Holi

It’s the first of March and I’m in India, do you know what that means? It’s Holi, the festival of colour. Which means it’s 9am and already the kids of the village are up and about throwing coloured powder over anyone they think is fair game. Some of the cockier teenagers have already looked up at my bamboo house and intimated what they’d do if I were on their level. I’m staying put till it’s deemed safe!

At 10am Jyoti arrives on his motorbike. If he accompanies me into the town, we’ll both be covered in the stuff. If I go alone, I’ll be safe. There’s an added worry. Apparently, the more devout of the adult Hindu pilgrims don’t bother with colours. They, in defference to Lord Krishna, cover themselves in watered down cow dung. They’ll also be happy to cover Jyoti in the stuff if he’s caught. So, alone, I walk to Jyoti’s office. I’m caught twice by kids wanting to smear the strange white man with colours. Bless them, they really are good and only put a smidgeon on my high forehead.

At Jyotis’ office, who by this stage has a bright purple and red face from all the powder the local kids have thrown at him. He really doesn’t fancy the cow dung and who can blame him? So the driver and I (I still don’t know his name, I’ve asked but instantly forget it) walk it down into the main town to see the procession from the temple. Just as we are approaching, we hear the noise of the crowd and the drums. And there they are, a large crowd, covered in cow dung and throwing dust high into the air just to get a bit dirtier. They look to be having a high old time, truth be told and seem totally unconcerned about cow dung getting into their eyes and mouths. There are buckets of the messy cow dung slurry being poured over folks heads, yet still they dance, chant and sing. Their clothes are caked in the stuff. If Danny Baker calls when they get home with the Daz doorstep challenge, he’d take one look at them and admit defeat.

Photographs taken, the crowds disperse and it looks to be all over for this morning. Jyoti tells me it all starts again this afternoon when the powder chucking reaches fever pitch. It’s a 1.30pm start and I’m advised not to be late. Bloody hell! What did I say about those cocky teenagers? They’ve just walked past my hut and, as pleasant as you’d like, asked me a couple of decent questions. It was all a ruse to get me down to their level. I’m now covered in bright red vermillion and I’m back to looking like Mr. Swan Vesta.

1.10pm and the motorbike has been sent to pick me up. He whisks me down to the main street and the party is in full swing. Drums, chanting and most of all powder whizzing high into the air. The procession moves off and alone, I’m following it. You can bet your life what happens next. Get down to Ladbrokes now and get a bet on. Hang on, don’t bother you’d only get odds on. Yes, I’m star attraction once more. I thought I’d tag onto the back of the procession, just behind the women and kids. Now since I’ve been here, the women have all been genteel retiring creatures who won’t say boo to a goose. Where does that saying come from anyway? Why would anyone, in their right mind want to say boo to a goose? Anyways, today’s the day the ladies when the ladies are anything but retiring. Ululating as one, they turn and see me. Out comes the coloured powder (gulal, apparently) and, despite pleading for just one little dab on my forehead, I’m covered. I look like a bad accident in a washing machine.

Worse was to come. One lady was obviously the village nutter and stood stock in front of me, urging me to dance. Now let me make one thing clear, I don’t do dance. As an eleven year old school kid I was touted as the next Fred Astaire. By thirteen a person with false legs and one of them a club foot, would beat me in a dance off. So there she is, doing the south Asian expressive arms dance. There are two hundred ululating women and me, the explosion in a paint factory. What would you do? Decline and upset/insult them all? Feign an injury? Run? I know what I did. I danced like I’ve never danced before! Expressive hand gestures, arms twisting this way and that. The crowd adored it and urged us both ever on. Daaahling, I was sensational! That bint at the Royal Opera House was never as good. At the end of my performance, remembering the old adage of leaving the public wanting more, I retired gracefully. My one off performance, never ever to be repeated…until my public demands I return once more!

I returned back to Jyoti’s office. Walking back was like walking some kind of catwalk. Everybody, simply everybody in village smiled, laughed and greeted me like a long lost relative. Then the strangest thing happened. Back at Jyoti’s office, he fired up his motorbike, I clambered aboard and off we went on a tour of the neighbouring villages to give them all a glimpse of this crackpot rainbow coloured man. Now, as a postscript, get this; Assam hasn’t had rain in about four months and none is due until the end of May. Perhaps my dance did something to satisfy some God somewhere but it’s just started raining! Which is a right bummer to be honest as I’m trying wash the gulal out of my clothes before travelling to Tezpur tomorrow.


I think that in years to come, my performance at Holi 2010 will still be talked about. Perhaps not by the people in Majuli but it certainly will by me.