Holi is the festival of colours, which despite having the mythological victory- of- good-over-evil connection, is now more reputed as the festival of fun, joy and rain-dancing.
As a kid, it was my favorite festivity which would begin with me waking up in the morning; carefully taking out the coloured powders which me and dad would have raided from the roadside markets the previous evening; getting dressed up in a white frock and walking about with my neighborhood buddy splashing colours on anyone who would catch our glimpse. Before frolicking around, I and my friend would both be served a special flavoured milk and ladoos. Then we were allowed to run about till noon.
Fifteen years later, I am reminded of an incident which was obliquely related to Holi and was a total fiasco on my part.
It was a Sunday morning. Back then, when I had just started schooling, I had no idea when my school was closed and when it was open. All that mattered to me was that somedays, I would be woken early in the morning and other days I would be allowed to sleep till late.
I sat with my father watching the morning news headlines- I had the least idea what the reporter read on the television screen- but then I heard that lady in black utter “holi”day.
‘What did she say?’ I asked my dad.
‘Holiday’ he replied. For some reasons, my mind decided to listen to only “holi” of “holiday”. I was aghast. Today was Holi and I was kept in the dark. We did not even go shopping for colours yesterday evening. It was already ten, only two hours till our curfew.
‘Today is holi! Where are my colours?’ I hollered. In vain did my parents try to explain that it was just a Sunday for in the end, me and my determination of a four year old was unshakable.
And hence it was, my self-made off-season Holi in the scorching summer of May.
I ran out with bags full of the remnant colours of the last ‘actual’ holi. That obviously followed me being mad at mom and dad for not enlightening me with the upcoming holi owing to which I was devoid of any new colours. I was lucky enough to have watched the morning news which edified me with the “holi”day.
I waited in my garden, sprinkling some gulal on the bushes. An hour passed by. There was no sign of anyone, let alone my next door neighbor who could be seen gulping down a glass of milk in his front porch.
Milk- that special ‘Holi’ milk.
I waved at him. He waved back with a grin.
Come over, I gestured.
Why?, he maimed back.
I threw a handful of red powder in the air, hoping he would realize that it was already noon and we were missing out on a lot of pranks.
He looked at me quizzical.
Come over here with your water gun and bag of colours, I signaled.
He waved his palm at me, went in and came out, still wearing a black T-shirt, with no water gun.
I grimaced at him,
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘Holi Hai!!!’ I smeared his face with a multitude of colours and he yelled back,
‘What holi? Today is not holi?’
His words had no effect on me, just like my mom or dads. This time I attacked him with my water gun.
He tried his best to explain that it was just a Sunday and no ‘Holi’ but in vain. My mom happened to pass by. She knew I had gone too far. Therefore, she pulled me in, right in front of dad’s eyes, ran out and apologized to my dear neighbor then came inside to give me a good dressing down.
That was a really important day in my life for that was the day I realized that “holiday” and “Holi” are literally two different words and a mix-up could be fatal. Otherwise, every other holiday would have been my festival of colours.
When the heart speaks... 