With the festival of colors barely four days from now, the kids in my colony never had it better.
Especially since my ample posterior literally cries out to them, begging them to perfect their water-balloon target throwing skills upon it. And the obliging souls that they are, they obviously can’t say no to such a sincere request.
The lil devils, armed to the teeth with their stash of ‘missiles,’ take refuge in balconies, terraces; behind bushes, and cars, ready to swoop upon any unsuspecting victim who decides to make an entry in the declared-danger zone.
The unwary prey approaches, oblivious to the shock that is about to befall him.
5
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1
With a war cry that is clearly enough to wake the dead, the young fiends come out in all their united glory. As if caught in a trance, the victim blinks – once, twice, and then, before comprehension dawns upon him, all hell breaks loose.
The water pichkaris (water guns) are pulled out, releasing a stinging current of colored water upon the poor soul. As the chap gasps, trying to regain his startled breath, a regular stream of water balloons descend upon him, pelting him as hard as probably a bunch of stones would. Wiping his face and looking at his clothes with a dismayed expression on, his look changes to one of sheer horror when he looks up at the balcony of giggling uns, and suddenly realizes that they are not done yet. No Sir!
Whooooosh! A bucketful of icy cold water greets his face and clothes, making him look like a cross between a mangly, wet puppy and a rotten custard apple that even the friendly fruit vendor leaves for the bees.
Our man is now livid. Shivering and spluttering, he brandishes an angry fist, piecing together some incomprehensible words which he can only spit from his furious mouth.
Deciding to take pity on the miserable watery mess, the adolescents look away, already on the lookout for their next victim. It comes in the form of the boy and girl, laughingly riding a mo’bike.
The ‘Splash’ and the subsequent howl signal that the deed has been accomplished.
A cyclist, a postman perhaps, meets the same fate, his cycle teetering dangerously close to the car that always remained in its same parking spot, day in and day out, thanks to an owner who believed more in driving away children who played ball near his house, than drive the darn vehicle.
Two giggling college girls fare no better – two huge balloons greeted them inside the autorickshaw they were travelling in.
A lone street dog, busily playing with a balled up piece of paper on the road, whimpers, looking around itself in alarm, and then, tail between its legs, ran to tell its just-been-hit-by-a-water-balloon story to its pals.
The smiling fruit seller is next. He however, poses, looks up, waves at the children, his pearlies flashing endearingly at them.
A twenty-year something, harried door-to-door salesman looks up, and ducks in time. Grinning, he smiles mockingly at the kids, and gets a big one right on his shoulder. Tut-tutting, he quickly makes his way to the next neighborhood, trying to convince some bored housewife to purchase the water purifier he was selling.
A scrap-dealer, cycling languorously in the sun, fares no better. He looks up, smiles sadly, and cycles on, his mind clearly occupied with thoughts of the evening meal with his nagging wife.
On Holi Day, the chaos reaches a crescendo. If you venture out, be ready to be attacked by a horde of people who all look alike in their colored-ness. Out of nowhere, a pair of hands make their way to your face, and before you know it, one of your cheeks has been brushed with the brightest pink gulal, while the other looks like the shade your Mum turned in your school days, when you returned from school yet again, in all your muddied glory.
For me right now, I only lok forward to the day after Holi, when people return to their more sober colors. Pun intended.
Holi (Kyun)Hain?!!!
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