Holi Sh*t!

When I mentioned my idea of heading back to Varanasi for the Holi festivities to Pascal, he warned me against it. "It can be very dangerous" he said in his french accent "people go crazy in Varanasi." My ears perked up. After the next two people told me pretty much the same thing, I booked my train ticket the very next day.

Holi is one of the most popular Hindu festivals ... probably because it involves large groups of men getting bhaanged and drunk out of their minds, then engaging in a water color fight all over town before finally ending the night dancing in the streets until the wee hours.

I arrived in Varanasi one day before the event. As I walked down the ghats on the side of the Ganges I saw evidence of the impending mayhem. Kids filling plastic bags with colored paint water; multicolored cows, goats and dogs meandering through the alleyways; the vendors selling waterguns and colored powders ready to be mixed with water.

I found a cheap guesthouse by the Manikarnika Ghat, the Burning Place. After I checked in the manager warned me about the festivities. He advised me to stay inside the next day, told me he was locking the doors and not letting anyone in or out. I let him know that I had come to Varanasi on Holi specifically for craziness. "Well, I cannot be held responsible it anything happens!" he told me in what I was sure was his most condescending voice. My own voice changed to my rebellious tone, but it wasn't until I heard the words coming out of my mouth that I realized what was going on. "Don't worry, I'm a big boy and I don't need you to take care of me. This is a hotel, not a jail cell. And you are a hotel manager, not my father!"

Simply rebelling against everything you are told makes you no more of an authentic person than unquestioningly following orders. In either case the circumstances around you dictate your behavior, as opposed to looking within your own soul to determine who you are and choosing to put into action what you believe in.

Armed with that new bit of insight, I began my own preparations for Holi. I purchased the cheapest kurta-pajama outfit I could find but decided against arming myself for the war that was to start in the morning. I figured I would take whatever colors were thrown my way, and seize whatever opportunities presented themselves to return the favor.

There was no need to have set the alarm the next morning. The sound of mayhem in the streets was plenty to wake me up. I slipped on my new duds, threw 400 rupees in my pocket and headed out the hotel door and turned right. Within 2 seconds a gang of young boys spotted me and my new and clean clothes and pounced. Two of them held me down while the others smeared colors all over me. Holi had begun!

I decided to just try to find a cup of chai to start with. As I walked down the alleys of Varanasi I dogged water balloons hurled by children at the tops of buildings; turned corners to find buckets of colored water thrown at me; avoided open bonfires in the middle of the street; was greeted by more hooligans who ripped my shirt off my back; pinpointed for assault by water guns on the backs of passing by scooters.

The insanity truly erupted once I made it down to the Ganges, walking down the ghats which lined the river side. I found a few kids to chase, trying to steal their satchel of ammunition. I found out how truly difficult it is to catch a water balloon hurled in your direction with your bare hands. And I sighed as I watched countless Western White Women attempt to play with the Indian boys and come away yelling at throwing punches after being groped and disrespected. "Welcome to India" I said to a few as I walked by.

All the respectable business had closed up shop for the day. Pretty much anyone on the streets was considered fair game. If you didn't want to Play Holi you should have stayed home was the prevailing attitude of the gathered mob. Once I made is to Dashaswamedh Ghat, the main ghat of Varanasi, I truly saw the size and scope of the festivities and it was simply mind boggling fun! There was nothing to be done but to immerse myself in it, and just play along with all the others.
By 3 PM the playing colors had come to an end. Women and little children slowly started to return and a few stalls opened up, but Holi was still young. I went back to the guest house, colored blue, red, yellow and green from head to toe. My clothes had been ripped to shreds, but my key still safely tied to my pajama drawstrings. And I spent the next hour washing up preparing for the continuation of the festivities that evening.

When I returned outdoors all I had to do was follow the music to find the party, which was everywhere. Groups of men, still riding that Holi wave of intoxication, danced together, openly displaying their best Bollywood moves, bumping and grinding on one another, showing absolutely no shame. And what was I to do but run in the middle and find my own bit of Holi, letting it all go, freeing my body to express the joy and celebration all around. I bounced from group to group of dancing men, stopping for the occasional chai or samosa break, until about midnight.

I thought it odd at first. All these men, gyrating against one another, and not a woman to be found amongst them. I contrasted it with the scene I'd seen so often in clubs in the West. Women on the dance floor, guys standing at the sides, too cool to participate, pretending not to be interested. And I realized how odd that truly was. Perhaps the two cultures put together could represent an open and free expression of true emotion. The truth was we are both repressed in our own ways.

As I walked back to the hotel at the end of the night I stopped for a while and watched the ceremonial bonfires still taking place. I watched a few bodies being brought down to the Burning Place. Watched family members lament as the sons washed the empty shells of loved ones in the Ganges. I watched the workmen arrange the pyres, place the bodies upon them. I watched as the flames were carried from the mandir above to begin the process or returning ashes to ash. Watched as the flames grew large enough to eat through the ceremonial coverings and garlands and finally through the flesh of the departed.

India. Just when you think you've got your finger on it, you've kinda got it figured out ... it managed to slip out from under your thumb and pop-up in a completely different place.