Celebrating Holi, The Festival of Colours — Lingering Echoes from Childhood

The blooming flowers of Spring ignited the joyous colours of Holi, signalling two glorious days of freedom from school, studies and homework for my sister and me, and we ran around the house, revelling in our freedom. 

For days now my mother, grandmother and aunts had been stirring pots, surrounded by bags of fresh produce carefully selected from the bustling local bazaar in Allahabad, in northern India where we grew up. Savoury and sweet aromas permeated every corner of our home; trays lined side-by-side adorned with the golden hues of gujiya, aloo papad, mathris, and kanji vada left us barely able to resist the urge to sneak a bite before the day of the festival.

My grandfather would spend the entire day in the heat of the sun soaking tesu phool in gallons of warm water. This vibrant flower with its orange-red blossoms (which also goes by the name of flame-of-the-forest or palash) would turn the water yellow and fill the air with its sweet fragrance.

When he had finished, my grandfather, in his deep voice, would beckon us children to gather round his feet. Amidst blossoms, spices, and anticipation, my sister, my cousins and I would listen spellbound to the genesis story of Holika Dahan (The burning of Holika):

In the tale of good versus evil, King Hiranyakshyap demands worship as a god but faces defiance from his son, Prahlad, who devotes himself to Lord Vishnu. King Hiranyakshyap’s sister, Holika, tries to kill Prahlad by entering a blazing fire carrying Prahlad in her lap, believing she has the protection of Lord Brahma. Despite her confidence, she perishes in the fire, while Prahlad emerges unscathed due to his unwavering devotion to Lord Vishnu.

Festival day brought the neighbourhood together. In the morning, we would seek the blessings of our elders with greetings of ‘namaste’, and in return we received cash tokens for purchasing sweets. We would joyfully apply coloured powder called gulal on each other’s cheeks, exchanging warm wishes of ‘Happy Holi!’

The day would unfold into squeals of laughter as family members drenched each other with pichkaris, water guns filled with the yellow tesu phool water. We would spend the evenings visiting neighbours, and in turn would welcome friends and family at home with gulal smeared across our cheeks, offering them the delicious snacks prepared by my mother, grandmother, and aunts. No one would notice as I snuck away those many servings of my favourite sweet gujiyas and aloo papad.

At the end of the festivities, my sister and I would collapse into bed, our smiles lingering in the darkness amidst the fragrance of food, the echoes of colour, and the memories of laughter shared with loved ones.