There are certain times in the year when a nation instinctively softens. Festivals do that to people. They remind us that despite disagreements, noise, and politics, there is still room for tenderness, kindness, and shared joy. Christmas has always had that quality in India. Even people who do not celebrate it religiously recognise something gentle about it — lights in windows, small shops decorated, quiet prayers in churches, children excited about Santa, carols floating across neighbourhoods, friends exchanging cake without ever asking who belongs to which faith. It has always been one of those festivals that sat comfortably in the larger Indian rhythm of coexistence. That is why the anxiety, disruptions, and harassment faced by many Christian communities recently felt so deeply unsettling. Instead of warmth, there was unease. Instead of a shared celebration, there was intimidation. Instead of letting faith exist peacefully, people felt compelled to police it. And suddenly, a time that should have been wrapped in joy began to carry the chill of fear.
What troubles many Indians is not just the incidents themselves, but what they seem to signal. Violence rarely appears out of thin air. Before it erupts, something shifts in the social air. Suspicion becomes casual. Dominance becomes a performance. Minorities begin to sense subtle hints that their place in the national imagination is becoming conditional. That is what makes incidents of church disruptions, harassment of small Christian gatherings, or vandalising of prayer halls so disturbing. They are not isolated technical failures of law and order; they feel like the outcome of a slow erosion of mutual trust. People who should have been busy decorating their homes or preparing meals instead found themselves worrying about whether their right to celebrate peacefully would be respected. Families that should have been enjoying togetherness wondered whether they were now unwelcome guests in their own home country. Faith, which should be an intimate and deeply personal experience, suddenly seemed to require defensive courage.
This is where responsibility becomes important. A healthy society is not produced by accident. It is nurtured. It is protected. It is guided by institutions that understand the emotional weight of festivals, especially for minority communities. When unrest erupts around a religious celebration, it is not enough to simply restore physical peace; the moral reassurance must also be restored. People must believe that their right to worship, bury their dead with dignity, sing hymns, and decorate their churches is not dependent on the mood of the majority on any given day. That belief can only exist when authorities act early, firmly, and fairly. Silence is not neutral in moments like these; it feels like abandonment. The idea of India that most of us cherish has always been built around the confidence that multiple faiths can coexist without one threatening the existence of another. When that confidence weakens, the damage is emotional before it is physical. It builds quiet resentment, quiet fear, and a quiet distancing of communities from one another.
And yet, all is not lost. India has always had the ability to pull itself back from uglier impulses. The vast majority of citizens are not people who wake up wanting to harm neighbours. They are ordinary families, living ordinary lives, who instinctively understand that diversity is not a burden but a habit we have lived with for generations. The task now is not to rediscover tolerance, but to prevent intolerance from pretending to represent everyone. A country does not protect its unity by teaching minorities fear; it protects it by assuring them dignity. Christmas deserved candles, music, shared meals, and the easy laughter that has long defined the season here. Instead, too many people spent it wondering if the celebration was even safe. That is not who we claim to be. India has to decide whether it wants to be a place where festivals divide or a place where festivals heal. The choice is not abstract, and it is not for governments alone. It belongs to civil society, to neighbourhoods, to citizens, and to every institution with authority. Harmony does not survive automatically; it survives because a society refuses to let hate become normal. If we want the India we are proud of to remain intact, then every citizen needs to insist that faith be left in peace, dignity be left untouched, and festivals once again return to what they are meant to be — moments of belonging, not moments of fear.