The four pre-teens race on the road, armed with their ‘pichkaris’ and colour. They spray the resident cars with watercolour, whoop with joy, and run along seeking new victims. The four young men who are employed in the apartment next door, converge in the park across with buckets of water. The motley group of boys and my British neighbour with his little girl (and dog!) join them in the park. There is mayhem. The boys are chased, caught, and dunked in water like doughnuts in coffee. The little girl stands away, watching cautiously but gleefully while the dog runs in circles around the group avoiding any water. Recuperating from illness, I watch them from the balcony, partaking vicariously in their happiness!

As children, we celebrated Holi in the heartland of Bihar, with family. I remember even the adults chasing each other with colour that would not come off for days! Suddenly, everyone seemed so young and carefree. There was music and food – so much of it – and everyone took a siesta. Evenings were for wearing new clothes, meeting and greeting people with ‘abeer’ (dry colour), and making fun of those whose revelry had resulted in their being lost to the world. Much later I learned that my brand of Holi was not for the fainthearted. ‘Civilized’ people looked askance at this ‘ho(o)liganism!’

Holi in the US was dry. Non-event. I missed the ‘hooliganism!’ and the camaraderie. My first Holi back home, when I realized that my in-laws celebrated a very sober Holi, I snuck out to the neighbour’s place who played my kind of Holi. When I returned home, unrecognizable, my late mother-in-law barred my entry until I had washed up in the garden😊Her shock flowed in the stories she told others for weeks – I did gloat because even in the disapprobation, I sensed her amusement at what the son had brought home.

As kids grew up, the front of our apartment became the center of all activity in our block. My daughter’s horror at her mama breaking an egg on her head was immense until someone explained to her the advantages of egg on hair. We started stocking cartons of eggs. While my husband photographed the festivities from the terrace, cars slowed down to see what the fuss was all about. The celebrations were joyful, noisy, and messy. I ended up getting the neighbour’s wall whitewashed every year.

Nature celebrates Holi too. The carpets of leaves on the ground, interspersed with flowers – Semal and Bougainvillea – look like a Bollywood set. I like special days – they add to the collage of happy memories. Festivals are meant to be celebrated, any which way we want. Be it civilized or full of revelry, with special food or khichdi, with family or without – we need to make the effort to celebrate. It could be with Beer, Bhang, Thandai, or as in my case this year, with cough syrup. But, it must be special, and it must be memorable.