Holi

“Bas bas bas”

The rickshaw pulled up to the domestic terminal. I was on my way out of Mumbai – via Air India – to Delhi. The small puttering of the rick slowed down as we approached the terminal. The meter showed Rs. 83, in the same red digital analog readout I was used to seeing in alarm clocks. I pulled out a Rs. 100 bill and handed it over to the driver.

“Change na-hin,” I said, conscious of the fact that we hit some pretty heavy traffic, and appreciative of the fact that he never requested more.

I lugged my duffle bag out of the bench seat. The Cornell duffle and I had been on quite a few adventures, and dirt from the corners of the earth was nestled in the zippers somewhere. As I threw it over my shoulder, I waved goodbye to the rick. He waved back with a toothless smile, and leaned forward with a broken back as he merged into the incessant flow of east Bandra.

As I approached the terminal, several more drivers approached me before I entered the building. One man, clad entirely in a loose tan uniform, came closer than the rest.

He flicked his head, “What flight sir?”

“Air India”

“Air India…” he smiled and looked towards his friends. Some Hindi, then, “Flight. Flight number?”

“Uh I don’t know.”
“Dili? Fly to Dili?”

“I don’t know. I think this is the right place.”

“No. No sir. Terminal 2. Terminal 2.”

I decided to consult my ticket before taking a leisurely stroll across town to the International terminals. Sure enough, printed in small letter in the top corner of the ticket, was a warning:

AIR INDIA FLIGHT 111 DEPARTS FROM TERMINAL 2

I had traveled to the wrong terminal.

God damn it, I thought, of course this would happen.

“Okay,” I shrugged, still uneasy that 8 guys were pushing me to get into another rick.

“Hurry, hurry”

I lifted my duffle into my lap, and took a seat. The driver promptly pulled away with a roar. I looked at the meter, which was lifeless and without the beautiful red digital numbers. I should have asked to go by meter, but I remained silent, still in frustration of my mistake.

We passed by the entrance to the domestic airport, and the driver pointed at the Cool Cabs (the pre-paid AC taxis).

“980 rates for taxi,” he said over the whine of the engine.

“What?” I replied, unsure that I heard him right.

“980 for taxi. Too expensive. I’m cheaper,” he patted his chest and smiled.

“That’s not right,” I laughed, “it’s not that expensive.”

He didn’t reply, and I was confused. For that rate, I could nearly to Pune, the next suburban area far outside the sprawling borders of Mumbai. I shrugged it off for the time being. This guy was crazy, I thought.

Should I have connected the dots at this point? Yes. Did I? No.

He turned down a dark side road. A thousand red flags began to wave.

“Where are you going?”

“Shortcut sir. You won’t be late for flight!” He patted his chest his again, and lowered his head for a moment. A gesture of sincerity.

Ok, I conceded in exasperation. At the end of the dark road there was light, so I figured we’d be okay.

The light turned out to be the life of a million people, and our little side road exploded into a microcosm of humanity. We had entered a slum. Unlike Dharavi, a 1 square kilometer slum packing in a million people, this was unnamed, and was just an area in Bandra East. It’s pretty incredible the difference between east and west of the tracks, especially in Bandra’s case.

The road was narrow, rough, and covered in uneven bricks. There were people everywhere, and driving through these crowds was like reverse Frogger; here, the vehicles have to avoid the pedestrians.

The amount of energy and bustle going on in the slum is difficult to understand. A few children in dirty clothes were playing cricket across the road, and we had to skid to a stop to avoid one particularly ambitious girl who went for a diving catch.

A few men on the side of the road, talking over a London Pilsner, yelled something at the girl . “Areyyyy! ” They raised their hands up and motioned a slap.

The girl put her hands together in front of her, and twisted back and forth as she smiled and stuck her tongue to the side. She was embarrassed, and knew she had done wrong. It’s the same expression I remember seeing on my sister. Long ago, when she stole my Star Wars action figures.

“Awww,” I chuckled as we drove past.

The driver looked back but didn’t smile. “Ahh,” he said as he raised a hand in the air, palm facing him.

A couple of women walked down the road, laughing and yelling quickly in a high pitch. Their saris were as colorful as their expressions. Gold dangled from their ears, and their eyes were lit with a fire.

An old man with a large beer belly sat with his hands on his legs, staring into space. His white shirt was stained brown and yellow, and his glasses were large and cracked.

