Eggs, Sprite & Bhaang

It is Holi and I couldn't help but write about the last Holi I played. It was fun for most of us, not so much for at least a couple of them.

2024

This year I wanted to celebrate Holi the Bihari style—with mutton, dahi vada, kathal ki sabzi and pua. I even ordered Perakiya (or as the whole country calls it, Gujiya). First I didn’t find friends who were free this weekend, then I didn’t find friends who would eat mutton (red meat) or kathal (tastes like meat) or gujiya (fried and sugar).

So I made some mutton for myself and Chole-Bhature for the husband.

I stopped playing Holi a long time back. 24 years now. I lost interest—too much hassle and too much cleaning up involved. Did some very nominal abeer-gulaal-food bit while staying with mum and dad later but my last ‘real’ Holi was in the year 2000—my final year of college.

Abeer-Gulaal Holi for the sake of it. Lucknow 2010.

2000

Having stayed in that Outram Lines house for nearly a year, the four of us became friends. So Kokil, Nirja, and Pando (as the landlady called Neelanjana Panda) shared a three-bedded room (with a balcony) and I lived in a single room on the mezzanine floor. It wasn’t easy getting along at first—I think Kokil wanted the mezzanine, Nirja wanted another roommate, Pando wanted Kokil in the same building, I ruffled a few feathers—but when we did we were a house on fire.

So as Holi approached that year, someone in that flat—we were around 10 of us (half Indians and half Mauritians)—had a brainwave and a supply of bhaang. None of us had had it before and we were just theoretically aware of what could happen if we had bhaang. Jai Jai Shiv Shankar types max!

But then why let an opportunity go waste. On the night before Holi, the very precious dark green, pasty, herbal-fragrant bhaang was added to the thandai. Pando was supposed to be the watchdog. Everyone had the thandai but nothing really happened. It was then that all the leftover bhaang was mixed with some sugar, rolled into small balls and had. We were a driven lot!

And this is where the watchdogs changed guard. Kokil decided to not have the extra dose and so the baton was passed on to her. Pando went ahead and had it and so did Nirja. I was anyways the primary guinea pig so I was force fed. Of the three Mauritians, two went for the sugar-bhaang combo. I guess at least five of us REALLY got high that night.

The dancing began. And lot of very synchronised dancing at that. We loved dancing—I am sure there must have been a mixed tape somewhere. Jhumbalika from Takshak and Oh ho ho ho (Ishq tadpave) by Sukhbir used to be our hot favourite back then.

Moving on, by midnight the five of us were bhaang-sloshed, tired and hungry. And this is when the fun began. For us.

First, about the three Mauritians (whose names I have now forgotten)— L was the quiet one, A was the happy one, and S was either always sad or angry. That night as it turned out L remained sober as usual, A kept crying and taking a bath and S kept laughing and taking a bath.

By taking a bath, I mean sit under the shower, come out, change clothes, go back, shower again, change clothes again and repeat. They were in their respective rooms—the rooms barely 8 feet by 8 feet, were opposite each other. So L had to keep shuttling from one room to another supervising the baths and making sure neither of them died. Of slipping in the bathroom, that is.

I am certain the showering frequency must have reduced as the night progressed but I imagine it would have been quite difficult for L to manage the starkly opposite and unfamiliar emotions in these two girls. After all, what do you do with a cheerful person who is only crying and a sad/angry person who has suddenly found joy and laughter?

That night I slept in the three-bedded room. Kokil thought this was the best idea, logistically. And it was.

Pando was famished, so she got her tiffin, placed the boxes on a large plate and started eating. She sat cross-legged on the bed but instead of bringing the food to her mouth she was getting the mouth to the food. Like one of those drinking bird showpieces that bend at 90 degrees. She kept doing that—for a long time. I think she ate a couple of tiffins!

Then there was me on the other bed, tracking my aatma—my soul. As I lay, pretty immobile, I could see myself drifting in the air like a hot air balloon but getting stuck in one of the corners of the ceiling. I kept repeating—“mera aatma ja raha hai, par ja nahi pa haha hai”. At one point I think I tried blowing it towards the balcony door but there was something more exciting playing out there and I would get distracted.

Nirja wanted to jump off the balcony. Kokil was very busy talking her out of it. It was the second floor balcony. Had she jumped she would have landed in the balcony of the first but if she really put her mind to it then she would have landed on the fence on the ground floor and that wouldn’t be pretty. Kokil would walk Nirja in, but pretty insistent on jumping Nirja would run out, again. It was like a scene straight out of Vikram-Betaal. Tu bola aur mein chala.

From L: Me, Nirja, Kokil, Neelanjana outside a movie theatre. 1999 or 2000.

We passed out at some point. The next day as we ambled out of our beds, squinting at the light, holding her heads, there was Kokil sitting on her bed, with that huge Garfield pillow tucked under her knees. Both Garfield and Kokil were snarling at us.

Before we could say “Hi…” it was Happy Holi for us with the choicest of colourful abuses. “@#$% @##$$%^@ I will get bhaang tonight and have all of it. And then I will see what you guys do,” Kokil had said before launching into “Last night you guys…”.

Partly amazed, partly apologetic, but mostly chuffed with ourselves for having such a brilliant time we got ready for the actual Holi. A little hungover, we started with water and colours, then moved on to throwing water balloons from our balcony on passers by. After all we had dodged these aerial attacks for a whole week. Then, once downstairs, the colour and water balloons was replaced with sprite and eggs. Not quite sure the genesis of this but we were very conservative with both the sprite and eggs.

Pando, the chef amongst us, remembers to have made malpua that afternoon. So now we were malpua-ed, smelly, sticky and hungover. It was a good Holi.

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2024

There is rain dance in the society. It is Holi and there is no water shortage here. There is a lot of Holi-ing happening to dhikchik music.

I am done writing. And the malpua is ready. In my head, that is. It is now just a matter of execution.

I roll out of my bed in the afternoon determined to listen to a few Holi songs of my choice. By now, Jomuna (my house help) would have had a little bit of that ‘lal maal’ (Rum) she wanted me to give her. “Hum DG lagayega aur lal maal khayega,” she said on Sunday, beaming at the very prospect of getting high and listening to some dhikchik songs of her own.

Happy Holi to all!!!

Turns out it was better to click photos of children who loved Holi. Lucknow 2010.