02/03/10

Happy Holi

I have never been particularly fond of Holi. Ever since I can remember, I have perceived Holi as a festival of muck (all that water mixing with the dust in the building compound) in which people got dirty (people running amok throwing water and colour on each other like semi-lunatics) reducing them to the status of an animal (think of elephants who cover their body with dust and them spray themselves with water or hippos who love immersing themselves in stagnant water). Not a very pleasant picture of the festival, as you can see! I fail to see the connection between the origin of the festival and what is done today in guise of Holi celebrations. More than that, I hated and still hate being forced to be a part of this madness, more so since I would invariably fall sick because of the colours and water.


This year, as I watched my nephew waiting impatiently for his sole friend to come and play with him, because he wanted to squirt him with coloured water using his new pichkari, I felt a twinge of sadness. Whether I liked the festival or not, the choice to play and run wild was open to me. I’m not sure how many children today have that choice, since so few residential societies today enjoy that sense of camaraderie where festival calls for get-together, potluck parties and much bonhomie.


Despite my aversion to the festival I have some rather fond memories of the festival. Memories of playing with cousins on our terrace and then sitting down to a scrumpcious lunch with puris, gujiyas, meetha chawal and kheer. Memories of planning my route back home from the library so as to avoid those mischievous boys who threw balloons and were so viciously perfect with their aim that they almost always got my back. Memories of mixing colour in a tub full of water and filling my pichkari with that water to chase my friend around the building compound. Memories of going down to play with my building friends – only to come back up 15 minutes later, crying because someone had thrown too much water on me, which was forgotten an hour later when I went back down to join the lunch organised for everyone and chatter with aunties, uncles and friends. Some good some bad. But enough to fill my plate and leave a smile on my face. I wonder if my nephew will have such memories to fill his heart with a burst of colour and make him hold on to the idea of the festival even though he has grown up and moved beyond the lunacy of its celebrations…

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