A man was walking with a lungi, folded up a little high, so most of his legs here exposed. I looked away from the hairy mess. He held his head high. Good for him.

A small child was sucking on a sweet of some kind. His eyes were wide, and focused on the treat.

A smaller girl was wondering by him, exposed from the waist down, wearing a tattered red shirt.

A shop owner threw a bucket of water over the chipped concrete outside his entrance.

Two men were buying paan, and a third was chewing and spitting. The forth was smiling and showing his red and destroyed teeth.

The smell of pakora and vada pav floated around, fighting with the smell of human waste.

Neon lights.

Yellow lights.

White lights.

Yelling.

Laughing.

Engine roar.

Music.

Spices.

Shit.

All of this happened within the first minute driving on the road, and we had a much longer journey through the slum. I tried to take in as much as I could, but I couldn’t process enough nor fast enough to fully understand what this system was. How it exists and thrives. It was like stepping into a unicellular organism, and being bombarded with thousands of simultaneous processes, working in harmony and antagonistically at the same time.

Somehow, we made it out of the narrow streets with houses teetering overhead in an uneasy lean. We merged onto a larger road, and picked up speed.

Within a few minutes, we were at the entrance to the new International Terminal. The driver stopped well before the entrance.

“What are you doing?”

“Entrance up there,” he pointed.

“Yeah so go there.”

“Here sir,” he flashed a sympathetic look.

Apathetic and a fan of walking, I went along with it. “Okay, how much?” I asked.

“850”

I laughed, “No.” I thought it was a joke, but his look remained stoic.

“850”

“What? No. That’s insane. It was a 10 minute ride.”
“No sir, flat rate. 850.”
“What the hell?” my temper rose quickly, “That’s not the flat rate. That’s an exorbitantly high rate.”

“No sir,” he pointed ahead, “government tax.”

“That’s not true. There’s no fucking government tax on this.” By this point, my temper had flashed to Hulk mode.

“Parking fee sir.”

“That’s a fucking joke!”

“Sir, 850.”

“I’ll pay you 100, and even that’s too much.”

“100?! No sir, I got you here. You won’t miss flight!”

“I have plenty of fucking time. I could have walked here and not missed the godamn flight.”

“800 sir.”

“You asshole! I’m paying you 100.”

“800 sir,” he motioned for my wallet, like the deal was done.

“Do you think I’m a fucking idiot? I live in Bandra you jackass. I know what’s going on here.”

“Sir.”

“Is it because of this?” I pointed to my skin. “Huh? Because I’m white?”

He gave a fed up look. “600 sir” and flicked his hand.

“No. Alright, drive me up to the entrance. Drive me to a cop. We’ll discuss with him.”

“No sir.”

“Take me to the fucking police. I’ll ask him about this ‘tax’”

“How much? How much sir?”

“100. You can take it or leave it. You get 100 or 0. Your choice.”

“Sir, no. Too little sir,” he said with a disgusted look on his face.

I had enough, and turned to walk to the terminal.

“Wait! Sir, you must pay!” he yelled, getting out of his rickshaw for the first time.

“Do you want 100? Do you? It’s this,” I held a crumpled bill in front of his face, “or nothing. Your choice, bud.”

“Sir, too little.”

“God damn it!” I turned to walk, but he began to protest again. I spun for the last time on my heels, pushed the bill into his hands, and looked into his eyes without saying anything.

He made no more advances, since the police near the entrance to the terminal heard the commotion and began to walk towards us. I had, unfortunately, become used to people trying to rip me off in the maximum city. It was just a reality of being a foreigner. However, my southern blood burned hotter than most at such an occurrence. I didn’t know it at the time, but those kinds of outbursts were hardening a part of my personality, and my eventual return to American society would be rough because of that.

Eventually, the Air India flight landed in Delhi, and after a late evening ride to Visant Vihar, I was able to greet Buddy: the world’s greatest black lab. I fell into a heavy sleep that night, utterly exhausted, relieved, and relaxed.

I would need the sleep, since the next day was Holi.

--

“Do you want chappals?”

“No, these shoes will be just fine,” I laughed. I gave the 300 rupee shoes a glance: they were brown and tattered.

She gave an apprehensive look. “Okay,” she shrugged, “but they’re going to get ruined.”

