Holi Smokes, Where’s the Hungama?

For someone who has never had the pleasure of understanding the true meaning of the Holi festival, and has only celebrated it for the love of cheer and all those myriad hues, it is further saddening that even those windows are not half as open out here. It’s not like I was any less of a cleanliness freak before, but I now wouldn’t dare stain the carpets with obstinate patches of color spills. Besides, if one counts the turmeric on my hands on any given routine day, one wouldn’t discount the marked presence of color in my life. But then, isn’t there more to Holi?

There are certain things one associates with all things desi. And most of them, rather than being culturally or ceremonially oriented, tend to point at Bollywood, by and large. Which desi in his or her true-spiritedness wouldn’t think of Big B’s famous “Rang Barse Bheege Chunarwaali Rang Barse…” during Holi? Okay, perhaps the Gen-X-ers (which, by no means hints at my seniority, or old age, by the way) will think of Shah Rukh’s “Ang se ang Lagana…” but the essence of Bollywood remains.

The only other things that come to mind during this festive season are my mom’s “obbattu” preparations (sweet bread stuffed with a cardamom-infused lentil and jaggery filling, for the uninitiated). Of course, the Hindu temples sell them, but the hurdles one must cross in order to get there are many --- snow and sleet, for one; besides, that magic ingredient, which only moms seem to know the abracadabra to, and all that love in the form of, say, dollops of butter on piping hot goodies will still be amiss. There’s no dearth of anything desi here, if one looks at it that way…but the microwaveable quality still doesn’t warm the foods in a way we’d like.

And so the festival of colors brought little color, so to speak, to my life this year, as any other. I watched forlornly as little children were tobogganing on the snowy landscape the play area has momentarily transformed into; some building snowmen, forts even, hurling little, fluffy, white blobs at each other. My thoughts went back in time to a place where, aside from friends, and neighbors who would come by with colors and sweets, one would even get accosted by complete strangers on the streets, with requests to daub a tiny blotch of red on one’s forehead --- a token of affection, as it were, from unknown people. There were no fears, no apprehensions; just a celebration of something that signified Indianness, and a friendly way of spreading cheer and touching people’s hearts. All this was often accompanied by related diversions, so to speak. If one went to the market, one would see wayside hustlers trying to push mixed colors, water squirts, sparkling vermillion sachets, and hordes of other oddments that insinuated color, and warmth.

Yet, Chicago did come alive this holi in its own special way. If a certain suburban storage facility got painted red, purple and blue, the premises of a Hindu temple were certainly not to be left behind --- visitors and devotees were allowed to play with colors for an hour, outside the temple, even as some of them chose to dance and make merry indoors. A “Holika Dahan” was apparently performed too, and many are said to have braved the chill to witness this annual event. Also, the Indian restaurants around town served their Holi specials, ranging from gujias, chaats, gol gappas, to the more colorful, layered, biryanis, alongside pista-almond-raisin speckled sweets. A well-known upscale bistro even mixed up some exclusive cocktails to make up for the missing “Bhang,” one of them, I hear, was even aptly called “Rang Barse,” which included three distinctly and vibrantly colored tequila shots.

I’m sure desis in the other Metros had their own courses to follow through to herald Spring. Perhaps, in certain clubs and cafés, DJs were mixing up tunes and beats that screamed “Holi Hai…” in unique ways; some unfinished basements were taking generous smudges of color from those who liked to keep the fun indoors; and elsewhere, a section of the hard-working busybees possibly returned home to don on their traditional attires and sport neat little “tilaks” on their foreheads, while also enjoying a fresh, home-cooked meal.

Whatever the case, even with St. Patrick’s Day looming, and the prospect of being able to witness a thawed, greened Chicago river, or leaves and buds that promise to burgeon forth, the nostalgia still lingers on. On a lighter note, maybe, just maybe, if Sholay-2 opens soon enough, complete with a recap of the “Holi ke Din…” number from the original, there is hope --- for color, and warmth, to be revived heartily.