That One Holi

A rather dreadful realisation about adulthood hit me this Holi—I barely felt any excitement for a festival I had enjoyed all my life. But it wasn’t just growing up that made this year’s Holi feel dull. A major reason was that we had to cancel our well-planned trip to my nani’s house for the celebrations.

Now, you might be wondering why. Well, because my nani decided to attempt a long jump in the bathroom.

Alright, I know that’s a terrible joke (I love my nani).

Unfortunately, my beloved Nani lost both her eyes a decade ago due to a combination of glaucoma, motiabind, and her stubborn refusal to leave her home in Bihar for treatment in Delhi. Over the years, we’ve tried countless times to convince her to move in with us, where we could take better care of her. But every effort has been in vain. Even at 70, she and nanu prefer the burnt rotis made by their maid and the below-par facilities of Bihar over the comfort of Delhi. Maybe I’ll understand their attachment when I reach that age (which, thankfully, is still a long way off).

One of nani’s quirks is her obsession with washing her feet repeatedly before bed. She simply cannot sleep unless she’s convinced that her feet are shinier than Sangamarmar's. Now, I seem to have inherited this habit as well. But the key difference is—I still have 1.5 eyes more than her, so I can afford to go to the bathroom at night. She, however, cannot.

But, of course, she refused to understand this. And the inevitable happened.

She slipped, hitting her head, and suffered hip socket injuries. My oldest mama, who also lives in Delhi, rushed to Bihar on the first available flight and somehow managed to bring her to Delhi for treatment. Luckily, the injuries were manageable—well, as manageable as bone fractures in a 70-year-old can be. She underwent a few surgeries and was brought home to recover. Since she had to remain bedridden for weeks, every family member had to cancel their travel plans.

And just like that, Holi 2025 turned into a dull, uneventful affair.

It made me reminisce about that one crazy Holi I had a few years back—the kind filled with chaos, color, and laughter. The kind that reminds you why festivals used to be magical before adulthood and responsibilities took over.

The train was waiting at the outer signal of Barauni Junction. A wave of mixed emotions washed over me—I was happy to be back in my home state, yet sad that the train ride had come to an end. I had always loved train journeys. With my father’s paramilitary job requiring frequent transfers, we had to travel for days to reach Nani or Dadi’s house. Taking these long train rides multiple times every year since I was just eight months old naturally made me fall in love with them.

After stepping off the train, we took a rickshaw—one pulled by a man in his late 50s. Looking back, it feels inhuman that a senior citizen had to pedal over 200 kg of weight for just 50 rupees, but back then, I was too young to understand ethics.

The moment we reached Nani’s house, I ran to touch her and Nanu’s feet. The house was already buzzing with chaos, even though it hadn't reached its full potential yet. And that’s exactly why I preferred Nani’s house over Dadi’s. My dadi’s house was far too calm—all my cousins from that side had grown up and moved away for their careers.

After settling down, we eagerly checked on the whereabouts of the other mamas(I had five mamas, well four after one of them decided to completely cut off from family after his marriage), just so we could race to see who would get to greet them first(this often ended up in someone scraping their knee and crying their eyes out). These things may seem futile to me now, but back then, they held immense importance. Slowly, the house started filling up, becoming more alive with each car that dropped off relatives from different parts of India.

Then came the part that terrified parents and thrilled kids—festival shopping. By then, I was too old for a pichkari, so I preferred using mugs, buckets, and, most importantly, water balloons. But I still tagged along to the market, just to soak in the vibrant energy of the festive season. Mama ji, being the strategic thinker he was, bought the same pichkari for all the kids to prevent any face-tearing fights over who got the better one.

He found it odd that I, his nephew, had stopped pestering him to buy things, so he decided to pull an Uno Reverse—forcing me to ask for something so he wouldn’t feel sad seeing me empty-handed. Not wanting to disappoint him, I picked a vampire mask—cheap, funny, and enough to satisfy both of us.

