I am dreaming of playing with colors and gulal, It is the Holi celebration after all. I cant play inside my home, the carpets will get tainted, I cant play it in the yard, the grass and outer walls will get painted. I thought I would go to the temple, and enjoy the traditional Holi festivities, Once again I am banned from playing with colors inside the temple, I cant play the drums and sing Holi hai outside, as the neighbors dont like the noise. Little disappointed, I head for the community centre, they have the Holi celebration in the evening, The kids perform and remind me of my cultural heritage, I hear all the nice Holi songs and watch dances, I enjoy Puas(sweets) and Goat meat curry as a special Holi treat, but I still miss the colors and Gulal on my face. As a kid, the full moon night before the Holi, we had a big bonfire in the middle of little Indian City, Next morning we will get up, make buckets of colored water, No one in the neighborhood will be spared from colors, When we ran out of the colors, mud, paint and coal tar, would cover our faces in the cheerful spirit of Holi festival. There was some special meaning playing Holi with girls, this is the only day when we can get close to them with some hesitation, the wet colors dignified their bodies, the dry colors showed their beauty in multi colors. After our morning session, we came home to the big feast, All the puas, puris, pulav, meat and vegetable curries made our mouth water. In the evenings, we wore our new kurta and pajamas, went door to door, played gulal with young and old, everyone offered their best sweet treats, That was the real Holi, now it is only in my dreams. Holika Dahan Year after year purity of fire is challenged by evil, appeased with offerings A full moon looks on as winds stoke embers, flare flames to a flickering dance Right in the center of crimson blaze sits Holika, Prahlad in her lap - her arms a circle of heat White sparks fly from her hair, eyes smolder in fury; her mouth sucks in air, engulfs rice and wheat Wood chars, coconuts splinter, flowers singe smearing earth with ash. Year after year faith survives. Holika burns to death.
Posted on: Sun, 16 Mar 2014 06:26:58 +0000
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