It was mid-morning, and I had just had a round of sweets and tea to tie me over until lunch. Mr. Bansal was driving Mrs. Bansal, Aishani, and I across Vasant Vihar to celebrate with the family. In the car, I watched people fly by. Everyone’s face was streaked in vibrant colors of red, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink, and everything in between. They had turned into multi-colored beings, and had left their original skin deep below their new facades. Suddenly, in the midst of a rainbow of color, a brilliant white smile would emerge, and shifting eyes would dart about. Then, a water balloon would burst, and the colors would streak down in small rivers.

I had become anxious as we arrived and stepped out of the car. When we did, I looked around, expecting an impending doom of paint. One of Aishani’s aunts was waiting with a thali of paint. It was a large silver platter, with a few small bowls of powder arranged around. What looked like red, yellow, and green flour awaited, and as I approached, she grabbed some in her fingers, and wiped it down the side of my face.

“Happy Holi,” she said with a smile.

I grabbed some paint and reciprocated the act, and a little meekly replied, “Happy Holi.”

A scream erupted. Above, in an elevated park, standing on the top of a wall, Dhruv held a water balloon above his head. He was smiling from ear to ear; he had planned this maneuver. He had the high ground, and his dad had us cornered with a water gun. The gun was cold, and was mixed with paint. Dhruv let out another yell, and in a burst of happiness, let slip the dogs of war.

The balloon hit the ground between us, but the miss offered no solace. We could hear the whistle of more bombs as they approached. Another splash hit the concrete. The arsenal was a bucket above us, and kids weren’t letting up on the barrage. Soon enough, one flew and busted on my leg. There was a shock of cold, while the water gun pierced my back again, and another hand swiped my face with paint.

More kids ran by, so caked in paint their skin was a blackish brown. The concoction highlighted the white of their smiles and eyes. A small breeze brought a fresh gust of air, and loosened the yellow leaves of the tree above. They fell to the ground slowly, twisting and turning. Even they seemed to be dancing in the color and water, unwilling to reach the ground. Everything was suspended for a moment, and pure bliss ensued before another water balloon crashed on my stomach.

I looked up to see a wild-eyed child laughing.

“Oh, you’re gonna get it now!” I said as I gritted my teeth into a smile. However, I stopped short, suddenly aware of my lack of weaponry. He laughed again, also aware of my powerlessness. The maniacal nature of his laughter concerned me a little. Another balloon flew towards me, and I cradled it as it came into me, preventing it from exploding.

I was armed.

His laughter stopped, he took in a sharp breath of air, and shot off running in the opposite direction. I threw it up in a big arc, wanting to hit him from above. Alas, he was too quick, and my throw too weak. My single shot, fell short and lifeless. But my assailant was still running, so I counted it as a victory. 

Vuvi, though much younger, was no less aggressive. Her weapon of choice was a bubble gun. In her mind though, it was a .50 caliber machine gun, mounted on a UH-80 Blackhawk Helicopter. It even had a split second delay as the mechanism primed up, before the bubble bullets started raining.  She came up to me, high-stepping with excitement. Her short curly hair bounced up and down, and she was giggling. When she got close, she fired the gun, and bubbles went everywhere.

As they hit me, my body twitched with impact. She thought the gun was powerful, so I played along. Well, at least as long as I could, before her incessant barrage killed me. I was lifeless on the ground, with a six year old laughing in victory, still peppering my dead body with bubble bullets.

No mercy on Holi.

After a long and hard-fought battle, the Bansal family retired upstairs to eat and talk. Puri bhaji, dahi vada, and a host of other warm food was waiting. The puri bhaji was warm and spicy, but was cooled off with a bite of dahi vada with some tamarind sauce.

With every new person I met, I would get a new coat of paint. My beard was green, my cheeks were yellow with a line of red and blue. My forehead was mostly green, but some purple was mixed in the ridges. My skin color was gone, and perhaps for the first time since coming to India, I was in a room of people who looked exactly like me. We were all united in color, and that unification extended out beyond the room we were all eating in.

It extended across all of Vasant Vihar, across Delhi. Indeed, all of India was connected. From the hot rice fields of Tamil Nadu, to the cotton fields of Gujarat, the tea plantations of Assam, the orchards of Himanchal Pradesh, the slums of Mumbai, the embassies of Delhi, to the beaches of Goa, people everywhere were drenched in color. It was essentially Indian: in diversity there was unity.

“Happy Holi,” India said warmly, as she gently painted my face.