After I had my first world meltdown, I decided to venture out onto the streets of Varanasi and experience Holi, or what was left of it. My plan was to walk up to the main street in the neighborhood and wade into the crowds. When we were driving through them, I was sort of dumbfounded by how dense they were. Scooters, cars, water buffalo, tourists and locals had packed the street so tight, there was no where to go. When I was planning the trip, I had imagined myself having a quiet Holi and visiting with some Indians, enjoying the time with them. That option seemed off the table and I’d resigned myself to the fact that it was going to be the Mardi Gras version. As I hit the corner, I looked up the street and even the crowds I was hesitant about has dispersed. I was still embarrassed by my pouting over the cab ride, so I told myself I’m having fun, no matter what happens, but it seemed like everyone had packed it in and it’d be an early night. There was a convenience store at the corner and I hadn’t eaten anything, so I stopped and got a snack. In my most nonchalant Hindi, I asked for a bottle of water and some Lays Masala Magic potato chips. (they’re so good… smokey, spicy BBQ, Indian food flavored potato goodness) “Ek bottle paanee dena and masala chips.” The man behind the counter didn’t say a word, he just turned and got a bottle of water and the chips. As he handed them to me without any expression, he said, “Whiskey? You have whiskey? Happy Holi whiskey?.” I said yes and he produced a bottle of Blender’s Pride, India’s finest. Then, out of the periphery stepped a man. “Happy Holi! Where you from?” I said the states. Another guy got up and came over to me, he extended his arms wide like he was coming in for a hug, but he put me in a gentle head lock and rubbed red paste on my face. “Happy Holi!” One after another, the guys that were standing around, came up to me. Each taking a smear of red or orange or yellow paste and dotting my forehead with an embrace and a “Happy Holi!” All of a sudden, I was having the Holi I wanted. We sat and passed the bottle around, finishing one and opening another. Eventually, as is the case in India, the power went out and as if on cue, everyone threw their arms up in the air yelling, “Happy Holi!”
Back on, “Happy Holi!”
Off, “Happy Holi!”
On, “Happy Holi!”
Off. “Happy Holi!”
And then the lanterns came out. Up and down the street I could see clusters of silhouettes, each with a with soft, warm glow coming from the middle of the pack. Throughout the night, we sat in the light of his lantern, drank whiskey, laughed and teased each other. Trash talk is universal, no translation needed. With each cup of whiskey, the shopkeeper filled my hands with the most wonderful, crunchy snacks. Something about drinking at 2am and how much better snack food tastes. When the snacks and whiskey were had run out, the man in white called it, telling us to leave as he rolled the door down. We ended the night, standing in the street, hugging and shaking hands, Happy Holis all around and planning to get together tomorrow, making promises none of us had any intention of keeping.
When I walked into the hotel, the night manger looked at me and asked, “Sir, your first time in India? How do you like India? I see you have Holi. You like India?” I caught a glimpse for the first time and saw how red my face was. I knew they got me good, but I had no idea. “Sir, how do you like India?”
“I love it. Goodnight and Happy Holi.”
“Happy Holi, sir.”