The Holiday: Part 1

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I think I was all of eight or nine. I might have been seven for all you know - or six. Well, I was a child is what I remember very well.

I also remember there was some carpentry job being done in the house. The house I am talking about was the one I grew up in - the one that never changed its aching blue green colour; not even when I realised I was leaving it for good.

It was a cosy house. Its two balconies fenced the bedroom in from the din of the traffic two floors below. The kitchen sat in the left balcony, i.e., the balcony to the left of the main door. So, the whiff and stench of what screeched and screamed in groundnut oil and pressure cookers got carried away by the breeze that came in from the kitchen windows. The bathroom was a square that just about shied away from accommodating two people at a time. And the hall allowed itself to be divided from the bedroom and the passage to the bathroom by a set of partitions.

In the afternoons, particles of dust swam in the river of sunlight that streamed in from the balcony. They danced as they wafted down to the floor of the hall. And since I forever kept myself worried about what fresh hell would break out next, this particular dance of dust helped me smile and remember I had the ability to be happy.

The carpentry job was being done in the right balcony, i.e., the balcony to the right of the main door. A portion of it needed to be covered without having to keep the breeze at bay. So, Father decided that a rectangular frame - made of some of the strongest wood -  that comprised windows and wire meshes would do the job pretty well.

A friend of Father’s recommended the carpenter. There were no smartphones then there were no counter reviews to look at. Even so, this carpenter we chose turned out to be just what the job needed. Up until a point that is; and then we realised we needed another. But that will make for a story another day.

At the time this story was taking shape, he was still considered the one the job needed; and so, we - Father especially - were quite satisfied with how he hammered and cut logs of wood and joined them into the frame we wanted mounted on the balcony.

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The month, I remember, was March. The month that brought with it a vibrant pulsating heat wave and the consequent summer in the bargain. The Lenten season usually chose to arrive during this time as well. Half the Catholic drunkards in the parish would religiously give up alcohol during this season. The rest would attend mass as if the service were a washing machine that knew the fine art of washing away every speck of dirt they considered sin.

I, of course, was a child. The little of alcohol I had tasted was solely because of my grandfather. He would dip his finger into the glass and let me taste some of the drops that slid off his fingertip. I did not particularly like those drops. But the glee and excitement about doing something totally scandalous for my age made up for the indifference my taste buds felt.

So, at that age of seven or eight (or probably six or nine perhaps), I wasn’t quite a heavy drinker. Naturally then, giving up alcohol wasn’t something that I was expected to do. But attending church services was definitely part of my KRA. Besides, exams in schools were always held in March. Yes, I did do my homework on time and did rock to and fro while I revised every lesson. But I did not want the wrath of the Almighty to disqualify all that effort and stamp my report card with anything less than an A+. So, I did attend all those masses and was the very picture of sincerity in all my prayers - never mind the heat, the sweat, and the fact that I did know the answers and the questions that were to land up in all the exam papers!

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March, in India, also brought with it a peculiar festival called Holi. The festival involves a whole lot of colour (in the form of powder), some cannabis (served as bhang), and a noticeable dose of unruly uncouth behaviour. If you are from India—particularly from North India or from Mumbai—you will know very well how the colour, cannabis, and the behaviour mingle with each other. 

For the ones who don’t, here’s how the festival flares into a frenzied gaiety of sorts: The night before Holi there’s a bonfire lit. Logs and twigs of wood burn their bodies into rustling embers as people dance around it or simply make a lot of noise to ignore the hollowness deep inside them. Then, they go to sleep and wake up the next day all set to colour each other in all the possible ways known to Indiankind.

Photo credit: Sam Breach via Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND

Colour powder is quite a favourite with the revellers. Nothing like a fist of red (gulal) or screeching red to apply on the cheek, really. Looks absolutely stunning in Facebook photos and is just as stubborn when it comes to washing them off.

Then there are the water pistols and balloons: The balloons ensure that when they hit you, coloured water conveniently splashes itself into a million drops with the force of a boxer’s punch. And the pistols spew out the very same coloured water in the form of an irritating jet that licks its way down and up your clothes.

Photo credit: Tom Maisey via Foter.com / CC BY

Of course, one needs to have the bravado to help the colour powder, pistols, and balloons to do their unruly job. And to be all that brave, one has to let go of one’s inhibitions. This is where the cannabis comes handy. Cannabis seduces these Holi revellers into a state in which they take off their stage fright and wear a delicious excuse of an after-effect called uncouth behaviour. So no matter how brash and sleazy people may be, it’s all brushed aside with a wave of the hand and dusted away with “Oh bhang ka asar hein - burra na maano Holi hein! (Oh it’s the cannabis talking! Don’t take it to heart! It’s Holi!)”

Well, had they to limit all this revelry among themselves, I would not care a damn. But somehow, several seem to get the impression that Holi just has to be everyone’s cup of colour. And that is something a few - me including - don’t quite agree with.

I don’t agree with it now, and I did not agree with it back then too - when I was a child.

Back then, I hated to use the eraser to wipe out pencilled writings in my notebooks. I would make plans to escape cancelling out words (written with an ink pen) in my notes. And I definitely hated to wear white shirts that sported patches of cream around the collar and yellow down in the insides of the sleeves. So it should come as no surprise to you that I hated the mess Holi left in its wake. It’s not as if the whole of Mumbai was spotlessly clean in those days. It’s just that whatever little of it got my approval would also end up looking like a wasted drug addict for more than a week after the water pistols were done with their job.

To be continued...