It began with a thud against my back, instantly followed by a splash, soaking my shirt blue. Bright green, orange, and purple water sprayed in all directions as young snipers emerged from windows and rooftops to unleash their colorful liquid arsenals with a vengeance. The battle was upon us. Through airborne streams I glanced over my shoulder to see which of the kids had nailed me. There he was, all of three feet tall, smiling back at me as he reached into his bucket for another grenade. I sprinted for the well to load my own plastic weapon with dyed ammo and took off through the village, trailed by half a dozen pink faced, purple haired kids screaming Holi Holi Holi! Throughout the village, complete chaos ruled.
Yes, this was Holi, India's famous Festival of Colors.
But it was none like I'd ever seen before.
The invitation had come just a week before to visit a small remote village perched in the foothills of the Himalayas. Surrounded on three sides by steep river canyons fit for an Indiana Jones film, the village consists of a few dozen homes scattered in lush fields growing rice, wheat, cabbage, bananas, sugarcane, and almost every other crop imaginable. In such a place I could only imagine the color overload I'd witness on Holi.
Baldev Singh, my host, spent the first fourteen years of his life in this village before relocating to Delhi to find work. For the next seven years he fixed cars on the side of a busy road near Khan market for a few dollars a day. One lucky day, a U.S. foreign service worker noticed Baldev's standout work ethic, mechanical skills, and superior service, offering him a job at the embassy. The new gig paid about twenty times what he was making on the roadside. A few more twists and turns in his career path led to his meeting my own family while stationed in New Delhi years ago. He is now the man in this village. Just four days before the Festival of Colors, we hopped on a bus heading to Himachal Pradesh to spend the holiday break in his home town, Maman.
Reaching the village was an adventure in itself. Most Himachal bus drivers like to constantly test fate, propelling their rickety old boxes along treacherous roads with wilful abandon. I tried to get some sleep as the bus careened above canyons, barely clawing the edge of the cliffside as it curved its way up the Himachali foothills. Despite all the tossing and turning of the bus, I was kept awake only by a faulty window steaming cold air into my face. I was grateful to have a seat though, as we'd only been able to snag one for the busy holiday weekend. Baldev sat on a small stool up by the driver, refusing to switch places with me. That's just the kind of guy he is. I noticed him hanging on to the pole for dear life whenever the bus would hit the brakes, which wasn't nearly enough.
I contemplated which side of the bus would be safer if it were to fall off the edge. While I still haven't decided, I'm pretty sure that after a thousand-foot drop, either side would mean death. When riding in long-haul Himalayan buses, it may be best to focus your attention on the Bollywood film blaring from the front (perhaps depending on the film). As for myself, when a song and dance segment comes on (about every two minutes), it may be better to look out the window and contemplate falling off the edge once again.
We arrived in Maman just three days before Holi. We hiked up the ridge overlooking the village, chasing a pack of monkeys over a ledge while Baldev outlined the recorded history of his village and the lay of the land. He pointed out the school, his uncle's farm, his uncle's house, his uncle's trees, the rivers, and the lower caste community nearby. They pretty much keep to themselves, he said, unless we need workers. As we strolled through the village, he greeted everyone he met by touching their feet, a sign of respect that had him stooping to the ground at every turn as he introduced me to his various uncles. Awkwardly, I followed suit.
The next morning I woke up in a cold sweat at about 4 AM. Stumbling outside, I was desperate to reach the washroom. While the food had been delicious, my body was apparently not yet worthy. The village was pitch black and deathly silent as I creeped into the courtyard, hoping to avoid waking my hosts at this early hour. Feeling my way into the squat toilet latrine I realized there was no light to be found in the little black box. I did my best to feel my way around, knocking over a bucket or two in the process and probably waking up half the village. I spent much of the day resting, eager to feel rejuvenated for the reason I had come to Maman: to witness Holi.
The day finally came.
