Holi Hai, kya?

I hated having to bathe. When I was in school, I would wake up late just so I could skip bathing- and in the evenings, I preferred homework to soap. At times, I would go days without a bath until my mother pushed me into the bathroom and threatened not to leave until she heard the water running. Perhaps I took her too literally. One such day, when it had been so long since I bathed that you could smell me before you saw me, I was pushed into the bathroom. Indignant, I turned the shower on, hummed particularly loudly and waited. I made faces at myself in the mirror, climbed up on the toilet, bathtub, basin and danced around. I mixed facewash and handwash and watched the mixture bubble under the tap- but I refused to stand under the running water. A good 45 minutes later, I decided my bath had lasted long enough. I proudly undressed, wrapped myself up in my towel and turned the water off. I came outside looking particularly victorious and announced, “I’m done, Ma!” She came and took one look at me and hit the roof. There wasn’t the tiniest droplet of dampness on my body and my hair was as bouncy and dusty as it would’ve been had I spent the last week in a sweltering desert. I was never very smart when it came to getting away with things.

 

Strangely enough, for someone who hated bathing as much as I did, I loved Holi. I would count the weeks and months to that one day when ALL my friends would gather in the building with their pichkaris and gulal, ready to plaster each other with colourful insanity. I would wake up from dreams of merriment earlier than any other morning of the year and slip into old clothes and sit at my window waiting for when my friends came downstairs and called out to me. I would run out the door with packets of colour, water balloons and a big bucket with Oliver, my lab, trailing behind me with exited panting. The next few hours would fill the air with our cacophonic laughter, stain the compound with our colourful concoctions and drench us down to our bones until we shivered in the hot sun. It was the most fun we were going to have all year and we were going to squeeze every bit of enjoyment out of it.

When I shifted to a new building, I was afraid I’d lose the magic of Holi, but I found that my new neighbours were just as much fun as my old ones. In fact, the new building came not only with colour- but with food too! I loved Holi so much that I didn’t even mind oiling my hair before playing or washing the colour off afterward. That one bath of the year I looked forward to, for the warm water running down my body uncovered the dry colour and painted my drains- reminding me of all the fun I’d had that day.

Then, I grew up. As did all my friends. I ended up becoming one of those animal-loving, environmentally-conscious, borderline-activists. I began to realise how much water people waste every year. I began to read about strays and cows choking on rubber balloons and plastic. I began to realise how adults drink till their sloshed while they plaster each other and how the innocence of Holi dissolves away, just like the colour from my body. The magic of Holi, was disappearing.

For the last few years, I haven’t known whether to answer the knocks on my door or ignore them. I haven’t known whether I support the one festival that painted my childhood memories or disapprove of it.

My principles lay before me on a platter, wondering whether I’ll keep them to myself or turn them to powder and cover others’ faces with them. This year, a cold kept me home in a blanket- safe from damp and decisions. Next year, once more, I’ll be faced with my heartstrings tugging at my memories and my brain trying hard to reassure me of how my childhood tales will remain safe even if I don’t relive them. Holi has become the day that reminds me of the fact that I’m moving on, growing up and finding a personality. It reminds me of the fact that the opinions I have need to be practiced and cannot remain words on paper or signatures on online petitions.

I always knew I was growing up, but today, I felt old.