Today is March 17th, and it is Holi. Two days prior, Vinod advised us not to wander very far from our hotel for Holi, and to avoid crowds.
We do precisely the opposite. Although we get a late start, we come upon many groups of people dancing to loud sound systems or drum circles, and mostly people playing in the street in the vicinity of any water truck. Some people light up when they see us and pop our Holi cherries. Bending forward to receive my knightly honors, the boys cover my head, neck, and cheeks in deep purple powdered dye. I am laughing hysterically but doing my best not to eat or inhale any of the paint. Varun and I exchange a look of "this is awesome" and march onward to the next group.
After two weeks of stark cultural contrast and identity struggle we have finally integrated amongst our Indian brethren. I'm being facetious, but these Holi moments did seem to make me feel more inclusive. People were exceedingly kind (or drunk) and were eager to pull us in to the festivities. At one point some small boys rub ash into our hair. They couldn't seem to afford the dye so they were using remnants of the large fires that had since burned out. Varun says we might've been pranked, but I didn't really mind. We turn another corner to find an especially large group having an epic dance party under an array of sprinklers. Eager to cool off and wash the pasty ash out of my hair, I throw myself into the middle and start white-guy-dancing my heart out. The locals welcome me right in and start showing me their moves which I don't have too much trouble imitating. The girls form their own private circles of elegant and cohesive dance, but the men are not shy about grinding up on each other with cruder dance moves. I look to my side and see Varun dancing his heart out. Life is good.
We decide to end on a good note (were any of them bad?) and make our way back to the hotel. Not realizing how far we walked in the excitemrmt, it takes us quite a while to return. The distance felt especially protracted as we took an alternate route through a Muslim district which seemed to carry out business as usual. The rest of our afternoon is spent cleaning off paint and rehydrating. Despite water being all around I dared not drink it, although I did consume some sweet-milk offered by one of the many groups. Fortunately my stomach did not protest later.
Each day that I am well feels like a blessing. Every successful BM is a relief like never before, especially when squatting over a hole on a moving train.
We do precisely the opposite. Although we get a late start, we come upon many groups of people dancing to loud sound systems or drum circles, and mostly people playing in the street in the vicinity of any water truck. Some people light up when they see us and pop our Holi cherries. Bending forward to receive my knightly honors, the boys cover my head, neck, and cheeks in deep purple powdered dye. I am laughing hysterically but doing my best not to eat or inhale any of the paint. Varun and I exchange a look of "this is awesome" and march onward to the next group.
After two weeks of stark cultural contrast and identity struggle we have finally integrated amongst our Indian brethren. I'm being facetious, but these Holi moments did seem to make me feel more inclusive. People were exceedingly kind (or drunk) and were eager to pull us in to the festivities. At one point some small boys rub ash into our hair. They couldn't seem to afford the dye so they were using remnants of the large fires that had since burned out. Varun says we might've been pranked, but I didn't really mind. We turn another corner to find an especially large group having an epic dance party under an array of sprinklers. Eager to cool off and wash the pasty ash out of my hair, I throw myself into the middle and start white-guy-dancing my heart out. The locals welcome me right in and start showing me their moves which I don't have too much trouble imitating. The girls form their own private circles of elegant and cohesive dance, but the men are not shy about grinding up on each other with cruder dance moves. I look to my side and see Varun dancing his heart out. Life is good.
We decide to end on a good note (were any of them bad?) and make our way back to the hotel. Not realizing how far we walked in the excitemrmt, it takes us quite a while to return. The distance felt especially protracted as we took an alternate route through a Muslim district which seemed to carry out business as usual. The rest of our afternoon is spent cleaning off paint and rehydrating. Despite water being all around I dared not drink it, although I did consume some sweet-milk offered by one of the many groups. Fortunately my stomach did not protest later.
Each day that I am well feels like a blessing. Every successful BM is a relief like never before, especially when squatting over a hole on a moving train.
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