I woke up ready for war. Picking up a plastic weapon from the local souk, I noticed some boys with evil grins eyeing Baldev and I as they filled water guns from a bucket. Others seemed to surround us as if for an ambush. However, it was all in my head. Baldev told me the boys would wait for go time, which happened to be ten o'clock. A bit disappointed, I slunk back to my room like a little boy who's learned it's not playtime just yet.
In truth, I'd probably developed slight paranoia from vague but vibrant childhood memories of India's festival of color. In New Delhi I remember walking outside my gate only to be attacked by two large men (I was eight) who put me in a headlock and rubbed paint in my eyes. That may be as traumatic a memory as I've got. Back then, the rest of the day would be spent riding in truck beds stacked with tanks of colored water, laying waste to the city. I'd scan the traffic at red lights, looking for one window that wasn't completely shut, then teach them a lesson with my super-soaker. Of course, we weren't the only vandals on that day: in Delhi alone there could have been ten million color fiends getting in on the action.
War games aside, Holi is meant to be about love and community oneness. In Hindu lore, the holiday celebrates the story of Pravhad's devotion to Lord Vishnu, the Preserver and Sustainer of Life. When Hirankashyap, the demon king of the Asuras, tried to burn him to death, it was his sister Holika (ordered to sit on his lap) that was consumed by the burning pyre while Prahvad walked unhurt.
Love and unity are expressed through shared feasts, dancing, drinking, and singing songs, although the same can be expressed with paint and powder forcibly smeared across a loved one's face. I spent most of the day surrounded by the entire village population as we circled to each house for food and dancing in the courtyards, led by a marching band of old minstrels. Baldev introduced the drummer as his uncle. Being about the twelfth uncle I'd met, I was getting suspicious.
After each home received its fifteen minutes of village fame, the whole procession would move on to the next one, everyone singing and shouting Holi Holi Holi! as they wound through fields in a single file blend of marching and dancing. My face stuffed with puri, pakoras, and paneer, I found myself retreating from the festivities now and then to join the kids, for whom the war waged on.
I felt the wind off a balloon that barely missed my back before smacking against a wall, clinging to the smooth surface for a second before sliding in a heap on the ground. It definitely was not a balloon.
They were apparently now flinging poo.
Even though a brown smear may have gone well with my multi-colored face and hair, I felt like this raised the stakes a little. To compensate, I tried to step up my game, leading an attack on the dung-slingers with about a dozen child soldier in tow, armed with buckets and balloons.
Since I was undoubtedly the largest of the "kids," I was naturally commander in chief of all child forces. Apparently the whole sense of community oneness thing was quite embedded even among the kids, as they refused to divide into teams. It was clearly more noble to wander as a giant pack to gang up on helpless stragglers, no matter how small, moving from one unlucky victim to the next. Most forays ended with an angry old matriarch chasing us away with a broom or the lot of us running out of ammo. Every few minutes we retreated to a well to stock up and occasionally throw someone in. They looked to me for which direction to charge next, I would point and yell "chalo," then we'd all make a Braveheart charge as they chanted "Joey USA!" I think they eventually picked up on the reality that I never had a clue where I was leading them.
The house-to-house musical procession went on until just before dark, when everyone gathered for the feast. We gorged ourselves on a goat that had been sacrificed early to a local deity. As soon as plates were cleared, the dancing resumed, fueled by a few of Baldev's musical uncles. When I asked, he finally explained that he used "uncle" for all extended family members.
At about nine o'clock, showered yet still stained with splotches of green and blue across my body, Baldev called me outside. Each village had lit massive bonfires which dotted the black mountainside like the ridges of Tolkien's Middle Earth. The village of Maman then gathered a giant heap of kindling and set it ablaze, contributing their own bright speck to the Himalayan nightscape to join a dozen others in the distance. All the men, women and children of the village stood in a wide circle around the flames until the only glow came from embers and the full moon. Oneness indeed, I thought. On Holi, the entire village, the entire valley and the entire country dances, feasts and fights together (with the help of paint and powder).
