I woke this morning to a very welcome gloom. This winter’s been a pretty dry one—the only bit of rain came while I was away—and everything was better for a washing, plants and dusty air both, though we could have used more.
Monday provided water of a different sort, as the city celebrated Holi with colors and water balloons and general merriment. The celebrations—the public ones that is—seem to have become more subdued throughout the years; or maybe it’s just that people play Holi in groups or private spaces more. It’s not necessarily a bad thing; I remember having to be quite alert for unwarranted stealth attacks in the days leading up to the festival, and on the day itself not leaving the house if I could help it. It is different though, somehow.
While it’s not my favorite holiday to be out and about in, I very much enjoyed watching the festivities in the alley from the safety of my balcony and kitchen window. A group of neighbourhood boys I often see playing, about 8 or 10 years old, had paired off and were gleefully chasing each other up and down the lane, defending territory and pushing each other back, toting water balloons, at least one with an impressive plastic water squirter. Occasionally a slightly older child would venture out, to be caught up, protesting, into the fun.
Probably my favorite thing was the small toddler on the rooftop of the house just below my balcony. From his still slightly toddling steps, he was enjoying his first Holi as a participant. He had a small red bucket, still just a bit too large for him to manage, that he was filling from the tap. The two women with him were looking over the wall skirting their roof at the revelery below, but he didn’t mind: he was more than capable of completely entertaining himself. Once he had the bucket a quarter or so full, he’d step away from the tap, and attempt to splash his small self with the contents. A screech of delight—even though he barely managed to get a little water on his lower legs and shoes. Then back to the tap to do it all again. From the amount of water on the roof, he’d been at this for a while. He’d have gotten wetter himself by just standing under the tap, but of course that wasn’t the point. His little squeals of joy every time he tossed the water out of the bucket were infectious, and to be honest I’m grinning as I type this. One can get too jaded, sometimes.
In the late afternoon I walked to a friend’s bar for some early drinks, wearing old jeans and a black tshirt, just in case. I passed groups of tired out young people, faces and hands and clothing smeared with a rainbow of colors, but I arrived at my destination dry and colorless.
Holi got me in the end, though. I kissed a French person. Not to be confused with French-kissing a person which, alas, I did not do. Her face was smeared with bright powder and seeing mine was bare she did politely ask “May I?” before leaning in for the customary, two-cheeked kiss.
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Tomorrow is an anniversary of sorts: twenty-seven years since I first landed in Nepal. I feel like I should have something profound to say on that count but I really don’t. It seems somehow incomprehensible to me, but I think that is more due to how fast the years seem to be going by. Still very glad this is where I’m spending them.
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[Note: Apparently when I’ve neglected to take a suitably appropriate photo to accompany a post, I am contractually obliged to feature this newsletter’s namesake. Sorry, I don’t make the rules! Enjoy Marv on Holi, lounging on top of the compost bin: it’s the first perchable place the sun hits on the balcony, so before his (my) outside chair is warm enough to receive him, the compost bin it is.]