The festivitiy of HOLI go back a long time and holds a lot of significance in my life. Right from my very childhood, I have seen my father prepare and get involved in the festival whole-heartedly. He'd prepare us a liquid magenta dye from the seeds of a local vegetable, for our 'pichkaris' and give us dry indigo to be used as powder-colour. Our colours always stood out, did not stay for long and were much safer than the synthetic dyes and 'gulal' available in the local markets. Dad would also prepare the finest 'thandai' sans 'bhaang' with lots of dry fruits. Ma would be busy mixing loads of 'sweet boondi' with 'bhujiya' and have her sweets ready for all our visiting neighbours & playmates. It was always exciting for us on holi as we wouldn't even sit at our study tables on those 2 days of the festival and would start playing right from the moment we finished our breakfast. The first day would be the dry-colour day and the second day would be the wet-colour day. Nonetheless, both the days were equally fun. The neighbours' stopover would always be at our house, especially for the special treat that ma & dad always offered. Every year it was a customary thing for us and I grew up seeing this household tradition till I grew up to be 21. This festival always allowed us to blend our sensivities with a certain joi-de-vivre. That was then.
After I moved to Delhi, I was introduced to a quite different and shocking culture of playing holi there. People, especially young boys and even the not-so-young boys would have small balloons filled with water ready about a week before the actual festival. They would aim and throw these water-balloons hitting passerbys, especially girls and women, at vulgarly embarrassing places. It wasn't fun to turn up at a class or at the workplace with a wet shirt-front or a seat-wet jeans. Nobody would or could say anything to these 'goons' as they would have their cheesy line ready...bura na maano, holi hai! (don't mind, it's holi!). And since one couldn't escape this torture in the name of a beautiful festival, the best thing to do was either to stay indoors or somehow avoid venturing out in the prime hours of the day. On the actual days of the festival, it got even worse. With access to alchohol and bhaang, people quickly turned into demons and in the name of camaraderie it became a festival that was vulgar and boorish. It no longer evoked a sense of choice as much as it evoked a sense of force. And I began detesting Holi with all my heart through my entire stay in Delhi.
Then last year I celebrated Holi (to use the cliche) with gay abandon, fun and frolic...my first after marriage, with my husband and his entire unit and brigade. It was very special and a great equaliser. It brought back good old memories of my childhood Holi and in a way I got emotional and salubrious, especially to watch my spouse celebrate the festival with equal enthusiasm and vigour as I remembered my dad doing it years ago. We smeared colours on one another, had bhaang-thandai with snacks, got drenced from head to toe, sang and danced and finally rounded it off with a sit-down luncheon with the entire unit. It was indeed a festival of colours, fun and happiness. It really didn't matter which colour was in fashion...as long as you knew who was going to dab it on you and that your special one is watching over you, assuring that no one went overboard to an annoying extent. It was about sharing, not about hoarding. And I fell in love with the festival once again.
This year, though I'll be missing celebrating holi with my husband, on the brighter side, I'm spoiled for choice whether to be home to enjoy this wonderful festival of colours once again with my loved ones in our old wonderful customary tradition, or to share this colourful festival with other families of defence at the club. Guess I'll choose one day of each. Happy Holi to one and all!
