As a child, Holi was without a doubt one of the most eagerly anticipated festivals. The excitement would build up long before the actual day arrived. It all began the moment the first hints of spring began to emerge. The fiery red semal flowers would burst into full bloom, painting the streets and parks in crimson. Butterflies would dance playfully around the flower bushes, their delicate wings flitting in and out of sight like little bursts of colour against the green landscape. The sky would seem to join in the celebration, stretching wide and endless in a deep cerulean hue, as if the heavens themselves were preparing for the joyous occasion. But perhaps the most enticing of all was the aroma that filled our homes. The sweet, warm scent of papdi and gur-papdi being prepared in the kitchen would drift through the house, making our mouths water. And then, there was the preparation of the natural colours—dried flowers, leaves, and turmeric being ground together for gulaal. These colours, made with such care and tradition, were not only a symbol of the festival but also of the effort that went into making the celebration truly special. Each of these little moments— the flowers, the butterflies, the smells—added to the magic of Holi. It wasn’t just a festival; it was a celebration of nature’s beauty and the joy of coming together with loved ones. The very air seemed to hum with the promise of laughter, mischief, and unforgettable fun.
At our home, Holi is synonymous with chilled, tangy dahi vadas, their soft texture offering the perfect balance to the bold flavours of a robust pulao. We always make sure to have some black carrot kanji with its sharp tang refreshing against the rich food. The essence of Holi food, as I’ve observed, remains fairly consistent across India— simple, nourishing, and comforting, designed to bring warmth and ease, rather than effort and stress. Having spent part of my childhood in Mumbai, living in a cosmopolitan housing complex where people from all walks of life coexisted, I became familiar with a beautiful variety of Holi foods. I eagerly awaited the puran polis with ghee (toop) that our house-help, a kind-hearted woman from rural Maharashtra, would prepare each year. In the home of a neighbour from Rajasthan, I’d be treated to kanji-vadas and gur-aata mathris. The Gujarati families always had crisp, golden chorafalis and spiced masala puris on hand, while the Uttar Pradesh households filled the air with the sweet aroma of freshly made gujiyas. In the late afternoon, all of us would gather in the garden for a potluck, our shared dishes coming together like a mosaic of regional flavours.
Over the past couple of decades, the meaning of Holi has evolved for me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. What was once a vibrant, exuberant celebration filled with colours, music, and unrestrained joy has gradually shifted into something more symbolic. Now, it’s marked by the comfort of traditional dishes and quiet moments spent with loved ones at home. I can’t pinpoint what triggered this change, but somewhere along the way, I began to gravitate more towards the moments leading up to the festival itself—the anticipation, the little rituals, and the wave of nostalgia that sweeps over me, almost like a warm embrace. These days, I find myself yearning for simpler times and more intimate festivities, where the joy lies in the details and the togetherness. Don’t you feel that too, sometimes? That longing for the simpler, more heartfelt celebrations that stay with us long after the colours have faded?