As I am writing this, perched in my 9th floor apartment, the sounds of a DJ blaring both Holi and non-Holi Bollywood songs echo through the loudspeakers in the gated society below. I watch children running around, their hands filled with brightly coloured pichkaris (water guns) and water balloons, while parents gather around the rain dance area, carrying dry gulal (powdered colours) in their hands, their wigs as colourful as their faces. The scene takes me back to my childhood in one of the small, walled colonies of Banaras Hindu University in my hometown city of Banaras, and to the Holi celebrations of years past.
Over the years, I have documented many traditions associated with Holi, especially those from my birthplace Varanasi. The most widely talked-about Holi tradition is the Lathmar Holi of Barsana, where women, in an re-enactment of a playful episode from Lord Krishna’s life, chase and playfully beat men with sticks amidst a frenzy of colours and crowds. A lesser-known but equally fascinating tradition is Rangbhari Ekadashi and Masane ki Holi in Banaras, where the festival is closely intertwined with the city’s most famous resident – Lord Shiva.
While these customs are rooted in mythological legends, many other traditions center around food. The combination of thandai and bhang on Holi remains an intoxicating yet integral ritual across many parts of the country. And once the colours are played, new clothes donned, the families sit down for a classic Holi lunch – a menu that remains common not just in Banaras but in homes across Uttar Pradesh and beyond.
Yet, the way we celebrate Holi has changed over time, shaped by the shift from joint families to nuclear households, migration to bigger cities, and the rise of apartment-style community living. The sprawling courtyards and gardens of individual homes have been replaced by small balconies, while open spaces are now shared all residents – some friends, some acquaintances, and many unknown faces in residential complexes.
Holi in these modern spaces has taken on a different hue. The Holi of my childhood was marked by love, fun, and an unspoken respect – of age, of relationships – a line that was never crossed, even in the spirit of “Bura mat mano, Holi hai”.
The celebrations would start from one corner of the colony, with adults forming one group and children another, both armed with colours as they moved from house to house, inviting and sometimes cajoling people to come out and play – until the last home was reached. And then, the reverse journey would begin, this time with food as the focus. Each household would bring out its Holi specialities – whether it was pakoras or kanji-vada, gujiyas or puas, kachoris and thandai, dahi-vadas, or an array of homemade sweets – each served with warmth and affection. Somewhere in between, bhang would find its way into thandai, sweets, or even in its pure form for those inclined. The festivities would continue until early afternoon, after which people would return home to wash away the colours, have lunch and indulge in a long siesta. The evening was more subdued, spent visiting close friends and relatives to exchange Holi wishes over yet more food.
Holi arrives at the cusp of changing seasons – when winter fades and the hot Indian summer comes knocking. The festival of colors is celebrated with the same warmth and vibrancy that the season demands. Even nature joins in, as springtime flowers bloom in brilliant shades of red, pink, yellow, and every other hue of the rainbow.
Yet, amid all the colours, I find myself searching for something deeper – the intimacy and warmth of Holi as I once knew it. The affection without pretense. One can feel lonely in a crowd, and nowhere is that truer than in a modern-day festive gathering. With an agenda of dance, music, and food, people mingle in defined groups and sometimes across them, but a certain distance remains – of emotions, of mind, and of heart. Like a mask that hides or protects…
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