Suman K Sharma
The lawns and flowerbeds of my neighbourhood park have been dug up. There are unsightly heaps of darkish manure all over the place. Pools of muddy water threaten to wet my walking shoes, or worse. Amid this disruption of a neatly managed park, I espy tiny saplings waving their little leaflets, greeting as if a yet new season of resurgence. The message of Holi is in the air.
Holi, Dulhandi, Rangpanchami, BasantUtsav, Shimgo, PhaguPurnima or Kaman Pandigi – call it by any name, the message is one of hope: out of disruption comes order; ugliness presages beauty.There is that pithy story our ancients told.Hrinyakashipu was a mighty demon king. Heterrorised the whole world into abject submission. There was no one mightier than him, he asserted. But his own son, Prehlad, paid obeisance to his arch foe, Lord Vishnu. The tyrant was in a fix. He could not openly denounce the little prince for showing thumbs-down to his megalomania, nor could he allow the boy to carry on with the practice of worshipping hisenemy. His sister, Holika, offered him a way out. An alchemist of sorts, who thought she was proof against any ill effects of fire, she entered a raging fire carrying the disobedient prince in her armswith the intent to burn him to ashes.
The telling point of this myth is well known. It is Holika and not Prehlad who comes unscathed out of the fire. Devotion to God pays. Those who don’t follow Him out of pride meet the fate of Holika. Her supercillious brother, Hrinyakashipu,too is eventually disembowelled lovinglyby the man-lion, Lord Narasimha.
Okay. But what about the cherished value of obedience to the one who has fathered you? Shouldn’t Prehlad have listened to his father? A myth is a myth and not a moral story, you might say. We should dig deeper into it and find a greater truth at the bottom. Both Hrinyakashipu and his sister Holika were consumed by their hubris – he by what he thought was improbable and she by fire which she wrongly considered would be pliable to her wishes. On Holi, we commemorate the nemesis of Holika, the silly aunt.
The more significant of the aspects of Holi is, of course, splattering colour on anyone around you. If colour is not at hand, then any other substance would do.It matters not if that literally makes the other fellow red in the face for at least a week and gives him rashes in bargain.Holi should be a solemn occasion to remember the fate of the vile Holika.Where does colour come in? But why not? Colour gives vibrancy to life and makes it worth living.Doesn’t it? The story goes that young Krishna felt strongly about his dark skin since his ladylove, Radha, was very fair. So, in a fit of romance, he rubbed colour on her face. Just to make her look a little dark like him.
The successive generations seem to have taken the metaphor of lovers’ compatibility rather literally. The gulal and abeer of the gentler times have become almost a legend by now. Synthetic colours and substances equally obnoxious,which marred the merry spirit of the festival, were in rage not too long ago.Pichkaris and balloons filled with tap water (or its impish versions) are also on the way out, unless you happen to be in the company of enfantsterribles. The decent thing to donow is to take a pouch of dry colour in your hands and go out to the nearest gathering of your friends. Rub a pinch of colour on your friends’ faces, one by one, and be rubbed by them, in turn. Come back home garishly coloured as a parrot newly married. Wash up thoroughly with detergent soap and warm water. Change clothes and firmly shut doors to avoid being decorated all over again by some Holi straggler. Share gujia, kachori and other delicacies with your dear ones. Then have a nice evening listening to classical ragas and go to a blissful sleep.
Am I missing somethinghere? Where is the mention of rousing beats of dhol and the day-long blaring of music systems;and ofmen and women, heady with thandayi and bhang pakoras, dancing in gay abondon? And where is the Latth-maar Holi of Barsanawhen women playfully beat their menfolk with thick sticks? Most men shun the happy event. But blessed are those who can’t. They have all the fun of being forced to spend the rest of the day in women’s lehnga-choli ensembles.
Holi is a fiesta in which the habitual reserve between men and women takes a back seat. Bollywood songs say it with penchant. If hits like Rang Barse (Silsila),Ang Se AngLaganaSajan (Darr) and BalamPichkari (YehJawaniHaiDiwani) are any indication, the occasion gives both the sexes an opportunity to give free expression to their amatory urges. Whether such verbalisings translate into action is another matter. Holi generally falls in the month of March and by this reckoning December should see maximum births, particularly in the states like Uttar Pradesh where the festival is celebrated with added fervour. Statisticians tell us otherwise. The baby-boom in India happens not in December but during the months of August to November.
In the Hindu calendar Holi is the day of letting yourself go. In that carnival spirit you may indulge your wildest fancies – eating and drinking without fear of mounting calories and a nagging hangover; drenching your kin withbucketfuls of coloured water; crashing into your friend’s place and pouring a bottle of indelible ink over his best shirt; even confessing your lasting love to the crotchety crone next door. Do whatever you will, but don’t forget to say, ‘Holihai!’
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