Dung, Holi and Nostalgia

It’s probably too late in the day to be asking this, but how do you celebrate Holi when its 40F outside? I have been feeling rather nostalgic since this morning. I have been hearing about my family and friends’ Holi plans for a better part of today, and I am missing it all.

I grew up in a village. Ok, I am being less than charitable. I grew up in a small town. Holi meant collecting firewood, pieces of old furniture (a rarity in those times because people never threw anything away) and dung-cakes that could be obtained from a small dairy of only a few buffaloes. It sat right next to the flour mill, which was right behind the ration shop. We would ride our bikes or walk to the dairy; which come to think of it, was just a little more than a backyard cow-shed. We would approach the cow-shed cautiously, knowing we would not be indulged. We would be ignored for several minutes until someone would come out and ask what we wanted. Dung-cakes, we would say. In a small voice. I am sure, ours was not the first demand for dung-cakes that season. Kids from several neighboring “colonies” would come asking for the same thing. Free dung-cakes were a much sought-after prize.

We would be ignored again. We would ask again. Plead, maybe. Such is the spirit when one is young. Earlier, when the dairy was new, they would give dung cakes without much fuss. As the years passed and the dairy slowly grew its feet, dung cakes became harder to come by. In the end, we stopped going there to ask. Perhaps it was we had grown older and lost our spirit. Perhaps an awkwardness of early adulthood had set in and we could no longer bring ourselves to ask shamelessly and be a nuisance. Or perhaps the dairy-owners would not part ways with dung cakes that could fetch money. Or perhaps, it was the year they told us to take fresh manure instead of dried cakes. I don’t quite remember.

But while the dung cakes could be obtained for free, we got them. Depending on our timing and our diplomatic negotiations, we could procure anywhere from 2 to 5-6 dung cakes. As soon as the prize was brought to the holi-site, other kids would leap in excitement.

I don’t know why this Holi brought these memories in sharp focus. I have been living here for almost a decade and Holi was just another festival that was let slide. Chip is growing older and I wonder what kinds of memories he is forming. He is so removed from the festivals and two parents, no matter how enthusiastic cannot be a substitute for culture and its mores. I have been struggling to convey to him, my experiences of the Holi in a small town in a third world country in the late 80s. He obviously doesn’t get it. He is not even 4 and lives a world away. Literally. To me, Holi is one of the anchor points on which my memory rests. I can still smell the acrid smoke of the fire on cool nights.