Day 52. The weather’s grey, so chose this bright yellow tangail to bring on some sunshine. This sari was a gift from my Hashi Dimma. I wore it that year for Holi.
As a child, I loved playing Holi. My first Holi memories are from Hyderabad where we moved when I was in Class III and went on to stay for five years. Before that, I vaguely remember Baba buying me abir and a pichkari. I always wanted the “real colours”, the ones you could mix with water, but never got any. In Hyderabad, I remember playing Holi with one of my first friends there, Mamta, and her brother, Bablu. Their mother, Meena Shukla, was my Hindi tutor. Without her I wouldn’t have ever learnt the language. She loved me dearly. A very good cook, whenever she made something special, she would call me over. Shuddh shakahari but delicious. I often spent time with Mamta and, on Holi, we would douse each other in colours and soon their courtyard would turn red. And when there was not an inch of us left without colour, we would throw the gulal into the air, shouting “Holi Hai”, only to be scolded by the elders for wastage. One such Holi, I remember my father had to go to office and I was playing with my friends, but every now and then I would feel sad that he was not around. We were standing near the gate, possibly waiting for an unsuspecting passerby, when an auto stopped and out stepped one of my favourite uncles (my father’s colleague) and his family. With them I went home to Ma with a smile on my face. Those colours and ties have rubbed off with time.
Soon after, we shifted to an apartment complex where Holi was a huge occasion. On Holi morning, I would go down and play with all the residents. The badminton court and courtyard would be awash with colours and there would be huge barrels of water for the revellers. My father still bought me only gulal but there was plenty of other colours from others and I would be smeared in them. I kept playing till late afternoon. Sometimes all my friends would have gone home and I would still be there, pouring colours and water on myself, till I realised my mother’s calls were getting threatening. And then I would return home, a complete bhoot. I have a photograph of an unrecognisable me from one of those Holis. Some years, Baba would go out with us to his colleagues’ homes with abir. But they would only sprinkle a little on each other. Those colours have faded with time.
After coming back to Calcutta, Holi became an erratic affair. Some years, I would be home all day, yearningly looking out of the window at strangers playing with colours. One year we had new neighbours and after that colours were back on Holi. We would go up to the terrace to play and click pictures. Sarbanidi remember the time you accidentally spilt some abir on a painting in front of our flat and came with a sorry note for Ma? That bit of colour has kept the times we spent together bright and alive, bringing a smile whenever we look back.
And then I got married. Every Holi, a visit to Ma became mandatory. Sometimes me and my husband, but most times my mother-in-law, brother-in-law and later sister-in-law too. One year, we also dropped by at a friend’s place, another year at my sister-in-law’s parents’ home. Most years, we would also go to my cousin’s place, not sparing her even if she had already had a bath. Holi now was more about adda than colours. Those colours are still fresh and I hope time won’t wash them away.
The first Holi after we shifted to our new home, I had been a little sad. My mother-in-law, mother and sister-in-law had all gone on a short vacation to Puri. But I was determined to make it happy. The night before Holi, I went home from work after midnight and got down to making my first gajar ka halwa. As the mithai took on colour and brightened, so did my mood. Next morning, I cooked lunch for us and then my brother-in-law took me and my husband out. Our first stop was usual, my cousin’s home. But the second halt was a new addition. My Mamu and Mami had just moved back to Calcutta and we went over to their house. What followed was some great adda over yummy shami kebab and drinks. Back home, bath, lunch (at teatime) and nap later, I draped this sari (wrapped would be more appropriate since it was super starched as all new tangails are and with no one around to help with the pleats I had a tough time managing it). The evening was spent in another round of adda with my husband’s cousin and his wife. Khichudi for dinner and bliss!
As coincidence would have it, the next Holi too was spent, at least partially, with the same cousin and his wife. They had spent the night before at our place and we had chatted late into the night and early morning. They left on the afternoon of Holi after some customary exchange of colours.
Holi this year began on a slightly low note. Achintya, my husband, was still recovering from an ankle surgery and so there was no way we could go out. We did bring out the colours though. And in the afternoon, I decided to turn back the clock and brighten up the colours of yore. I was lost in browsing old photographs, sharing some with my friends and reliving memories. In the evening, I decided to wear a sari to lift my mood. That too was a yellow sari, a special one because Ma had gifted it to me on my 18th birthday. Special also because I joined the 100sareepact that day. Seeing me dress up, Achintya asked his brother to drive us to a coffee shop and so off went the four of us. To create colourful memories to last a lifetime, just like memories of the time spent with the one who gave me this sari.