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Published: March 11th 2009
Holi (referred to as Phagwa in Bhojpuri), also called the Festival of Colours, is a popular Hindu spring festival observed in India, Suriname, Guyana, Trinidad, the UK,and Nepal. In West Bengal of India and Bangladesh, it is known as Dolyatra (Doljatra) or Boshonto Utsav ("spring festival").
The main day, Holi, also known as Dhulheti, Dhulandi or Dhulendi, is celebrated by people throwing coloured powder and coloured water at each other. Bonfires are lit the day before, also known as Holika Dahan (death of Holika) or Chhoti Holi (little Holi). The bonfires are lit in memory of the miraculous escape that young Prahlad had when Demoness Holika, sister of Hiranyakashipu, carried him into the fire. Holika was burnt but Prahlad, a staunch devotee of Lord Vishnu, escaped without any injuries due to his unshakable devotion. Holika Dahan is referred to as Kama Dahanam in Andhra Pradesh.
Holi is celebrated on the full moon day in the month of Phalugna or Falguna (Phalgun Purnima), which usually falls in the later part of February or March. In 2009, Holi (Dhulandi) is on 11th March and Holika Dahan is on 10th March. --Wikipedia
Holi for me started a day early while I was out
at one of the fields offices collecting the remaining survey data I needed for my research project. The morning of March 9th began as usual. Because the field workers were busy preparing their accounts before the holiday festivities, it was announced that I would be making the food for the day. Excuse me, emmm, when was this decided? Did they know I had never prepared food (their food that is) on my own before? Despite my uncertainty, I realized that if I didn't attempt to make the food, there would be nothing for anyone to eat before heading home or out to the field. The further challenge was doing it over a wood fire because the gas in the kitchen had not been replaced since Christmas. I racked my mind for all the preliminary steps that needed to be taken post cooking. With the help of two other volunteers, Elco and Heid, the garlic was pealed and minced, onions chopped, vegetables skinned and cut, rice boiled and massala (spices) measured out and mixed together. I hoped all these months of observation would finally pay off. When all was said and done, I think it did. Though I wouldn't say it's
all that difficult after watching it being made everyday.
It wasn't long after food before bags of colour were whipped from their hiding spots above door scaffoldings and window ledges, starting a body painting war that would soon perpetuate far beyond what anyone would have imagined (or at least what I had imagined). Soon the paint smearing turned into water trouncing, which led to mud slinging, that wound up a mud wrestling lolapalooza. Every soul for himself. It surprising how liberating it feels to be dragged by your heals through muck, rolling around, slipping from place to place with no real direction or goal in mind. You embrace being in a moment where cleanliness and proper behavior is unwanted and out of reach. You begin to laugh uncontrollably and wonder if you've ever been this dirty, and this free, in your life. Maybe during childhood, but not now. Not when we have no more time for such foo-fa-rah. Well I found out that day that we most certainly do, and oh is it ever lovely.
When the mud flinging was all said and done, I did't look like myself, nor did I feel like it. And as I lay on
the rooftop waiting for my turn to bathe, I couldn't help but reflect upon how the experience had lifted me. I thought up metaphors of describing it, but concluded there were either too many, or none worthy of describing it fully. This day should be a global holiday I think.
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