Happy Holi Day

You may have seen pictures like the one above: people with their faces covered in vibrant colors, with only their eyes and teeth visible as they smile merrily for the camera. This is Holi, perhaps the most joyful of Hindu festivals. In Nepal, Holi is a two-day affair celebrated on the first day in the hills and the second day in the plains. It’s a particularly fun day for youths, who travel from home to home with colored powder and water balloons challenging anyone within range to share their fun.

Holi gets its name from a demoness named Holika, the sister of the mythical King Hiranyakasyapu who commanded everyone worship him. But the king’s small son, Prince Prahlad, refused to do so, praying to the Hindu gods instead. Since boyhood, Prahlad had been an ardent devotee of Lord Krishna (an incarnation of the god Vishnu) despite the interdiction of his father. When all methods of punishment failed to shake Prahalad's faith, the king ordered his son trampled to death by an elephant, but when Prahlad advanced upon it chanting the sacred names of Krishna, the great beast humbly knelt before him. Many times the king tried to kill his son, but each time Prahlad was saved for Lord Krishna protects those who love him. At last, the king ordered the demoness Holika to kill Prahalad. Possessing the ability to walk through fire unharmed, Holika seized Prahalad and entered a fire with him. Prahalad chanted the names of the gods and was saved; Holika, unaware that her powers were would only be effective if she entered the fire alone, perished. The Holi festival celebrates Holika's extermination, Prahalad's virtue, and Krishna's supremacy.

My Holi went as follows: immediately after I finished morning daal bhaat, a group of guys showed up at my home and proceeded to mirthfully cover me in red, pink, purple, orange, and green powder. 

I’d met a few of them before, but others were strangers to me. They handed me a bag of Vermillion and invited me to join in the fun. My family encouraged me to go with them, adding “but don’t drink any alcohol.”

We walked to the local bazaar, where a number of small children were running about trying to avoid getting dowsed in color. I bought a few more bags of powder (green, in honor of St. Patrick’s day) and set to smearing it on every one of the shop owners' faces. We continued on through the villages, spontaneously whooping and hollering and throwing up our hands.

We played Holi with anyone interested, halting passersby, motorcycles, and even taxis to spread the glee of the day. Some were wary of our intentions, but the guys were very respectful of the extent to which people wished to participate. More devious groups of adolescents have been known to indiscriminately throw powder at any and everyone, and some even mix glass, mud, and into their otherwise innocuous ammunition. But our fun was harmless, and I found myself continually warming to my newfound friends.

We stopped from time to time: to ask for water at a stranger’s home, to chat with an acquaintance, to buy more powder from a shop. At one point, we took a break under a tree, and I watched as the guys emptied out the tobacco from cigarettes, mixed it with weed (which, true to its name, literally grows all over the place here), and stuffed it back in. While they lit up, they took it upon themselves to teach me some profane Nepali words that aren't listed in my dictionary. We got to talking about girls, marriage, the caste system, and our hobbies, finding we had quite bit in common.

A bit later, after a much-needed break and snack at a roadside shop, my friends revealed their plan. We would make our way to the Bawai River, where we’d wash the powder from our skin and sunbathe on the beach. On the way, we’d buy alcohol and assemble ingredients for a "salad" to enjoy by the shore. This sounded just great, although I was a bit apprehensive about drinking and swimming. A passerby had told us that earlier in the day, a man who had been drinking had died at the very river. But the guys assured me that we would just be celebrating, not drinking to excess.

After another hour of walking, we reached a Tharu village where my friends hoped to buy some booze. Alcohol consumption is prohibited for Chetris and Brahmins (especially in their own homes), but many Tharus brew their own alcohol. Raksi is a strong, distilled millet wine; a more mild, fermented rice mixture is chang. We bought two bottles of raksi and a large container of chang. At a shop down the road, we bought soap, shampoo, ramen, and razors to cut up the vegetables for the salad.

Soon the road led us out of the village and into the fields. Some of the guys hopped the fences, yanking up onions, cauliflower, and cabbage. One plucked a bunch of cilantro from a garden; another seized a bundle of peas. “It’s not stealing,” they said. “These are our neighbors.” And, indeed, the farmers working in the fields didn’t reprimand them.

We turned off the road and into the fields, walking along the narrow pathways that divide one paddy from another. At some point we reached a small stream, which the guys wearing shoes crossed with a bounding leap. I tried to do the same, but, wearing flip-flops, was unable to get enough momentum and crashed into the shallows on the far side. I’m already notorious among my fellow volunteers for falling—off my bike, down hills, into other people—so this makes one more to add to the list.

Around 4 o’clock, we finally reached the river. Walking for over of four hours in the hot sun had left me pretty beat. My concern about the dangers of drowning, however, was allayed. The river was only about two feet deep and moving at a gentle current—the man who’d died earlier must have been insanely drunk.

After washing our hands (though virtually none of the powder, which had soaked into my skin, came off), we began preparing the “salad.” 

Once finished, we began passing around the bottles of alcohol and digging in, chatting about our families, our work, and Nepal.

As the casual conversation mixed with the spirits, I felt some of my energy returning to me. Somehow, sitting by the side of a river in Nepal with bunch of guys covered in multicolored powder eating ramen salad and drinking homemade wine, I felt totally at home. I’ll never experience anything quite like it again.

We finished the last drops and scraps of our picnic as evening began to fall. We stripped down to our boxers and dove into the water, swimming with the current toward the setting sun. I scrubbed vigorously with the soap, but some things just can’t be wiped off. Hastily, we put our clothes back on and set out. As we strolled through the streets, one of the drunker guys started singing “Resham Firiri,” the only Nepali song whose lyrics I know. I joined in, and soon we were all bellowing the lyrics. One by one, they turned off the road toward their respective homes, until eventually I was walking alone.

It was dark by the time I reached my own home, more than half an hour late for evening daal bhaat. I tried my best to hide my tipsiness from my suspicious host family, but I’m not sure how successful I was. At some point I should probably stand up for my right to enjoy the occasional drink, but I was too content with the day to stir up anything tonight. After dinner, I retreated to my room and slept better than I had in weeks.