It always started off as a scene reminiscent of the ones you see in hindi movies picturized with song and dance. There were a few excited young ones among us, holding water guns in one hand, and packets of color in the other. The dry colors were unobjectionable even when they came in the most unspeakable shades of green and black. But those suspicious looking small packets they brought that had shiny crystalline powder or gold-silver paste were insufferable. We squirted some colored water on each other and gently rubbed dry colors on our faces and clothes and made ourselves look as varicolored as possible! There were a few new ones in the group who were worried about dirtying their clothes too much or having their faces dominated with just one color. It always amused us how silly they were being. We knew they would grow out of it by the end of the day and laugh at themselves for being daft as well (either that, or it was the last time we were going to them!).  

Then the moms and dads brought in some more huge bags of color (the ones in our hands weren't going to cut it), turned the water pipes on, filled big drums with colored water, oiled the cars and scooters so that they wouldn't catch color, and set up the boom box and an assortment of fast music (mostly telugu and hindi street songs... and never songs related to holi). They blurted out some quick instructions like "wash yourselves well before entering the house", "don't walk barefoot on the roads"... You could tell they were not entirely committed to giving instructions, because it was a pointless exercise in futility. The one instruction that came with commitment was "DO NOT RESIST ANYONE" Some of us knew what that meant, some were about to find out. 

We played on and giggled and laughed and tried to pull a smart one on each other. This lasted the first one hour. 

Then the hoodlums (young adults) among the family and friends arrived like a pack of hungry wolves, ending all tranquility. Nothing can prepare you enough for being liquidated (literally). There was no running for cover or screaming for help. You were cornered on all sides and lifted like a bag of grain and flung in the air and into a tank full of frigid water. In you went and out you came to gasp for breath only to go back in again from the force of the second person being thrown into it. Then the third person was flung in, then the fourth, the fifth, the sixth... anyone who attempted to get out of the tank was pushed back in forcefully. Our heads bobbed up and down and up and down to the whim of the hands holding them. The few who escaped this treatment, were dragged by the leg, pulled up and smeared with a thick layer of the silver paste... their teeth were rubbed with dry red powder and their body attacked mercilessly with eggs! The air was filled with sinister laughter. 

I can't remember why I thought this was enjoyable. I suppose evil is only evil only when it comes from an unknown source like the bike rowdies. As soon as an innocuous balloon full of red water broke on one of us, the whole group ran towards the biker (now victim) and attacked him ferociously by giving him the most savage treatment of color you can imagine. Some bikers who managed to whiz past us after throwing water balloons got a loud cheer, mingled with swear words and glorious hoots! (Few bikers even threw glass bottles at people. These were the dangerous kind, we hoped wouldn't visit our streets. They rarely did). 

Some friends would stay indoors out of fear of all the aggression, only to have fifty people screaming in front of their houses. A few of them would climb over the walls and try to kick the doors open. Finally (and I never understood why), they succumbed to this threat, and became unwilling guinea pigs of a horror experiment.  

The violence usually came in cycles. As the hours went by it got less and less fierce. By now the uncles and aunties from neighboring houses arrived and brought a different kind of celebration with them. It was spirited in joyfulness of a more pleasurable kind. In a good year, the crowd added up to two hundred people (most years were good years... the bad years were when a majority of us had our final exams and were restricted to playing holi for a few hours with our immediate families at home. These were the terrible years. If you squirted more water from your gun than your mom thought acceptable, or rubbed too much color on a cousin's head, you had to listen to a long lecture on toxic chemicals and safety).  

There was a whole lot of music and dancing, and delicious food contaminated with color (despite all efforts)! Bhang flowed like a river and befuddled the minds of the young and old alike. Some people went ahead and threw the bhang in the water tank, which was by now entirely black and full of kids. 

After a few hours, when most of the neighbors dispersed, and the close family and friends remained, several other groups of friends and family who had celebrated elsewhere joined in. We drove to someone's farm house or someplace in the outskirts and spent the rest of evening and night there in wild celebration! This was my holi until six years ago! Now I think of it in past tense and wonder whether it was celebrated in India yesterday or today and if it was as dramatic as it had been before! (The answer is never yes)

HAPPY HOLI. (This year, I will spend mine learning the significance of holi... something that I never cared to learn before)