Bring back those colors !

Nature had just begun to change its bed sheet on earth, as it does possibly every financial quarter. The frost white sheet had been lifted and a vibrant replacement was about to be flung. Since it also coincides with the financial year end, I suppose its the most beautiful one. Quilts were slowly being packed and fans swirled again in full swing - half at least.

Rohan and his friends were chirping till late into the night. No, his Dad was at home and gruesome as ever, yet he wasn't being pestered to be back within the walls. They were accumulating pieces, placing them in bizarre fashion. pieces - all pieces from furniture to logs and all that had the slightest chance to burn.

Yes, it was a bon-fire. I knew they were on an outing. Kids now knew their sophisticated ways of enjoyment- sit and chat around a bon-fire like corporate honchos.

It was a fine morning next day. Fine, by all standards - a bright, brimming day when all seemed honky dory, alive and cocky.

Rohan opened his eyes, moistened, calm, serene and satisfied like a saint, after what seemed a much needed sound sleep after last night's enjoyment. One look at the clock and he sprang like a frog out of boiling water, from the bed, as if racing against time. No, he wasn't to his usual errands. He went busy in something less or non monotonous.

Rohan - six or seven - an understatement for his built still - clad in all white - a tee and nylon shorts, doing something with a bucket, mug and water. He appeared a miniature scientist, a child prodigy may be, gleeful at his experiment and the joy on his fat laden chubby face could have outrun that of a nuclear scientist in his expressions when they'd have succeeded on the fusion reactors.

He was mixing what appeared as strontium or may be cobalt chloride hexa-hydrate (a child prodigy indeed), in a bucket full of water (or may be mental). Bemused, I stood, startled at his act, guessing, towards what end? The next instance he was filling the chemical mixture in balloons, with a what looked like a suction pump - a big injection.

DAMN IT!

It was Holi. How on earth did I miss that!

I sat there, thrown in the wombs of time, swimming airs,bunching like a ball, spreadeagled against the almost infinity of the utmost dawn, adopting heradic postures, rampant, pitying levity against time - thrown back.

I sat there, recalling the times, not so long ago, when I used to be a Rohan. The bon-fire was "Holika", the chemical were "colours" - they were chemicals back then too - but now they claim it to be organic. The suction pump was the fountain gun - "pichkari". The legends of this colorful engagement, coinciding with nature's crossed my sub-conscious mind, as I drove back. There were as good as five o'em - from Krishna to Holika, from Shiva to Pootna. I knew them all, I cherished them as a child, indulged in all sorts of play, the festival brought along.

And yet I recalled, the trees smiling of tender leaves and blooming flowers, when I were and may be now I am not - a child at heart. A time when spring not just hailed ecstasy but brought along Holi - an experience of content and harmony and delight - a spring of unbounded fun and frolic.

Now I rest on the couch, which till yesterday soothed my bum, but today the effect was none. And yet I am reminded of those color filled balloons, bursting upon me, ending me up as a canvas with modern art on the draw. Those multi-colored faces, the traces left on ground, the songs and chivalrous "bhaang" and all the wild sound. Those horrific faces with black, grey, silver and golden paints, gender irrespective, the attacks and the restraints.

I sense uneasiness, yet I am reminded again, of all those years , school when it was, celebrating holi in adolescence  with friends, wandering door to door like a vagabond, in search of food, frolic and more fun. Those days when the Holi was awaited - as now the slips are every month. Those days, when touching the cheeks of beautiful, blossoming girls, even for rogues like us, was more than welcome. The chases, the capture, the drenching and rapture, all resonated in the ears. A smile bursts and disappears.

I lean back now, yearning for some solace, when yet again the college days come to mind, those days of madness and immaterial race. Those bursting of pots, standing on human towers, the tearing of shirts, the giggles, the smiles and all. All which could have spurred a war, were solemnly accepted "Chill! Holi hai Yaar".

I sense dampness, the nostalgia has to end now, before I succumb to them.Those memories, when I first saw Rohan, doodling with his pichkaari, have turned into mixed feelings.

Now, my horizon widens, encompassing all who lie with me, in my state, missing those times. How from a jubilant celebration, we have landed ourselves into this - just memory lane. I think of all friends who colored me and I returned, those back at home, those here - so close yet so far, those who now have become a diaspora in States, Spore, Kingdom, Germany and more. Those all around the globe - the one in Vellore, Delhi, Mumbai, Goa, Singroli and Mysore.

Now the canal ruptures - I sleep to sleep it off.

I dream of colors and gulaal, it has to be a celebration after all. I can't play inside, the carpets - we may taint, not in the yard - we may unknowingly paint. Can't play drums nor music outside - the sophisticated neighbors, for sure won't like the noise.

The horrifying dream ends. I will - do hell with the world - I will - I may have grown, but the child in me still says - I will.

My mind says,"So why not now?"

I recline back, the aforementioned friends come to mind. I will - when we shall unite, in the full moon, encircling the bon-fire, in any part of the world. Next morning, we will get up, make buckets of colored water - none in the neighborhood will be spared.