For about a week there was a buzz on the Whatsapp groups in the residential complex: kids were chucking water balloons at other kids from the higher floors. There was deconstruction of mass and velocity, and even a photograph of a pinked neck of a victim. They buzzed about parents not educating their children; they even wondered if the RWA (residents’ welfare association) would put out a notice about it. But the water cannons uh, balloons continued to shoot and maim. No one had the power to put a stop to it.
Holi has been, for me, a day during which I prefer to hide and pretend that I am not home. There are some awful memories of childhood bullying that was rampant, my elder brother being a victim one crucial year after which both of us gave up “playing” this barbaric game. “Mud baths” were given to people - after the colour and water balloons ran out. Many of us did not enjoy this. But we still participated up to a point. Why?
Perhaps we did not know better, and when we did, we chose to hide. That was a reality we could create and control. Not the one outside, because in its very nature lay the seeds of hooliganism.
It is, and has always been, borderline barbaric, even in those incarnations that use colour (which some of us were, inevitably, allergic to) without the water balloons. From the legendary Krishna chasing the young girls in an archetypal molestation that did not create a #metoo, through the ages when it became a free-for-all in which boys were emboldened, often aided by free-flowing bhang, to touch girls inappropriately under cover of the “festival”. I remember how scared we sometimes felt traveling to school in public transport in the run up to the festival. They were everywhere, the handsy colourful half-men who were just looking for a little opening to do to one what they would not have openly dared on any other day.
It is a day in which bullying is given authority, victims either play the sport, or sneak away before being battered, and the adult world is content with the chant “bura na mano, Holi hai”.
Holi has been, for me, a day during which I prefer to hide and pretend that I am not home. There are some awful memories of childhood bullying that was rampant, my elder brother being a victim one crucial year after which both of us gave up “playing” this barbaric game. “Mud baths” were given to people - after the colour and water balloons ran out. Many of us did not enjoy this. But we still participated up to a point. Why?
Perhaps we did not know better, and when we did, we chose to hide. That was a reality we could create and control. Not the one outside, because in its very nature lay the seeds of hooliganism.
It is, and has always been, borderline barbaric, even in those incarnations that use colour (which some of us were, inevitably, allergic to) without the water balloons. From the legendary Krishna chasing the young girls in an archetypal molestation that did not create a #metoo, through the ages when it became a free-for-all in which boys were emboldened, often aided by free-flowing bhang, to touch girls inappropriately under cover of the “festival”. I remember how scared we sometimes felt traveling to school in public transport in the run up to the festival. They were everywhere, the handsy colourful half-men who were just looking for a little opening to do to one what they would not have openly dared on any other day.
It is a day in which bullying is given authority, victims either play the sport, or sneak away before being battered, and the adult world is content with the chant “bura na mano, Holi hai”.
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