start singing. He saw that I couldn't see and pointed to my chest. He had a card: "I'm mute." I took him at his word, written, of course. Since curiosity is sometimes tactless, I asked him by signs if he could at least hear. He nodded that he could. So we struck up a dialogue. I with my hands, he with a pencil and a notebook. In the end, I found out why he didn't use a speaker, like the ones on buses and trams, who sing in your ears as if you were at a karaoke contest without your consent. "I don't want to deceive anyone," he wrote to me. "I carol as best I can. Authentically." I felt like taking him in my arms. But the man was caroling, not doing therapy. So I refrained.

It's clear: you can carol in many ways, even without a voice, if you have the heart.

The next two carolers came from an area from which I didn't think Romanian folk customs had penetrated: Bangladesh. They appeared at my door singing with selflessness, energy and completely without diacritics: "sa inaltam", "iepuras", "am vanat", as if they had just discovered the Romanian language in a beta version. It didn't sound bad, but it didn't sound good either. It was like when you eat macaroni with mustard at the mall, you can't say it's wrong, but something doesn't add up. When I opened the door, my mouth was left slightly "cracked". I was amazed! They didn't let themselves be held back either: one exclaimed "Santa Claus!". Obviously, I was actually just a beard. To be honest, they admitted that they didn't understand the business of caroling, but they found out that money is made, and then, how can you not like the tradition? Then they asked me if it bothered me. I didn't know what exactly. The fact that they carol "in Romanian". I smiled, thinking of a carol in their language. The world changes, traditions change, we argue over phonemes and diacritics, and the boys from Bangladesh sing with pathos what they think would be "Lord, Lord, let us lift up". Maybe that's the essence. Those who can and want to, carol. Where we don't carol, others carol. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe it's just the world, with all its valleys and hills, with the authentic mute, with the enthusiastic Bangladeshis and me, a temporary Santa Claus who can't say "no" to some carolers, no matter how improvised they are.

Happy New Year! May he find our holidays with a soul attuned, even if his voice squeaks.