Last
Thursday was Holi, the Hindu festival of color. In India, people take to the
streets wearing white, carrying bags of rainbow-hued powders that they throw at
everyone they encounter. In Nepal, the color is applied more like tika: people come up to you, wish you a
happy Holi, and smear their hands across your forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin.
No, in
Nepal, it’s not a good idea to wear white on Holi. Because in Nepal, Holi is an
excuse for a country-wide water balloon fight.
My host
family elected to barricade themselves in the house, because of fears of
everything that could go wrong with the holiday: allergic reactions to the
powder, balloons filled with cow urine or worse, acid attacks. They didn’t want
me to go out, but I insisted. Dressed in ratty clothes, I made my way to
Elsie’s village, which is about a two or three mile walk east-ish of my
village. When I got there, I was mostly color-free, due to the old “see crowds
of young people coming and dodge into a group of old women” technique.
Elsie had a
full schedule of Holi house visits with many of her students. As we walked, we
got squirted with tiny water pistols and bombarded with makeshift balloons, and
her students’ mothers decorated our faces with red powder. However, the real
fun was yet to come.
Our big
destination for “playing Holi” was an ashram
(in this sense, an orphanage) where many of her students live. We got there and
were greeted with big smiles by children and adults alike. They patiently
waited for us to put down our bags and cameras before the carnage began.
Everything
became kind of a blur after that. I remember getting pulled into the muddy lake
of the vegetable garden by a horde of laughing kids, but I went water-blind
after that when someone dumped a brass water jug over my head. There were cups
and bottles, too, and water balloons (some of which didn’t break, if the
bruises on my arms can be believed), and of course, that old classic—the hose.
After two
minutes, I was more soaking wet than I had been since Lisa and I jumped into
the river in Gorkha (in October). And if Elsie was any way of judging, my face
was bright red, with streaks of black and silver. We got our revenge, though,
grabbing stainless steel tea cups and diving into the fray.
Eventually,
the water ran out, and the kids and adults formed a song and dance circle. Even
though the sun was bright, a balmy breeze ensured that everyone was freezing in
their sopping cotton clothes. Despite clapping along, my hands were numb for a
good 45 minutes after we stopped playing.
I followed
Elsie on a few more house visits. They were up the side of a hill, which helped
us warm up very quickly. We finished up our day with a snack of fried egg, chiurra (beaten rice), and dal mat (a kind of snack food made from spiced fried lentils and
other salty crunchy things) that her aamaa prepared for us. We tried to wash
our faces, but the thing about Holi colors is that they’re made to be pretty
water-proof. My hairline stayed red for a few days. But all in all, we had a
blast, and the kids did too. As did the adults: an innocent-looking granny
threw a bucket of water on me as I walked back to my village.
But I made
it home with only one ruined outfit, a few bruises, no urine-soaked clothing,
no acid burns, and most importantly, no allergic reactions.
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| A few colorful Nepalis. |
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| A cold and colorful Nepali. |
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| Cold and colorful Americans disguised as Nepalis. |
Dance party time!
The carnage.
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