Holi is a celebration which epitomises everything that is great about India and Hinduism - colour, music, dance, openness, fun and celebration. Everyone and anyone is fair game in the friendly war of coloured powder, water and foam - friends and strangers, rich and poor, men and women, children and elders. Even policemen, who are normally feared and revered in India, showed signs that they weren't safe from a colour hit.
The celebration of Holi breaks down traditional Caste System barriers; on this day, everyone is equal and the general rule is this: whoever you are, if you are willing to step outside your front door, you will quite likely be drenched and coloured from head to toe.
The festival, held at full moon in the month of March, signifies the victory of good over evil, the arrival of spring and the end of winter. Indian families and friends celebrate by playing and laughing and forgiving and forgetting and it is customary to try to repair broken relationships.
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We celebrated the festival today in Rishikesh, a little spiritual town on the Ganges nestled in the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains. It is a town where alcohol, meat and even eggs are banned from sale for religious reasons, and pilgrims come from far and wide to bathe in the Ganga river, meet the famous spiritual gurus of local ashrams, or in the case of most westerners, including us, embark on a 200- or 500-hour intensive yoga teaching course. We are in India as part of a world tour on our way to work on a two-year visa in Canada.
Our yoga-weary bodies were thankful of a day off this morning as we rolled out of bed and to the local chai stall. We quickly noticed the energy in a usually sleepy and calm town. Two minutes later, we received our wake-up call, not with the desired sweet tea, but with a bucket of water thrown over us from the rooftops of flats above. The kids were very accurate, having had some practice the night before, and all I could do was run for shelter while shaking my fist in an international gesture of anger, more aimed at myself than them for my naivety and lack of awareness.
It was time to purchase some defensive bags of powder and water balloons, and embrace the day. On our walk along the banks of the Ganges to the main town we were greeted with attacks of powdered paint. We were victim of drive-by scooter gangs, and groups of kids screaming “happy Holi!” excited to have the opportunity to paint our white skin, then ask for some rupees to buy more powder.
Holy men gave us blessings and gently pressed their coloured fingers on my forehead to give me a bindi. By 9am, the celebrations were well underway. The streets were covered in water and coloured paint, with many areas looking like a murder scene. The startled dogs, cows and monkeys that roam the streets observed the madness in fascination.
At 10am we crossed over the Ganges towards pumping music. Having gathered a colour crew of about eight other western yoga students, we were fast becoming the centre of attention at the Indian dominated party. Fortunately, “selfie” is universally understood - in a risky move considering the amount of water flying around, teenagers pulled their smartphones out to capture the moment.
Large speakers were set up in a central square pumping out crowd pleasers. As the music grew in intensity and volume, the crowd multiplied. Someone lit what the vendors call a “colour bomb”, which rained down pink powder over the group, and at the same time, a popular Indian song blasted through the speakers. Suddenly it was a free for all - the crowd squealed and danced in delight as paint, water and music filled the air.
After an hour we pealed ourselves from the crowd to refuel at a samosa stand. I quickly drank a litre of water to rehydrate and remove the chemical taste of spray paint from my mouth. By midday, the temperature had soared to over 30 degrees. We decided to go for a dip in the Ganges to cool off and remove some layers of paint. Outside a temple we joined a group of young Hindu monks playing boisterously in the water. Later we saw the same group at a ceremony with their guru singing mantras, looking calm and devout.
As the sun set, we dried out by the Ganges. The temperature quickly dropped, along with our enthusiasm for the kids with water guns. Luckily, a “Puja” or sacrificial bonfire was lit and we relished in the heat. As a DJ kicked off, the crowd grew and we tried to pick out familiar yogis through painted faces. We spent the rest of the night dancing under the stars with new friends to Indian pop music, on the banks of the Ganges, beside a roaring fire.
At what may seem a very respectable time of 9pm, we returned to our room, completely exhausted from the day. I started a process of shower, scrub, repeat and after an hour gave up and fell into bed. Holi might be over, but the memory of the day will live on both in my mind and in the pink tinge of my skin.