Sleeping before a festival? Nearly impossible.

The house was too noisy, filled with the sounds of excited chatter, kids screaming, and the occasional slap—some unfortunate cousin getting beaten by his father, or someone taking revenge on the weaker cousin.

But now, looking back, I realize another reason sleep was a challenge—the beds. The house didn’t have enough to accommodate 20-25 relatives, so we ended up sandwiched on the floor. But we never really minded. If anything, it was an advantage—pretending to be asleep just to eavesdrop on spicy adult gossip was a tradition in itself.

By the time I woke up, the house was already buzzing with energy. The younger kids had already had a round of play, and the kitchen was alive with the clatter of preparations. Women were busy making a variety of festive dishes, with my second mami under the most pressure—she had the responsibility of making malpua, the most famous and difficult delicacy of Holi. Meanwhile, my mother and masi handled the dahi vadas, another essential snack, while the rest worked on preparing poori and sabzi.

My sister and cousin were gearing up for the main act. They both wore old, tattered clothes that almost looked like rags and applied oil all over themselves. I also wore old clothes, but oil was a big no for me—I hated it unless it was being used to fry potatoes or chicken. Meanwhile, my older cousin and my father were whispering about something, forming a secret pact they refused to reveal to me.

Then came the moment we had all been waiting for. As per tradition, the younger generation started playing first, while the elders would join in later. Out of nowhere, a fight broke out among the kids, and we decided to split into two teams. I teamed up with my sister, while my older cousin (let’s call him Lui) took his sister and our youngest cousin, Pappu (not related much to this story but he is a big asshole.f you pappu).

The water balloon war began, and for a few glorious minutes, chaos reigned. Now, I consider myself a man of integrity—I play fair. But Lui? Not so much. He instructed Pappu to sneak over and destroy all the balloons that my sister and I had prepared. I warned him multiple times to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. So, I did what had to be done. The moment he left for two minutes, I destroyed his entire stock.

And suddenly, he started crying.

I was baffled. Just ten minutes ago, he had done the exact same thing to me and had laughed like an idiot. And yet, here he was, shedding tears while I, five years younger than him, stood firm.

He ran back to his house crying, and since he was the "golden child" of the family, everyone looked at me as if I had committed some serious crime. But I didn’t care. Since their beloved child was upset, the elders decided to go over and console him. We followed along, and eventually, the playing resumed. Within an hour, Lui and I were back to being friends after some awkward eye contact and forced interactions.

With the momentum back on track, the festival escalated. Once we ran out of colors, people started throwing tomatoes—until someone informed my mausi that those were her tomatoes. At 80 rupees per kilo, she immediately cut off the supply. With no other options left, people resorted to mud and water.

By the end of two hours, we all looked like demons straight out of Ravan’s army. Since there weren’t enough bathrooms for everyone, most of us had to bathe openly on the terrace. We scrubbed ourselves vigorously, applying every soap and cleaner available to get rid of those stubborn golden and silver colours that made us look like failed robot projects.

After this, we all sat down and started eating whatever we liked. That’s when Papa and Lui unleashed their plan. They brought out a huge lump of some clay-like material. I didn’t recognize it, but I clearly remember my mother saying, “What is wrong with you? Why did you bring bhang?”

After a short back-and-forth, Papa ignored her concerns and started preparing thandai. Without hesitation, he dumped the entire stock of bhang into it. What followed were some... interesting events. Let's dig into them.

My Mama No. 3 (let’s call him Krunal) was a special case when it came to intoxicants. His resistance was so low that he got high just by smelling the thandai and immediately started laughing for no reason. Meanwhile, Papa added ice, mixed the drink properly, and started serving it.

Almost all the adults got their glasses filled — except for me. I didn’t qualify for the cut-off, and my humble request was denied. Lui, on the other hand, got some without much trouble.

