Holi

Gender roles, caste categories, and age all serve to stratify society and disconnect people from each other in India.  During Holi, everybody throws paint or dye on each other, masking the distinctions temporarily.

Wandering around town, you see hot pink faces, purple dogs, green hair and clothes recently bombed by color. You turn each corner wondering if you’re going to get it next. I didn’t bring my camera for this reason.

I wouldn’t have even been out there except that I woke up thirsty there was nothing open. What to do but wander around and hope for an open door.

As the afternoon wore hotter and longer, the thought of begging at a hotel for some clean water struck me frequently. The desperation and number of real, starving beggars around (that I habitually refuse) warranted more restraint. I wasn’t dying.

Returning home with a dry throat and empty-stomached, I found that the gate to my building was locked. Anxiety and then a flash flood of anger. First they don’t tell me about everything being closed for Holi, then they close their restaurant, and now they’ve locked me out. Some hospitality. I was pissed. I probably looked mad yelling through the gate.

Thirst, hunger, heat and inconvenience had made me irritable. That’s still a good condition to be in. Throw a stone in any direction and you’re bound to hit somebody who’s got things a lot worse.

I walked down to the river behind the village for the first time, hoping to have a seat there and contemplate life quietly. It was something that I’d been meaning to do since I arrived.

Largely stagnant and literally as black as oil, the river reeked horribly of raw sewage and worse. Semi-submerged debris sailed by miserably in the weak current. Parts of it bubbled as if farting and I spat as the heaviness of the shitty odour settled on my revolted taste buds. Alongside this sodden catastrophe, plastic garbage was scattered thickly enough that I couldn’t see the ground in most areas; where I could see it, make-shift tents of sticks and discarded burlap served as houses to dusty, starving families. Oh Delhi… the many ways you dishearten.

Walking back, a dishevelled and naked old man with a long white beard was yelling at me and almost got hit by a car while he tried to dress himself on the street. As I walked past I noticed that he’d been splash by hot pink dye in his face. Thin as a rope, he was swooping his arms into bizarre gestures and still yelling at me. I tried to ignore him. Happy Holi you lunatic. Or maybe he was one of those enlightened sadhus I hear so many great things about.

With the shops all closed and the people off celebrating, only the beggars remained on the streets; them and a few monks. Especially depressing are the children. Presumably, they’re sent out by a parent knowing tourists pity the young more than the old. Beggars with no children put their own pity on display instead. An unkept man smelling of urine sitting in the middle of the filthy walkway, groping at passers-by, pointing to a festering wound on his leg attracting flies—he’s emotionally indignant that I didn’t give him money. Somehow his brain says I owe it to him. Others scam. They stealthily put shit on your shoe and then, walking by, pretended to be surprised and offer to clean them. Then there are the folks that walk around with Q-tips they’ve found somewhere: “Ear cleaning sir?” Hell no.

I got home and yelled through the gate until somebody came and opened it. I resisted the urge to punch him.   

I survived Holi and I’ve had enough of smelling and seeing terrible things. Now I want to leave. 

Tomorrow: food, water, and Rishikesh.