A celebration of spring

The planning started early, sometimes as much as six months prior, which meant that if my cousins and I were ever bored of doing one of the many things our parents disapproved of, we would plan the Holi assault.

Known as the festival of colours, Holi heralds the coming of spring. Hindu communities celebrate it with songs, dances and tributes to the gods. But everyone comes together to play with colour, playfully throwing dry powders and coloured water on each other. Traditionally, these were derived from herbal extracts of indigo, turmeric and saffron.

But my cousins and I strategised about synthetic colours, water balloons and water guns. Until my grandfather passed away, it was family tradition to meet at his house to play Holi.

After the elders of the family had finished receiving a stream of visitors, who politely applied a little bit of red powder on each others’ cheeks, they would feast on sweets. Then they would nap, and, for us children, the neighbourhood became an urban fortress.

My cousins and I would take up positions depending on size and throwing accuracy. We waited quietly on trees and rooftops with impressive piles of water balloons meant for the straggling visitor who dared to wake our grandfather from his afternoon nap. As the youngest cousin with an average strike, I was always placed on a tree nearest to the house.

Of course, the straggler deserved every balloon that drenched and humiliated him, and our imposing grandfather never objected. I think he secretly enjoyed knowing that his legion of grandchildren was keeping watch.

Then one year, my grandfather stayed up to receive a visitor. I can’t remember who it was, but I know I didn’t hit him. By the time he reached my position near the house, he was drenched. My mother’s fury was such that she dragged me through the house by my ear and poured cold water on me as I stood, fully clothed and shivering. My cousins were made to stand in a line and look shamefacedly at my grandfather and his guest.

Later, my grandfather slipped me some chocolate. I think he knew that I had taken the fall for my cousins.

With his death, everything changed. No one wanted to host a group of hooligans anymore. There were a couple of attempts to recreate the drama but we were too grown up to stay perched on trees all day.

But every year, on Holi, no matter where I am in the world, my ear tingles with embarrassment and anticipation.