Though there are various fables and legends concerning the festival of Holi, it is primarily a celebration of spring, and hails the arrival of a new agricultural season.  As such, it receives much attention in the villages and pastoral regions of India.  The means of celebration are color -- intense color -- and more intense color.  It is a day where people from all walks of life pour into the streets and drench each other with seas of bright blues, reds, greens, and a rainbow of colors in between.  Barriers are broken as strangers join hands with strangers to dance circles around the dholak being played in the middle of the circle.  Differences are cast aside as Indians from all classes and castes express their life force in unison.

I have had the privilege of seeing Holi three times in India.  I spent my first Holi with my relatives in Delhi when I was fourteen or fifteen years old.  They did not allow me to venture far beyond the family complex because of the “bad elements” that roam about in Delhi during this festival.  Jaipur was the site of my second Holi in India.  I was in a semester abroad program and spent the day with the 15 or so other Americans that were part of the program.  We played with one another in a small courtyard in front of our hostel.  Once again, access to the outside was forbidden due to the possibility of unruly crowds.  Then, a few weeks ago, I celebrated my third Holi in India, and the experience was one that surpassed all my expectations.

Though there were many events, emotions, and impressions that are noteworthy and memorable from that hot March day, one in particular stands out in my mind and represents a piece of what I wish to take back with me from this year in India.

It was still early in the Holi festivities, around 10 o’clock in the morning.  We had played with the neighbors, spraying each other with colored water across the fence that separates our lots.  Some friends came over afterwards, and we had another round with them.  By the time we made our way down the street, we were already splashed with a rainbow of color: various color combinations running down our legs and dripping from our hair.

We traveled down the street in a pack, with two dholaks leading the way.  We stopped at a friend’s store to ambush him and his family, but ended up being greeted by bucket after bucket of water.  After this embarrassing encounter, we moved down the street in the direction of the tekra (slum area) to play with the children.  As we passed by the makeshift houses erected on the side of road, it never occurred to me that the people living inside belong to an entirely different world than that which I have grown up in.  For the most part, they are squatting illegally on government land, living in lean-tos or shabby brick houses with no (legal) light or toilet facilities.  Most of them perform such menial jobs as rag picking, boot polishing, and vegetable selling.  Some live hand to mouth while supporting a family of six or eight; the vast majority cannot read or write their names.

As I marched past this area, following the sound of the dholak in front of me, I smiled at these individuals that I walk past every day on my way to the bus stand.  My eyes caught those of a lady sitting on her woven cot, watching our little procession march past.  She was dressed in a faded pink sari, which stood in stark contrast with her ashen brown skin that hung in small folds across her body.  She rose to her feet when our eyes met, and advanced to meet me.  Unsure of how to react, I stopped and waited while the procession in front of me advanced.  The woman raised her hands and began to dance.  She moved her hips from side to side, and swayed her arms above her head.  Her booming laugh summoned me forwards, and I began to imitate her movements.  She motioned for the dholak player to return, and grabbed my hands.  We began to dance in front of each other, and managed to communicate with other and the music without ever saying a word.