Krunal Mama got high instantly and sat on a large trunk, repeating the same sentence again and again:
“Everyone is f***ing settled! Papa is settled, Leela is settled, Meenu is settled”
And then he would burst out laughing like an idiot.

At the time, I had no idea what he meant, and I just found it hilarious. But now, as an adult, I realize what was really going on. He had been struggling badly to arrange money for a house in Pune, battling health issues, and drowning in loans. Yet, he never let anyone see his pain. He acted cheerful so nobody would worry. Funny how the same sentence made me laugh like crazy back then, but now it hits completely differently. It just hurts.

Then came Mama No. 4 (let's call him Pintu). He, for some reason, decided to turn into a zoo. He started making random animal sounds — first, “Bhau-Bhau!” like a dog, then “Quack-Quack!” like a duck, and finally some unholy noise that sounded like a goat being butchered. It was chaotic.

Masi soon entered the scene — but with a more melancholic flair. She began crying, gently pushed away her own son (the same annoying cousin I mentioned earlier), and hugged me and Lui.
“You two are my real sons,” she said. “If anything happens to your mausa ji, please take care of me(her husband was suffering from a severe case of diabetes and it killed her from the inside.The thought of being a widow was wreaking her heart).”And both of us just stared at her awkwardly.

Looking back now, this feels worse than it did back then. Me, Masi, and Lui used to be a tight trio. But after her son was born (yes, the same little troublemaker), things changed. She became convinced that everyone was against her son (when, in reality, we all wanted him to be a good person instead of the absolute monster he became)and started drifting away from us. That one moment, when she called me her son, still stings whenever I remember it.Maybe in some other life, we will be a legendary trio again.

Papa and Mummy, on the other hand, remained surprisingly normal throughout all this. Which honestly made me wonder — what have you two been consuming your whole life to have this much resistance?

While most of the chaos was loud but harmless, there was one person who turned into a real problem — Mami No. 2 (let’s call her Meenu). She went on a wild eating spree. First, she finished all the cooked food. Then, she started gobbling up raw ingredients from the kitchen. She had already eaten up 7-8 times of her normal diet.

My mother, who was still completely sober, realized this was heading toward disaster. Either Meenu would fall ill, or she’d eat up everything, leaving the kids to sleep hungry. So, after some debating, the only solution left was — we had to lock her in a room. She did resist our attempt but surprisingly she was not opening her mouth to speak, she was completely mum. My mom explained to me later that she did not say anything because she knew once she let herself slip, she might start bad-mouthing all her in-laws. Therefore she kept mum otherwise locking her up would have been ugly.

Meenu Mami’s husband—my mama—was almost in control. (I have my doubts, though. I suspect he drinks occasionally, so maybe that explains his impressive resistance.) I say almost because, on one hand, he was actually answering my questions like a sober person. But on the other hand, he had been continuously singing old songs for over an hour now.

And not just any songs—he introduced me to some absolute bangers from his time, like:
"Ye lo main haari piya, hui teri jeet re..."
"Kahe ka jhagda, Balam, nayi nayi preet re..."

So yeah, I got a whole retro playlist and live performance, all thanks to his intoxication.

Meanwhile, my Nanu was stuck in his own little loop. He kept walking up to the mirror, staring at his reflection, then bursting into uncontrollable laughter like a madman. After that, he’d wash his face and repeat the whole process—again and again.

The funniest part? Watching him made everyone else feel validated in their chaos. It was as if his behaviour gave them an official license to continue acting insane.
"If the boss can slip, then we deserve a fall too."

By this point, these wild antics had been going on for two whole hours. Naturally, exhaustion kicked in, and one by one, they started dropping like a pack of cards.

Krunal Mama passed out right where he had been sitting—on that same trunk. Meenu Mami finally stopped banging on the door and begging for food. Nanu slumped into a chair near the washbasin, while Masi crashed on a cot in the hall.

