Holi — the festival of colours and colourful memories. While every festival is a time of joy, Dol remains extra special for many. This year, team My Kolkata went down memory lane to recount moments from Holi/Dol celebrations with family and friends that made them laugh (mostly, in hindsight). Read on…
The mutton mishap
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I do not have a colourful Holi story to share, not least because I have taken every measure possible to stay away from colours every Holi. Why such reluctance? Partly because I find the entire exercise of drenching one’s self and others in colours rather futile. Also, because I was told I have some inexplicable allergy to colours as a child and made no effort to have it diagnosed since.
However, just because I have never conspired to dump a bucketful of the most hideous hues on an unsuspecting neighbour does not mean I do not have any Holi memories. For the longest time, Holi meant the one day in the year when my father would cook for the family. The menu was fixed, too — pulao (the yellow sort; I prefer more colours on my plate than my face!) and a mutton gravy whose ingredients only he seemed to know. My mother, itching to help out my father, was forbidden from entering the kitchen that day, a stipulation she would take seriously for a couple of hours before finding some excuse to weasel in.
Having seen this Holi tradition play out for a few years, I tried to put my own spin on it in 2012, when I was in middle school. I looked up recipes on a lazy broadband connection and had even asked the domestic help for a curated list of items to have ready by the morning. Having woken up with the quiet confidence that two great cooks (even if one only makes an annual appearance in the kitchen) cannot produce a hapless one, I was about to put on my immaculate apron when my father offered me a quick driving lesson. Thinking it would not take not more than an hour, I agreed.
Having assured my father that I could differentiate between all the gears in my head, if not yet with my hands, I was on my way back home when disaster struck. Out of nowhere, two water balloons detonated on me, painting me red and black. No amount of consoling from my parents could make me enter the kitchen after that. Perhaps for the best, since the mutton I was intending to cook may well have looked more horrifying than me.
— The one still cooking chicken curry
Hymn for the Week… uh, for Holi
I have a note for myself every Holi: “Repeat: Coldplay, Poets of the Fall, Andromeda…” Why, you ask? The reason goes back to a Holi day when the squad, including my now husband, gathered to celebrate over adda and drinks. And the latter numbered one too many.
My dear husband and my squad will never let me forget how I decided on that particular Holi that Coldplay and Poets of the Fall were going to perform at my wedding. ‘Decided’ is the operative word here. I made the set list and ensured that my then boyfriend and now husband (ah, situations he has front seats to) mailed the two bands. I got married alright, the dudes never showed up to play their sets though.
Forward to another year, another Holi party, and another instance of drinks — this time the ‘festive’ thandai kind! I thought I was sitting on a Concorde (I was at home) travelling from Andromeda to an unknown destination in search of a new dimension — please blame my astrophysicist husband and Christopher Nolan for my imaginative subconscious taking an inter-galactic stroll.
The fervour of “Holi Hai!” is not my scene at all but the two times I decided to participate, led to major facepalm moments. I have concluded, thus, cooking, eating and not partying — at least on Holi — is my real jam.
— The one still waiting for Chris Martin to show up
Thandai times
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In 2019, the 20-something-year-old me was spending Holi at my ancestral home. My childhood friends from the neighbourhood gathered together to celebrate the day and the ‘dramatic’ one of the gang decided it was the year to try some special thandai — Holi tradition and all. Armed with golis and snacks for the inevitable munchies after, our group of eight-ten indulged generously. What followed were conversations of this kind:
- “Guys, have you ever noticed how weird our fingers look? Like, they're just wiggling there, doing their own thing!”
- “Guys, I have a confession. I think I just apologised to the wall for bumping into it. It looked offended.”
- “Hey, does anyone else feel like they are in a Bollywood movie right now? Because I swear I can hear background music playing.”
- “We’re not human beings, we’re human doings! Like, we’re gathered just out here doing stuff, you know?"
- “Wait, wait, I have a brilliant idea. Let's play hide and seek! But no one hide too well, we might forget where we are.”
As time lost its meaning, simple asks like fetching water became monumental tasks. Later, still under the influence, we ventured to the colony playhouse to play charades. The epitome of hilarity, we won hearts. Unfortunately, or fortunately, celebrations of that kind turned out to be a one-time affair, since the following two days of drowsiness served as a stern reminder to not try such things again.
— The one drinking non-spiked thandai
Baby Shreks in the swamp
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As a kid, I was fascinated by colours, and this particular incident happened when I was in Class V. Our group of five friends, who lived in the same neighbourhood of Hirapur in Dhanbad, decided to create a ‘supercolour’, which would be the talk of the town. So, we gathered all the packets of colour powder we had, emptied them into a large bucket and started mixing. We watched with bated breath as all the colours blended. With the concoction ready, we eagerly dipped our hands into the bucket and started applying the ‘supercolour’ on each other. However, instead of the vibrant rainbow hue that we had imagined, the result was a dark, dull, muddy colour that seemed to absorb all light around it.
However, we continued smearing the colour on each other, laughing and enjoying the moment. But as the colour started drying, we started looking less like humans and more like creatures from a swamp. Remember Shrek, the ogre?
To make matters worse, we got reprimanded in school the next day for our not-so-colourful escapade. It was perhaps the last time I played with colours, but the memories of that Holi still bring a smile to my face. Despite our best efforts to wash off the stubborn stains, the ‘supercolour’ stayed on our skin for days, reminding us of our ambitious — but failed — Holi experiment.
— The one who has not seen Shrek the same way since
‘Nayak’ in Kolkata
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In 2019, (pre-COVID times), I had planned to play Holi with a few friends. The roads were clogged, and I was almost two hours late. I feared that everyone would be done by the time I reached. When I finally entered the venue, I was swept away by one of my friends, and thrown into a puddle of fresh keechad! As I emerged from the dirt and muck, I felt overwhelmed by my own stench, and was reminded of Anil Kapoor in Nayak.
— The one who stays aways from puddles
Fountain fun
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Growing up, Holi was a highly anticipated day of the year, always. Colours and the latest pichkaris were bought and bargained for. Every year, inevitably, the parents had to come down to the park in front of the building to identify their kids and take them home because all of us were so thoroughly painted that we were unrecognisable from a distance.
We had the privilege of living in a housing estate complex that boasted of large parks and one of them even had a fountain. That year, like every year, the fountain was turned off. But that year, unlike every other year, we decided it would be fun to jump into the fountain. So we did.
That year, my grandparents were visiting our home, and after a futile search from the window of our home, I was fished out — along with others — from the fountain by my mother and grandfather.
Of course, considering the fountain had wiring and lights and that our fathers were given a little talking-to at work meant that that new pichkaris was definitely not happening next year.
— The one who misses being unrecognisable on Holi
Mercedes moment
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This one time, we were playing Holi at my friend's terrace. As five boys in Class X, we never really anticipated the consequences of our actions. After a few hours, we were bored of the gulal, and started mixing pakka rang in water balloons. Once we had a bucket full of them, we would wait for passers by to smack them on the head with it (we promise we know better now). As luck would have it, we missed one guy. Instead, the balloon landed on a new, gleaming white Mercedes behind him, making a red mark on the bonnet. We immediately ran back home, never trying that stunt again.
— The one who never threw a water balloon again
