Holi splendour

Aradhika Sharma

Shobha got off the phone just as we were finishing lunch. She had gone into a quiet corner to attend the call, but we could see her in animated conversation, frowning and gesticulating. She came over and sat with a sigh.

“That was a long, agitated call. All OK?” Sabrina asked.

“Arre! My boutique wali can be so irritating sometimes,” Shobha said irately. “I told her I need an all-white outfit for a function — traditional yet trendy — but she’s made a real behenji-type outfit. I’ll look like a dowdy dowager.”

“Oh! Is some important society bhog coming up?”I asked. Shobha laughed: “Goodness, no! It’s for my Holi function. I’m having a party for my husband’s business partners and their wives, you know.”

“Ah!” we looked at one another. We knew all about Shobha’s jet-set parties. “And what’s special on the party agenda?”

“Well, for drinks I’ve planned to serve thandai shots in addition to the usual wines; for snacks there will be vodka golgappas and for dessert I’m serving gin-rasgullas. I’m thinking that I’ll organise a rain dance as well. And you know, I’ve had the most wonderful idea, but it’s a secret,” she smiled.

“Do tell. Promise, we won’t tell anyone,” cajoled Sabrina.

“Well, I’m going to have a tomato-stomping event! I’ll fill a huge tub with tomatoes and everyone will have fun squishing them. Natural Holi with none of those toxic Chinese colours,” she beamed proudly. We stared at her open mouthed.

“You girls are invited, of course,” she said graciously.

“Oh! I’d have loved to come but I have something planned,” Sabrina said.

“Really? What?”

“Well, traditionally, our family starts the day with a puja and then we go visiting the neighbours, wishing everyone a Happy Holi, eating dahi bhallas and gujias. The men ghoto the bhang. A dholi turns up from somewhere and we end up dancing and feasting, coloured from top to toe. Finally, everyone returns home tired, drunk and happy! Good, old fashioned Holi.” Shobha wrinkled her nose with disgust: “Ai hai! I’m totally allergic to these colours. I allow people to put only a tikka on my forehead.”

“I’ve known you since the time you used to be the queen of the Hooligan Holi, my girl,” I grinned.

“Your group would roam every street in the city like a pack of wolves, faces smeared with grease, teeth tinted with green gulal, armed with silver paint and eggs in your arsenals. Remember those days?”

Shobha laughed: “Yes! We would attack unsuspecting passersby and then flee, shouting: ‘Bura na maano Holi hai!’ Well, things change. If someone puts those lethal colours on my skin now, I’d break out in allergies and hives.”

“What colours will you offer your guests then?” I asked.

“I’m getting heaps of gram flour, turmeric, fuller’s earth, henna powder and I’m going to use flowers like semal, marigold and gulmohar and vegetables like beetroot to make different colours.”

“Great idea! Just like ancient times.”