I am not much of a festival fanatic, so I did not write a post about how I drenched kids in toxic paints or smeared Gulal at random cleavages after guzzling down barrels of Bhaang, which I didn’t, this Holi. I belong to a land where Holi is an important festival, because there’s a monolith in my neighbourhood which people refer to as Prahlad Stambh, the most important artefact associated with Holi. Now I don’t know or care if the mythical lion God really broke out of that goddamn pillar or not, but the thing is that my people are crazy about this festival.
Every year you’d see the the fervour reach its crescendo amidst the awfully gloomy board exams. Shopkeepers suddenly start the additional business of colors, Gulals, spray guns and Bhaang and people of all kinds and ages flock at their shops to buy in bulk. Then, on the day of Holi, they go utterly, extremely, crazy. There are people everywhere on the streets, painted and ghostly in appearance, laughing hysterically with their ugly blue teeth and their ugly blue tongues, which would make Jared Leto feel bad about his existence.
There’s a special set of clothes people wear for this occasion. Unlike how you Americans dress up for Christmas, or how we Indians dress up for Diwali, the apparel for this festival isn’t glamorous at all. Holi clothes are usually the shabbiest cheapest pieces of cloth, blessed with a garden of holes, patches of wear and stratas of dirt amassed over a period of time. Well, in India, every cloth is actually destined to become a wipe or duster towards the end of its life cycle. Just before that phase of drudgery, it becomes a festival cloth for a day. We wear it on Holi and let our relatives suffocate it with paint, and rip it into pieces, and then rip those pieces as well.
Then comes the Bhaang part. Bhaang, or cannabis, is a psychoactive drug prepared in pots and offered to adults. Adults guzzle it in one breath, and after that, as shown in every tv soap in the history of India, get to fuck their lowly girlfriends with romantic music playing in the background, which they, as a part of plot twist, regret later. I had a friend who had bhaang once. He kept abusing for three days on trot. He also revealed loudly and elaborately how hot he found her newly wed aunt, much to his embarrassment later. So bhaang is basically a Veritaserum with a side effect. And no, dear Americans, we don’t get laid after bhaang overdose in real life. So it’s rather unfortunate.
That apart, women are assaulted quite often, not like the Monica Bellucci Irreversible assault, but gentlemanly (like hello madam! I’d like to fondle your breasts a bit while pretending to play colors, even if you don’t actually intend to participate in this enlightening event.), under the garb of celebrations. There’s a lot of touching and ogling going on.
But there are a few good things about holi as well. Like food, and joyous people, and of course, sex if you get to have it.
When I was a kid, I preferred watching Sinchan movies they showed at Hungama to playing colors. Because like women, I too don’t want to get wet without my consent. (Totally punny!)
Anyway, these days, a few kids in the neighbourhood had targeted me for a while. They had thrown balloons at me, but they missed, (no hopes for Olympics, lads!) the earlier day. They were the same kids who were shooting arrows at me on Dusherra.
I planned my day this time. I purchased necessary supplies, and spent the day holed up in my room, playing against 34 people on chess.com. That was a perfect holi.