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…

From Honey Lemon Tea to Honey flavoured Scotch Whiskey

They say a son's first drink should be with his father. I do not know if my brother's first drink was with my father, but my first drink definitely was with my father. The very first forbidden sip of Rémy Martin stolen from my father's glass as my mother frowned disapprovingly at him went down my throat like a shot of fire. Not sure if I liked that burning sensation I stayed away from liqueurs for a long time after that...

Years later, awake at an unearthly hour of 4 am to study for some exams, despite a sore throat, I found myself presented with a mug of a warm honey golden liquid. I stared at it suspiciously. "Drink up, it will soothe your throat," said Papa. The liquid flowed down my throat soothing my throat as Papa had said and spreading a delicious warmth through my system. I was hooked. For years after that, if my father and I were both awake at the break of dawn, who ever woke up second, brewed and served the other some steaming honey lemon tea.

As time passed, my childhood dislike for alcohol slowly faded and I took my first timorous step towards appreciating liqueurs and wines. It was a winter evening and I had been coughing and wondering how I'd study the next morning, when Papa placed a goblet of a warm honey golden liquid in front of me. "Drink up, it will soothe your throat." My mind raced back to that morning years ago and without a moment's hesitation I picked up the goblet and took a large swallow. The most delicious warm liquid raced down my throat leaving behind a fiery trail and my mind took a leap back several years down the line to my first sip of Rémy Martin. Years later, Rémy Martin remains a favourite (even if last resort) home remedy for a sore throat, even if my companion is no more.

Last year, chatting late into the night with a friend and reminiscing about how I developped a taste for liqueurs like Tia Maria, I remembered a bottle of Drambuie lying forgotten at the back of our bar. Dropping the conversation mid-way I raced to retrieve the bottle which was covered with a fine film of dust, so long had it been lying ignored. Uncorking the bottle, we poured ourselves a glass each of the finest scotch whiskey liqueur made with malt whiskey, heather honey and a secret blend of herbs. I closed my eyes as a shot of molten fire slid down my throat, the hints of honey, anise and nutmeg mingling with the stronger taste of fine scotch whiskey filled my senses. Undoubtedly the best liqueur I'd had till date. As I took my second sip, I mentally toasted Papa and wondered what he would have said if it had been with him that I had my first sip of Drambuie.

From Honey Lemon Tea to Honey Flavoured Scotch Whiskey...this one is for you Papa!