As for me? I didn’t have the luxury of sleeping. My mom had given me guard duty—making sure none of these maniacs wandered outside and ended up getting coloured in blood instead of Holi powder by some reckless driver.

So, I stood watch until Mama (our resident playback singer) finally came to rescue Meenu Mami. He opened the door to take her to her parents’ house. As a security measure, I shut the kitchen door—just in case she decided to go on another rampage.

(Later, we found out that she ended up devouring everything at her parents' place. So, in hindsight, sending her there was a blessing. Otherwise, we would’ve been the ones starving.)

Then came Lui’s mother—the eldest daughter of the family—and she was not happy. She stormed in, scolding Nanu for getting high himself instead of stopping everyone else from pulling this ridiculous stunt.

We weren’t about to tell her that Lui had also had some. That secret was going to the grave.

But no one took her seriously. She left fuming, muttering things like, "All that education for what? To turn into a bunch of drunkards and disgrace the family?" Meanwhile, the drunkards in question just laughed at her outrage.

Now, another problem arose. We had a tradition—visiting Nanu’s old friend’s house to apply abeer. But there was a slight issue.

Not a single person was in any state to go.

Nanu? Passed out. The others? Completely useless.

But his friend was a peculiar man—one who had extended the invitation weeks ago and would not take kindly to being ditched.

So, guess what? I had to step up.

And for the first and only time in my life, I became the guardian—escorting Nanu and one of my mamas to the visit.

Me. The youngest of them all. Babysitting two elderly drunks.

Honestly? If there was ever a time I questioned my life choices, this was it.

As you might expect, the visit to Nanu’s friend’s house was far from normal.

For starters, Nanu was just about to touch his friend’s feet. Who was 2 years younger than him. I knew this was not out of respect but a result of him not knowing what the hell was going on. I quickly stopped him, doing my best to hide the fact that we had arrived high at a respectable gathering.

Mama, on the other hand, had no such concerns. He didn’t bother touching anyone’s feet—he just waltzed right in and plopped himself onto their sofa like a king taking his throne.

When snacks were served, no one ate. Instead, Mama gulped down three whole glasses of water—and then, instead of eating, decided to play with the glass like a child.

But the worst part?

For some unknown reason, Nanu kept laughing directly at his friend’s wife’s face.

Now, this really had me worried. The last thing I wanted to witness was a fight between two seventy-year-old men on Holi.

Luckily, Nanu’s friend wasn’t a fool—he had clearly seen a thing or two in life. He gave me a knowing look, sighed, and said, "I think you all should leave."

To make sure his two man-children didn’t cause too much trouble, he even escorted us home—probably out of sympathy for me, the poor babysitter.

By night, most of them had started sobering up—but the recovery process was anything but smooth.

Headaches hit like a truck.
Some people vomited.
No one ate a thing—except for me.

Mummy, seeing the absolute disaster that this festival had turned into, decided it was time for a proper lesson—and Papa was the lucky one who had to hear it.

Krunal Mama, however, was still in danger mode.

At one point, he started biting his wife’s shoulder.
Then, he tried the same thing with Masi.
One solid slap later, he switched back to his wife again.

The next morning, almost everyone forgot their performance and denied every eyewitness. I, however, had it stored in my heart’s hard drive. That still runs in my eyes as my favourite movie.

And that, my friends, wraps up the story of that one unforgettable Holi.

Krunal Mama, hands down, stole the show. He wasn’t even back to normal after two days.

On the train back to his workplace, he kept going to the washroom and laughing at the door. People on the train started giving him concerned looks, and his wife had no choice but to lie that he was a mental patient just to avoid further embarrassment.

Handling them was an absolute nightmare, but if I’m being honest—it was worth it.

That Holi remains one of the most memorable experiences of my life.

Sometimes, I wish I could just fall into a deep sleep and wake up on that floor again—decades ago.

Beside my cousins.
Besides my mamas and Masi.
Laughing. Fighting. Playing.

I wish I could live that Holi again… just one more time.